"apothecary" poems
The old saying talks about
Being snug as a bug in a rug
But how can you feel that way
If you never ever get hugged.
If you hug your loved ones
They may not need drugs.
It’s an inexpensive medicine;
The basic household hug.
Worse things could happen
Than to catch the hugging bug.
It’s a better remedy than you
Can find in an apothecary jug.
It doesn’t require prescription
And is no big weight to lug.
You always have one handy,
The standard loving hug.
A hug can be the cure for you
When you are in a purple fug
And your face begins to look
Like a rather dyspeptic pug.
Somebody wonderful arrives
And gives your heart a tug
By giving you the all-time best
Wholehearted, loving hug.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 3:27 PM UTC
was an aperitif to an aphorism,
an apothecary of aphrodisiacs,
an apiary of my ever-buzzing thoughts.
She slipped streamline as maraschinos
into a Manhattan, that strike of sugar
staining the most bitter days a color no chemical dispels.
She was an enigmatic row of beakers
shelved in an ancient pharmacy
at the base of the Janiculum.
Her shape was incense wisps, her
touch a song sung in 1940s noir,
her locking gaze acrophobia itself.
Alliteration ran thick through her blood,
she painted like Debussy composed.
No single organism in the universe could’ve imposed
anything on her – well, maybe.
Maybe she’s just a girl, the way that I’m a boy –
no air of denigration here.
She was intricate, but altogether simple. Empathetic-yet-
tangible, her character was incredible.
It was not the beauty of her face, the body
that held her mind and laughter,
not the dazed sting in my hand as it cupped
in hers – it was her autotelic way and her hope.
And now her imaginings hang,
framed in my house; little landscapes of the heart she left;
retreats that prove I’ve loved and been loved.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:59 AM UTC
dear god of needle ***** and poisoned well
i pray you find my mother
cold and dry and unfeeling
something you can draw no moisture out of
a different god struck a rock with a staff
a long long time ago
and water came to cool his throat
but there are no miracles here
so you can please stop beating her now
dear god of gluttonous apothecary
my mother's body is a mathematical
uncertainty
it is a function with limits
her veins are rolling with their bellies full
of chemicals that burn
her hair runs from the scalp the way
two legs would
from a house going up in flames
my mother's body
is a house going up in flames
i am a child that is terrified of a monster
under the bed
i am helpless to a thing i can feel but
cannot see
dear god of gasoline remedy
your counterintuitive science
your black dream
takes her body like a new land
teaches her it's wretched language
it rapes and pillages
it steals the recognition
that sparks her eyes when she looks in mine
dear god of intravenous dark rider
let her live to see a day
she can wake and not be bound
to her biology
dear god of pink ribbon tourniquet
let her breathe and take it for granted again
dear god of careful rampage
finish what you have started
and lock the door behind you
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 11:00 PM UTC
I do not want to talk
You turned me into an ash tray
One that is smaller than you,
But has been put to more use
I am overflowing with carcinogenic filth
However,
Now I see you are more,
Far more than an ash tray
You’re the whole apothecary
While you drown your worries
Mine fill me up
Just another tap from another’s cigarette
The ash piles up
Onto the mountain, without a fuss
I have lost the desire to dine
And whine
With you
Oh sweet and true apothecary, I worry about you
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 6:24 PM UTC
A square, squat room (a cellar on promotion),
Drab to the soul, drab to the very daylight;
Plasters astray in unnatural-looking tinware;
Scissors and lint and apothecary's jars.
Here, on a bench a skeleton would writhe from,
Angry and sore, I wait to be admitted:
Wait till my heart is lead upon my stomach,
While at their ease two dressers do their chores.
One has a probe--it feels to me a crowbar.
A small boy sniffs and shudders after bluestone.
A poor old ***** explains his poor old ulcers.
Life is (I think) a blunder and a shame.
1.7k
Horrible horrible horrible
You are horrible
And so am I.
Is my condition curable?
What apothecary of extra brilliant kindness
Has the magic remedy?
Can I get it from the chemist?
Does the wizard has it?
Or will he absorb in the forest-flavoured mist?
I can't think anymore
The night is here
Morpheus is knocking on my door
I'll let him in my boudoir
And read him Charles Baudelaire
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 3:04 AM UTC
Does the reading of the day,
Trinkets and truffles and all,
Sweeten the taste of clay,
The rust, the blood, the brawl.
