"anise" poems
anise flavored love song
black as night unseen
fog fills tinting windows
bite me like I'm soylent green
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 9:10 AM UTC
EᔕᔕᕼI
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The kitchen's air is redolent with spices,
peppers and cinnamon, all-spice and star
anise, thyme and curry. The cooks are
shouting orders; taking rose-silver pots
and copper pans; each having the print
of the Lily of Aurelinaea; from the wooden
shelves, plates and bowls from the cup-
boards; some are stirring soups over
coal-fire stoves; others are dicing carrots,
potatoes, fresh poultry and more.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Esshi, in a light-green off-the-shoulder
dress of rose-silk with a triple ruffle trim,
lined with yellow ribbon, a thigh high slit and
white lilies beadery, is speaking to the head-chef
who nods. "Certainly, Lady Esshi." he says
and turns to his busy staff. "Bring out
the paella pans! We have orders for the
Queen Mother!"
"Yes, chef!" a woman says as she pulls
out a rose-silver paella pan and places
it on the stove. The head-chef turns to
Esshi. "You need not worry, Lady Esshi,"
he smiles. "I will make the dishes with
care."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"You always do, Bael," Esshi chuckles as
he washes his hands and she walks to
the corner, sighing. 'My Lady...'
she thinks worried.
"Lady Esshi?" her thoughts are broken
by a woman's voice. She turns to see a
florist behind her. *'So lost in thought,
that I did not hear the door open.'*
She thinks as her eyes fall on the flower
vase.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The vase is art noveau style; a deep emerald
green with a maiden in flowing silks, her
hair bejewelled with lilies. Esshi's eyes then
rise to look at the flower arrangement - white
lilies with lilac kisses, purple roses and
several stems of lavender.
"Lady Ainhara said I should bring this to you."
"It's lovely," Esshi sniffs the fresh flowers.
"Very beautiful! You certainly outdid yourself.
It's for our young Queen, I take it?"
"Yes. And Lady Ainhara said I should bring
you this also."
She sees her place some paper, quill and ink down
and Esshi smiles.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
.*England... no wolves... oh well... the next best "spirit animal"..? Bacardi! no wait... Whyte & Mackawy?! no... **** what could it be... and believe me, Maine **** cats share a disposition of curiosity with this feral creature... this Robin Hood... what animal is it? hmm...*
it was supposed to your generic,
bog-standard Saturday afternoon,
i was given the pleasure of
cooking dinner...
Xacuti chicken curry with
star anise & nutmeg
from the Goa region
of India and
a curry from Sri Lanka...
absolutely beauties...
evidently...
all that heating of the spices
on a pan and then blending
them in a coffee mill...
seriously spread like a forest fire...
not too long... well,
by the time i finished
all the prep for the second curry,
and was already letting it
simmer...
to my honest disbelief...
and this was mid afternoon,
about half six -
bright as ******* daylight...
who's this?
hello?
you like the smell i see?
god...
what a pristine healthy example
of the feral -
and the most beautiful eyes...
had to take a picture...
so i asked again?
does it really smell that good that
it has given you the kind
of cheek and audacity to risk
climbing out from your
safety prior to nightfall?
**** i heard before that
i am a good cook...
but you, dear fox -
have paid the biggest compliment,
ever.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 6:01 PM UTC
Social Injustice;
from ****** to ****
from kidnapping to ******
all these things our society does best
How cold can you get?
How do you sleep with yourself?
Is your heart at rest?
Do you ever not regret?
We are the reason our nation is corrupt
We are the reason God looks down on us
I know they say God never changes
and will always be compassionate
But what if God gets fed up and turns his back on us?
Over-taxation!
Why do we have to pay so much for the food we need?
Extortion!
Why does the poor pay for the rich to eat?
Religious Persecution!
When did religion become a war of better denomination?
Police Brutality!
This grows each and everyday
Why are we being physically, mentally and emotionally abused by our 'protectors'?
What about the mothers that cry for their children?
All our prayers in vain
You even **** newborn babies,
souls die without a name
Where is your shame?
Do you feel no pain?
Society, we are sure to perish,
if these social injustices remain the same...
writers: Jenelle and Anise
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
Such solidarity we created
On the hilltop with the cows
Discussing sassafras,
Our Chakras,
Summer-berry wine.
Per aspera ad astra
But without inhaling tar
We have come.
The cornbread with anise and wheat berries
Cruncy and sweet
Slathered with strawberry jam
Was such a luxurious meal
For us two tired wanderers.
