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The smell of hot dog and gas
Invades my nose like tiny trespassers
Scavenging pigeons peck and flap
Their wings at the sight of feet
Visitors with a pastry and map
At hand take in the chaos
Musicals like Follies and Cats
Perform on dazzling Broadway
There's no rest, no quick-nap
In this quick-paced place
You either sleep or move fast

In the biggest city in the world,
Known as New York, New York.
In honor of my favorite place in the world!
Thanksgiving day is here!
It's here, it's here
Hooray.

So much to be grateful -
Whoops, hehe...thankful
for

Friends and family.
Pets, too
All the food
Even the roof over my head.

The sounds of people cooking
echos throughout the kitchen.
The delicious smells of so many different foods
Spreads across all rooms of the house.

Not everybody has these things,
Yet I'm lucky enough to.
Happy Thanksgiving you guys!
hannah in summer Dec 2019
How long did it take
To scrub the taste of you
Off of my mouth?
My gums were bleeding by the end
My bed was a mess
Sheets torn, this way and that
A futile attempt
To make them reek
Of anything other than you
Are you ever afraid?
Shirley Antonio Jun 2019
The blood in my ****** runs on the pure waters of the river
The blood in my ****** smells rotten like the person who ***** her
The blood of my life runs on the white of the cloud ...
The blood in my ****** smells like the baby I abhorred
The blood in my ****** smells like the curse of being a woman in the world without equality
The blood in my ****** smells like the mouths of women stifling rights
The blood in my ****** smells like ***** girls
The one of my life smells bad like the men who force their daughters to marry
The blood in my ****** smells like *** of ****** exploitation
The blood in my ****** smells bad like pedophiles.
The blood in my ****** smells the future. The blood in my ****** is female liberation.
Sally A Bayan May 2019
Scent...

............is a spray  
of sweet, nagging fragrance,
borne by a rush of air,
touching nostrils as it travels,
to stimulate, and scintillate
a parade of memories,
especially, when distance is great
and truly separates...
::::::::::
could be from a bouquet of roses,
or a handful of jasmine...or,
the welcome smell of cinnamon, sage,
other spices...elements of what we call,
the fragrances of good cooking...or,
those of sweat and a fruity cologne,
blending, while working,
from caring....from loving...
::::::::::
it's a brush of summer wind
that captures, even a bit of a sniff
of any, or all of these scents...
::::::::::
these smells dwell in the senses
they reassure...that one person is never away
fears are held at bay...you're okay,
it brings calm to one's soul...
::::::::::
the nose...the other senses know,
the heart and the mind know
the source of all
these fragrances...
::::::::::
no perfume could ever equal
the scent(s) of a woman...
::::::::::

Sally



Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
January 30, 2018

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO ALL MOTHERS
AND GRANDMOTHERS !!!
(From 2018......edited a bit.)
Poetoftheway May 2019
she smells (nameless and shameless)


a concoction of mixed aromas,
a once in a lifetime scent,
impossible to bottle,
impossible to name,
nameless and shameless

morning coffee, last nights vin rosé,
a come-a-little-closer-tasting for the summer solstice,
the stale of the evening meals of grains and kale,
the sour remains of bedroom sweat,
the displeasing scented sight of
sweat soiled clothes carelessly discarded

the first of the season red spot-stained white peonies
fail to mask the bodies aromatic musks,
which are mostly gender identifiable

my sneakers hail mary, her stockings odorize the atmosphere
most unusually, nylon and lycra are strangely familiar,
prior memorized perhaps, from deep within, a ****** hallelujah,
deep amidst where, the ***** linens are shelved and binned,
before they journey to the Egypt Nile of the basement waters

the burnt crumbs of illegal in-bed brioche toast
amazingly invisible on unclean sheets,
state “breakfast in bed, was yummy in the tummy,
but next time use a big dinner plate,
down here, the burnt of the bread and the burnt
of other things (popcorn pieces)
is just a scratchiest fragrance too far,
needing a sheet wiped clean slate

even the colorless and tasteless water
absorb the ionosphere of smells,
because one does usually speak poetically,
one of us makes a (vice) presidential declaration:

she smells, I man-ually stink, each,
each glower shower nower,
open the window to the spring wet grass aroma fresh cut,
to exhume and then send away
this odor now christened,


nameless and shameless


11:47 28/4/19
ogdiddynash Apr 2019
a concoction of mixed aromas,
a once in a lifetime scent,
impossible to bottle,
impossible to name,
nameless and shameless

morning coffee, last nights vin rosé,
a come-on tasting for the summer coming,
the stale of the evening meals of grains and kale,
the sour remains of bedroom sweat,
the displeasing scented sight of
sweat soiled clothes carelessly discarded

the first of the season red stained white peonies
fail to mask the bodies aromatic musks,
which are gender identifiable

my sneakers hail mary, her stockings odorize the atmosphere
most unusually, nylon and lycra are strangely familiar,
prior memorized perhaps, from deep within,
deep amidst where, the ***** linens are shelved and binned,
before they journey to the Egypt of the basement

the burnt crumbs of illegal brioche toast
hidden on unclean sheets,
state “breakfast in bed,
is yummy in the tummy,
but next time use a big dinner plate,
down here, the burnt of the bread and the burnt
of other things is just a fragrance too far

even the colorless and tasteless water
absorb the ionosphere of smells,
because one does usually speak poetically,
make a vice presidential declaration:

she smells, I manually stink, each, glower shower, nower,
open the window to the spring wet grass,
exhume and send away this odor now christened,

nameless and shameless


11:47 28/4/19
Zywa Apr 2019
Lovely after-smell –

the rain fuming from the earth,


the grass around me.
Het nieuwe kanaal (The new canal, 1955-1960, Gerrit Krol)
Lucas Hilliard Apr 2019
You have become my everything.
From my lust when I’m low
to my religion when I’m high.
Grazing my fingertips across your lower back
only to pull them away
in favor of holding your hands in mine.
You have become my first thoughts when I rise with a new fire each morning
and my last thoughts when I finally accept my fatigue.
You have replaced any pill I could ever need
throwing out my melatonin and sertraline
to cure myself with the steady rhythm of your heartbeat.
You have become the personification of all things good;
lily pads, fresh linens, and damp air after a storm.
Thank you for becoming my everything.
Zywa Apr 2019
My heart drinks the smells

of the lilac tree, I'm drunk –


of li-lilac wine.
Collection "Take a picture, quick"
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