I shall not call myself
a poet
to thee
Instead
I shall allow you
to walk by
and judge me
like the bottle of wine
you did not buy
because my label
appears plain.

Simple
on the outside
I may be
but within
I'm bursting
with flavors
you can't even begin
to see.

And I won't whisper
all
your misgivings

I'm sure
Muscato
is sweet
I know
fancy
and perhaps
giving

You won't know all
by looking at me
even once you're in
tasting to try
the lingering spice
leaves you
craving
drinking me dry.

and even then..

Sugar sugar spice
Oh baby
Its my look that drives you crazy
Not my eyes
Open legs, closed mind, tradition follows
Let me pray
Today. Am I forgiven today?
Tomorrow I may sin again
Or maybe i'll just sing
Love, walks alone feeling misunderstood
Obsession, ***, naive
High socks, short skirt, shy smiles
Always a rebel, never held a cause
You keep running
Spicing up your day
Blaming others on your mistakes
Never at ease because
Always looking fot a place to hide
Oh baby
You are not even sweet
You have no spice
Not even darkness in your soul
You are just a ghost of the unknow
Trying to be someone believing it means something
When you only look like a fool
Transforming yourself into a joke

Fires burn all night,
it's been so long,
since we've all seen one another,

As dancing flames lick the air,
pulling an all nighter,
a willing sacrifice,
is offered,
to the heating God,
a Soapstone fireplace,
made locally,

In her lovely sturdy black cast iron,
she's rugged that baby,
cooking everything perfectly,
in the kitchen,
& heating everything else in the house,
to perfection too,

Warmed hearts beat,

A single tear falls,
as we survived the day,
a load off my mind,
some relief from the grind,

Again,
I'm soooo,
satiated,
from my,
middle Eastern dinner,
sharing the love,
& the brilliant composition,

WOW I hear -
A-mazing chef, truly,

Ahhhh t'was nothing really,
but thank ya,
emmm...
roasted root veggies,
prepared,
with a lovely maple glaze,
spicy and sweet,
but really such a filling treat,

A cherry glazed ham,
arugula, herb & green salad,
homemade oat rolls with fresh Vermont butter,
melted,

Yum,

I'm a piece of Vermont,
my capable hands,
handed down to me,
making Wintry
M A G I C
in your kitchen,
cuz' I'm just a guest tonight,
in this house anyway,

The twinkle lights in the room,
look just like dragonflies to me,
gold and orange shining,
so glad they  stopped in,
everyone,
all day,

Good people,
good food,
good times,

GREAT memories,

It must be 80 degrees in here,

I'm roasting in this place,

As a lone candle is left flickering,
into a small mountain of wax,
as it is dripping down the side,
permanently changing the mantel,

My alter,
just for you,
is adorned with crystals & stones,
as I hold a crucifix & bones,

I pray another day like this,
folded hands don't lie,
early till late,
finally a reprieve,
I try to believe,

As tired grateful hands and bellies,
my "fandamnly"
are all in jammies,
& tucked in tight,
love you all I say goodnight,
sweeeet dreams sweet poets,

All in flannel and the like
as our boots & mitts dry out,

A busy fire,
is doing so much,
a fan is whirring,
all are,
resting so peacefully,
a mother's true joy,
a lover, & a friend,
on whom you can depend,

I love you all so very much,

I miss you too,

I'm watching that beautiful man sleep,
and snore so low,
watch him breathe again,
I say please don't go,

As the heavy wet snow,
blankets these Green mountains,
covering my world tonight,
it cleans the sins of the day,
& yesterday,
wash us clean,
in that pure white,

Low music,
is playing,
into the still,
it was left on,
I remember it all with you,
& I probably always will,
cheers my love,
wherever you are,
so very very far above,

My head is down on a soft pillow,
warm sheets and blankets,

As I set to see you again,
in my dreams,

Gently closing my eyelids,
you bid me adieu,
 again I'm reminded,
reminded of you,

Yup,
pulling an all nighter with your memory again,

As I,
just,
          d
              r
                 i
                  f
                     t
                     .
                       .
                          .
                             .
                               .          
    
Cherie Nolan © 2016

I heard, he gets super social during the winter,
and then lives the single life during the summer.

I heard he's a social butterfly,
charming as a satyr

I heard he used to live in the white house

I heard he has the coordination of a God,
balance so awesome he could walk across mountains
climb trees

I heard he's a wicked hedonist.

I heard he can jump 5 feet high!

I heard he is brilliant, like rocket scientist brilliant
Like can con you out of your pants brilliant.

I heard he INVENTED COFFEE.

I heard he's super curious
open,
like if he sees something new he
HAS to explore it.

Yeah, I heard he'll try anything twice.

I heard his sister has a beard

I heard she's super dominant

I heard he doesn't cry
I heard he doesn't even have tear ducts

I heard he can learn his own name, and come to it.

I wish I could party with a goat.

Rattan letter rack stuffed
with hundreds of coupons
like requests to the Gods
sits under shrine
called the spice rack.

Little bottles
as dusty on outside
as within,
have no aroma left.

This temple's kitchen counter
top is mustard asterisks on
ivory laminate, so reminiscent
of ancient wonder.

These late '60's early '70's
design elements, lacquered
over with grease of yesterday's
din-dins, are only indicative
of where the resident wished
to be.

Now, even India, has lost
authentic texture, alluring space
and line, in these Internet times.
Though he can still smell cardamom,
nutmeg, and cinnamon waft from
Southeast. It is stuck in his mind.

Yet, since time of his dearly
departed's passing, no sandalwood
has been burned and he only
eats corn flakes.

America has changed him so.

Two linked sugars
make up a disaccharide.
And that’s what we are-
simple, plain table sugar
dully passed back and forth
to sweeten our taste.
Sometimes I'll accidentally
switch the shakers for breakfast,
hand you the salt
just to change up the spice.
And sometimes I regret
the bitter words
you exchange in return
for breaking the boring
status quo.

A tired old man groans
As he hand you some
Asian culture cuisine.

Riddled with spices
It tickles the little thing in the back of your throat
As you swallow the substance.

Face now flushed
Like a cluster of fire ants crawling on the hill
Calling it their home.

Home?
Where was it?
Your memory slips.

Glee storms the man’s face
As he studies your expression.

“Seems like you can’t handle such a simple thing."

Clouding your judgement, you bite your tongue
In desperate attempt to knock back the sense
That gone up and left.

However
It fails.

Numb as the lightbulbs turn into bottle-cap suns
Concealing sight
With the light that it shares.

Count as your heart stops
With eyes bloodshot
His crafted words echo
In your failing ears.