We're left over from the '60s
Living in the past but in the moment
Listening to Mama Tried (well, she did!)
And crying over Wharf Rat
We model turtles, Celtic knots, a moose
Dream of yesterday and tomorrow
Say what we mean
Take a misguided turn driving home
And our minds meander to slumber and internal illusions.
Nov 21, 2010
Nov 21, 2010 at 3:25 PM UTC
I foresee a summer of spices
Of a saffron mid day sun
And flowers of anise
On trees of cinnamon
And the aromatic pepper vine
That seasons lands of green
Will find its way into -
A warm summer cuisine.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 11:34 AM UTC
Maiden, maiden, maiden, a depilidate mobious minaret –
Holical, Eris begs an atlatl defection, the
Genuis-from-Mars technique – an erathicus lecanopteris.
Suffretex, past-perfection in pastel gloxinia,
Glowingly acidic and shiftingly glossidic, it’s cosmaltry mariala;
Ungual outmoded, holonym singing Aquilar rapax as demiurge.
Demos and Phobos weep, coruscating terrathos, killing riva.
Swell quickly, optic ophidia, lest the ira florena rise –
Rise, maiden, rise optic ophidia, ignore Irredelphine!
Strut the hematacolpa and pace-willow, but fail flow:
Deciduous telechir beckons, demanding autobogotic-hajra.
Piss-venom and picea hovea, eche verri naught echo –
Beta-decay and COBOL error, fandango with teeth
And sing praise for Eucladanic soignè solaris
Sprint quick, maiden-solidago gesparisè, to Misra pourum!
Majerns and hapax, death-knell aloud and encelia,
Enfloranè, haste! Enatic haste tichodrome, flee, anise!
Apios, harken: tryst-sans-thermobic sweeping of thresher-thrown,
Little-low else yet achroma, de-jubilance:
Fall fairly, ayah! So to be so, blanking systemic,
A thousand steps for one death.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
Of a night on a battered red leather sofa
It's moved with us three times
It sits in a room with a broken bay window
And we sit on it too
And we sit on it too
Drinking yellow anise from mismatched glasses
With ice, not warm water
Singing stories, spinning yarns with broken bottles
Of girls with leopard-print hands
And the straw man in the moon
The straw man in the moon.
The cord hangs on the wall:
A symbol, but not symbolic
As chords rise, break off and fall
All a sham, but not shambolic
A sham, but not shambolic.
Swapping tales and anecdotes of cars parked between cake stalls
And days with names that don't suit them
People dying for causes they don't understand
And war is an island; a land hyperbolic
A Green land, a war land; unplanned hyperbolic.
Linguistics are twisted and brass tales are dropped
A cork is unwrapped from the web where it popped
But the darkness is rising, the hours are ticking
The side is hitched up so we all know we're doomed.
We hear children singing in the guitar strings,
Their screeches rising as they fall,
Our speeches diving as they fall.
And speaking of speeches, he says, a performance is mine
But in France, man... in France the markets are open
And the fields of Provence roll down to the menhirs of Carnac
And Brocéliande lies to us all,
And Brocéliande lies to us all.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
Sunset whispers to itself
~No time outlives time~
The meltemi winds crackle the wild millet,
Graze-feed upon the stalks of Greek plains,
The pelican scoops up the honeyed Aegean,
Waves of sunlit anise and almond in refrain,
Vestigial as the sweet persimmon from Egypt,
The hammered warmth from the flat anvil of Africa,
Sunset whispers to itself
~No time outlives time~
Aug 27, 2020
Aug 27, 2020 at 7:43 PM UTC
Bathtubs don’t work for quantum suicide
But every time I take one,
A part of me dies
What was nice under the crescent aglow?
Drunk on stars, or the moon lit show…
Ash of night, cradled what was once mine,
The repertoire of ever-syncing- jawlines.
Puissant is the chalice, its exaltation shined so bright,
Bestowed liberation underneath the chatoyant light,
The open windows left niveous fogs-
Breathed -stained –air, against crystal *****
Alive and one, under the entire earthly tempo,
Together left her organic imprints of art nouveau.
Beneath the warmth and petrichor ground,
The Lord and Lady commence to be crowned.
...Tree roots sink as veins of gods.
The serpent whispers his mellifluous facade...
The sharp shove of love’s first arrow
Lover’s spit, a seed for cupid’s bucolic furrow.
