I go back in time
as I get a whiff of some familiar scent.

Like the aroma of spices from my mother’s pulao —- the blend of bay leaves, cinnamon, black cardamom and cloves
that left eyes sparkling in anticipation of a royal meal.

Or the scent of fruits
that made their way into my lunch at school - bananas, apples, grapes, oranges
along with an embroidered napkin
that held onto the smell of the season, the love of parents and the comfort of home.

The tanginess of lemons in my father’s cologne —- a burst of summer every time I opened his closet.

The fragrance of roses from incense sticks that my grandmother would light as she prayed —
the mysticism of life in her folded hands.
The smoke would rise from the sticks, curling, to reach heaven along with her prayers -
and I would look upward wondering if God could hear her songs and smell the roses.

The heady scent of rain and earth as we played in puddles
walking and slipping
splashing and laughing
lost in the moment
hearts as light as those drops of rain.

A whiff of these and I travel back in time
I miss the innocence
and melange of those
happy scents and aromas.

It seems like a different world.
And though far away —
It seems like yesterday.

In the afterglow of your beautiful loving heart
lives a flower that blooms each and every day
Planted deep within, you are the great thou art
of my living soul's reveal, you are the way !

Dazzling me with brightness and effulgence
you are a glowing candle in the thick of night
With luminosity you touch on my resurgence
helping me revive, a long lost dormant light;

You are a gleam, a glint, a polished diamond stud
an opalescent being who grants prismatic hues
Seeded in your garden I know that I am loved
above all else, ... and it is I that you did choose

You are the afterglow of love's most precious gift,
the bridge across forever, that never goes adrift.

I  know it's smashing as a mountain
On top of your lungs
That long aged pain in the chest.

It was not meant to hurt that way
After so much time aching
Poisoning your vein.

The world is mad and **** vain
No own put care on you, no bandage
No drain

Just that same old pain
Beating on your chest
Hurting, crawling, coming after you.

But you will overcome it.
You know you will win this game.

Tonight, I lie in bed and
scribble in a black spiral
notebook.
Why is cruelty easy for
some? Like laying down
a card.

One of my three cats,
Mojo
sits sleepily on
my old maple desk.
She is all black.
The computer screen is
black.
So are the speakers,
microphone,
and a coffee cup that
sits on the desk.

Above my dresser is a
quote by Hemingway.

"There is nothing to writing.
All you have to do is sit down
at a typewriter and bleed."

It's on black paper.

I've had the room set up
this way for over a year.
I'm just noticing all the
blackness.
Midnight in Nod.
It could be because I miss
my daughter.  She's seven.
All the black fades away when
I think about her smile
and those eyes that laugh at the
rain.

I notice that my shirt
is emerald green, with a
few drops of red.

Plop
Plop

Plop.