Scripture of Solomon’s *** temple of doom
All within the nicotine-stained-blue-infrared-bedroom,
Velvet allure, bellies of vigor,
The cold point, the pulled trigger.
Dance of Thelma, ancient cults of non-lovers
Feasting north, under the Horned God’s antlers.
The concoction of the widow’s deviated lust
Skins alive, the excited wolf-mans’ husk…
The gun’s mouth ex hailed bullets of smoke
Piercing hot wounds became tender lilts in up word strokes.
Still, they brought, perforating ice knives through the chest
Catching fades perpetually, just until two came abreast.
The shadow dalliance and hair pulls leave those weary,
The anise flower seeds sanction the suffering query.
What was once so beautiful at night?
Forgotten, as I turned red-haired-heathen in morning’s sight
So I take my hot bath, inure in my offing.
Emollient paean of the porcelain,
...which is my skin
See you, my ethereal being,
In short time spring will be fleeting
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 11:43 AM UTC
She's my mountain rose
& I'm her blue spruce.
I'd love to spread
her patchouli
all over
my ylang ylang,
then kiss her cypress,
give her a bit of my goldenrod
& lay in the lemongrass
holding hands
to view
the star anise
wasting thyme.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 8:28 AM UTC
how i spent these years without you
i will never know.
your kindness lowered
my shoulders
and i could finally breathe in freedom.
i could drench myself in your eyes,
soak and unfurl.
my whole heart is here now.
i dried flowers from my chest
until i bloomed violets
and emerged a meadow.
i crossed through your arches
where you held me
with your eyes,
suspended,
to float.
i climbed iron stairs
i hung thyme in doors
and cast shadows into your living room.
i hung branches from my wrists
because i wanted you to see me.
i told them:
“i see everything
all the time”.
they didn't believe me but
i know you see it
all too.
i slowed down my music
so they could hear it
but you heard it all so loud.
i wiped off my lips
and ate bitter
leaves of anise
just so i could feel a pulse on my tongue.
i hung branches from my arms
so i could feel the soil on me
i felt new again when you brought me there;
its like i went upstream
like i fell through walls
like i became a woman
i could only see my eyes
in yours,
and i don't think i can breathe again
(you’re back and everything that i lost
and was brought home again).
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 11:40 PM UTC
Cherry blossoms and roses,
Once they were just flowers,
Now even the sight of these blossoms,
Remind me of you.
Star anise and cardamom,
Oregano and thyme,
Even garlic and onions,
Remind me of how we cooked together.
Sitting in the car alone,
Or looking at cyclers riding past,
It all reminds me,
Of how we traveled together, side by side.
Looking at paintings,
Seeing street art,
The very thought of visiting a gallery or museum,
Reminds me of you.
Seeing a lake, watching the sunset,
Looking up at stars, remembering Orion,
Watching the sea, looking at pictures of islands,
Remind me of you.
Once Germany was just another country,
In far away Europe.
Now it’s a place of dreams and reality,
A place that reminds me of you.
Going places where we’ve been before,
Walking on the same street,
Or sitting in the same restaurant,
Makes me yearn for you.
As I do my work,
Go about life,
I wish you were with me,
Every second of everyday.
I love you, sweetheart.
Dear Alex,
I love you, my angel,
Beyond description.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 1:38 AM UTC
The night soaks itself
along the shore of the river
and in Lolita's *******
the branches die of love.
The branches die of love..
Naked the night sings
above the bridges of March.
****** bathes her body
with salt water and roses.
The branches die of love.
The night of anise and silver
shines over the rooftops.
Silver of sreams and mirrors
Anise of your white thighs.
The branches die of love.
1.3k
*appearing without warning
gently viscous in her flow
oblivious of her potency
infusing the atmosphere
breath of anise laced honey
tasteful in her subtlety
gifting sanity gracefully
a willow swaying on hilltop
palatable sensuality
a playful elegance
colors the uncertainty
in her whispered concern...
are you sure?
make no mistake...
this is a poem of love and libation*
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
I've been told
there's a place
called Heaven,
where the sea
meets the golden desert,
mountains rise up
& tall cedars kiss the sun.
And in this place,
anise-spirits flow
& pistachios grow
in abundance.
Angels exist there,
honey-flavors drip
from their pretty mouths.
One in particular,
has the sweetest lips,
like baklava,
I am intoxicated.
They sing to me
songs of hope
& I am swept away,
swept away to that place
along Mideastern
shores.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 6:01 AM UTC
A Cerulean precipice grows
wrinkles. Blouses scatter into oblivion.
Rusty chain, in the room with no time.
Tea-kettles antagonize moonlit lovers.
Shotglasses chase, through ghastly cornstalks.
Cascading lights speak incantation.
Flash dance to late night serenades.
Phoenix plumes in Sunday hats.
Laying poolside, argyle splashes.
A magnetic lioness creeps.
Daring glances spread gossamer lies.
Alabaster halls consume infant minds, while
Dusty caps unlock elusive touches.
Black widows drink white wine.
Anise waters drown lycra mermaids.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC
I have curiosity of the wrong kind,
the kind that gnaws,
the kind that enraptures,
Does his mouth suppurates anise?
Or did you really thought
he could make you happy?
You cheated on him,
not on me.
You told him that some day soon,
that you didn't love me anymore.
You cheated on him,
not on me.
He was looking for moons on your skin
While you wondered to yourself
If you want him more
than you need me.
It only took one cloud
to know the truth,
It only took one drop of rain
to give sound to the river
Does not his lion skin
make a better coat?
Does he has not eager hands?
Did not the common breath
approached you to death?
Or what was that indecency?
leaving his body
once thoroughly
you left it without secrets?
You cheated on him,
not on me.
The lips that assailed him,
the next day swore to me
That you cheated on him,
not on me.
I'm the drug in your veins,
He is an itch, he's an urgency.
Do you want him more
than you need me?
No, It don't seem
like that to me.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
a girl ends up saying:
'oh god, i miss my blonde hair',
a boy?
'oh god i miss Duran Duran.'
*meeting you... with a view to a ****
i want to stay up all night drinking
warm whiskey reminiscent of the
1980s;
honesty, just today a "nice Jewish boy"
with vanilla *** while
she got all the kinks out with
******* S & M to knock a few budgies
about in her leather knickers...
nice Jewish boy goes home vanilla intact;
i end up calling up the fire brigade
even though i should be calling Freud the popsicle
joystick friendly St. Paul, an ice-cream vendor
akin to Rasputin;
i know, comedians made fortunes from what
poets failed to compute, namely punctuation;
Eddie Izzard is a colon for each comma:
like zui quan - no, no, wait... there's more!
and it's worth an ingredients list of said hopes for
sat on **** forking the blob bits concerning argument
about ******* girth salt and pepper
on sausages! my excuse? the *carry
on* movies and zui quan meaning drunk boxing...
i.e. you pretend to be a tarantula that bit itself
by accident and pretended to be disorientated
but in fact focused like Hemingway on narration
after a cocktail of death in the afternoon
(absinthe mixed with champagne)...
but did i tell you that pine is almost like anise?
rub it into your hands after ******* in an alley
and it becomes the nearest approximate of anise.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 10:30 PM UTC
The luring incense
And the delicious aroma releasing fragrance
Of the Marigold
Spreads a delicately divine immortality
Through all its vivid and dense orange, red and yellow bright colors
Reflecting the sun and the light
Fully warm, joyful, and happy
In a sphere of fresh and all summer-y, edible melon-like
Aura
And the saffron like sweet and tasty threads bring in a golden hue
of The Muse
With its charming and “rousing the dead” use
On the Dia de los muertos
Todos somos calaveras
Traveling through the circle of life
The noise-making shells and bells
On the single candle burning canoes
Passing under all orange and purple papel picados
Eating slices of the luscious bone-shaped and anise and orange smelling pan de muertos
Silently slanting my orange and red marigold throned head
I weep under the sugar skull painted mask hiding my face
Deprived of the pride that you were once mine
Shadowing the ******* mortal belligerent jealousy
I grieve that you now wed yourself to Catrina
In despair, I mourn like the seasonal and fragile marigold
That has lost all its enticing
Pleasure and attraction
No longer able to fascinate your soul
Nor, ****** or induce
The withering Marigold,
The Muse mourning
That once coaxed you out of death
Jul 27, 2021
Jul 27, 2021 at 2:48 AM UTC
I love you so much it hurts
Drunk on star anise
You’re like a painting
I fail to complete.
My little boy
I wish I could corrupt
An innocent soul
Like you.
Stay with me
Lay with me
Be with me
My sweet boy
Circle around like
Dust and feathers
From the pillows
We meshed together
I want you to be the flower,
In the glass case;
No beauties can touch.
When you wither
I’ll just throw you away.
You have so much of me
And I of you, entangled in my grasp;
Still, I loathe your faults
All of the revulsion,
Fails to meet my
****** compulsions
Until I can chain you down
And have O gain revenge.
An angel high like you,
Falling in the mess I made
Will I ever be worthy,
Of your frothy tongue
Speaking those lovely sounds
Out of your chaste mouth?
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 9:14 PM UTC
Dubious: charge
The deluxe program in. Obtuse angled and oblong animals. Mecca sexúal, discoverer pulling back the curtain tails in mimicry and peacockiness as the horizon shimmers itself out. Do not eschew unwieldy ostentation towards benign mid-weight colors in the sequel to Blahnik.
Offers in the hesitant, peak winds of Southern-Hemispherical Antarctic weather barometer losses. The ice is like a hive of nameless blue lily pad vessels, each a different magical shade of the water's blue.
She like the uncommon baroque grandeur in an hour of time, herself-
Summons the immense symmetry of her elaborate lavender macramès sheath and entomb her skin, exploding across her body like milk-white daffodils draped upon a morning bow. Linseed and anise encompasses burnt sweet grass on the breadth of pine in a gentle pillow, anchored only by the veins of her red fruit nectar stitched at the grooves in her cool and unpunctuated lips. While anxiety numbing tufts of gentle satins wisp all the worry and turmoil away, pleasing every nerve, sensor, instinct, and exercise of glib humanity intertwined amid the pulse of our uncensored adultness. She glides amid the arcs of ebullient-molecules ribboned in winter synonyms, summoned up in her sensual and illustrious sublime, and the story of how like a horizon muted by organzas falling beneath her into that relationship she carries with her water God into something profound, immense, and totally ******* exquisite, yet beyond all imagining, she is always doing what has been the coolest **** ever to me. That becomes more magnificently indescribable like our amorous fire, incentivizing the luminous beauty of new stars to rush above us, and yet under us too, amidst the simple and perfected automany she so awesomely imbues.
Until the minutes are silenced in our heads and the days are warm with you.
For Sarah
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 7:32 AM UTC
A Spring Evening in Paris with the Thieves of Love
They found each other in the good samaritan way you would try.
If you are not alluring, if you can’t get a reverie, there are other ways.
Ellen was drunk and left alone near St.Severin off the Rue de la Harpe
Where you can smell butter and garlic and mussels and iodine
From bistros open to the street. Anthony loved it that you could see that
Those bistros were happy and good. He wanted to be in one with a girl.
Ellen in mottled lamplight on the churchyard cobbles:
Freckled, brown eyed, strong in clean denim overalls and white T-shirt.
She knelt there sick and knelt also inside Anthony, in a lyric:
Not many chances like this in life. He nursed her
To her place in Billancourt. She was afraid on the Metro.
A drunken kiss of thanks at her door tastes of sickness and anise.
Of course he came back. A real man would come back for more thanks.
If it was his first chance in months.
She was brave, dramatically friendly, often in
The light that passes for candles on stage.
She had the fierce compassion that terrifies.
He had been disqualified from girls by anxiety.
They bought food, flowers and wine in the market
And walked and bought books from bouquinistes
And cooked in her room. He wrote at her table.
The white iron bed by the sunny window...
Who was this girl no older than Anthony,
Showing him friendship, making him grateful,
Showing him love,
" I like to do this,
Find one that I love, make something perfect."
Sneaky good love of stealth and cunning...
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
www.paulanthonyhutchinson.com
copyright Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 11:37 PM UTC
over temporal oceans,
an early breathe arrives
as graceful beads of clarity,
carrying unconcerned appeal
for your price of star anise.
it has unwavering force
but does not impose a will.
it is aware of your awareness.
that, it knows;
and does not look away.
the reddest clay beneath our feet dusts in swirling heat
although at a deeper depth,
is moist and soft in slumber.
we dig to touch the difference
from where we walk
and where we will lie.
we dig to touch what remains pure;
where our touch remains at distance.
reserved for decaying dead.
when sensations of the body
forfeit to sensations of the soul.
cloudless, although not empty;
the sky stays blue until
the day does turn to end.
before it does,
we'll shout in ancient words
the values of my hunger.
our trade for meals of foreign taste
will subside to some nourished promise.
i will feel its arrival and
refused imposition of enacting will.
its breathe will clear
our dusted feet,
dry with bloodied clay.
we dig to place ourselves away at depths
where i will remain inside,
at distance, soft in slumber,
in an empty box from India.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 2:06 PM UTC