Tremendous the power of,
The firefly in the apothecary jar ,
When the pompous lid above,
Sits illuminated as the star
How sour the noble bell,
Rings for those who would be on the seat,
Trained on their bottom as it swells,
Mocking and ruling the masses on their feet.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
The most vile of all poisons
More potent than any snakes venom
Deadlier than all spider's saliva on earth
Worse than any brew procured from any apothecary
This most sweet of all delicacies
Makes men dose themselves 100 times
With the most lethal of all drugs
Leaving only destruction and mayhem in its wake
Though tolerable, and even so far as beneficial, in moderation
Seldom if ever does it stay that way for long
Like a rock rolling downhill
The speed of drinking speeds up til no one can stop it
Causing pain and suffering, not only for the abuser
But anyone near the blast zone
Moderation is the key to all things
And this toxic concoction is certainly no exception
Keep an eye on yourself, and don't be dumb
Don't drink more than from pinky to thumb
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 8:06 PM UTC
substitute your mind for the divine presence
open you eyes and gaze upon the unknown
I speak for a plethora of overgrown gardens
are we cartons of cigarettes or bundles of sweetgrass
answers like these are never necessary
yet we borrow everything from life's apothecary
i am among the tired lions
who offer their music to your dynasties
its a weekend campaign finance escapade
to bring farms to your table and then go back to the basics
i wish you could see the benefits
that only exist beyond these earthly dimensions
for limits expand whenever we question them
I give thanks for the earth
i give thanks for the trees
i give thanks for the mother
i give thanks for the bees
i give thanks for the soil
i give thanks for the work
i give thanks for the passion
i give thanks for the hurt
i give thanks for the smiles
i give thanks for the children
i give thanks for the flowers
i give thanks for the silence
i give thanks for the power
i give thanks for the rain
i give thanks for the sunshine
i give thanks for the pain
i give thanks for the anger
i give thanks for the rage
i give thanks for the strength
to never separate myself from you
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 2:24 PM UTC
A name, a name
What be in a name?
Forsooth, more than I had attended.
Montague hath borne me, yet unto Capulet tombs do I bestow myself.
This pestilence of a name, oh!
What sorrow has it brought Romeo!
Yet I do not beshrew my name this wicked Fate.
My Juliet, mine own love,
could Death have yet to claim thee?
Thine cheeks, rosy as summer
thine skin, warm as sunlight.
Could thee truly indeed be Death's paramour?
Would not it sur-prise me, for thine beauty is oft coveted.
'Twas not fault of mine nor fault of yours that hath led us to such accursed Fate;
'twas fault of our blood, flowing in hatred; marry for many a year.
Long did Montague carry coals from the lips of thine cousins, and Capulet from mine.
Alas, to reminisce does one no good.
I shall tarry not long, my love!
Bitter apothecary, thou bringeth me upward to St. Peter;
to the glimmering gates of the Promised Land where mine Juliet awaits!
...But behold how her eyes flutter; my heart stutters in reproach.
But fight can I not!
I succumb to the arms of Death.
Follow on my heels, dear Juliet.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
When you walk into a room
Your essence glows light a light.
Your smell wipes out all the gloom,
And everything feels so right.
Your hugs are like a warm blanket,
And your love falls out like snowflakes.
Is this as close as we can get?
Oh, and when you speak, my earth shakes.
You have got the most caring heart,
And the best smile to prove it.
The world turns cold when our hands part.
Was there ever a more perfect fit?
There’s an adventure dancing in your eyes,
A wild man full of too much love.
In your eyes is where the truth lies,
The truth so pure like a white dove.
Your eyes portray the most intense event,
All the action scenes rolled into one.
With a strong love that can’t be bent
And all the burning desire of the sun.
Your hands are as sweet as candy.
Never presuming; always caring.
Your lips are quite a mystery,
But are, oh so, senselessly daring.
Your words always float in my mind,
A conscience to be my right guide,
Like Jiminy right by my side.
It’s to you alone I confide.
Conversation is such a key.
I could talk with you forever.
Oh, how content I would be.
Forget your lovely words? Never!
You’ll demolish all my pains,
My apothecary for all.
Part of you runs through my veins.
You help me stand firm and tall.
How can I get rid of you?
You alone have turned me upside down.
You have made me all brand new.
My inner self is who I have found.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 1:00 AM UTC
Nothing but dread
looming and seeping
I'm getting wet and coughing up mold
I should have stepped out
with friends and drugs
The apothecary's dry
and I'm scared to drink alone
I spin the room
then nap like a toddler
only to wake up in old bones
amid a society that takes itself
proudly too seriously
but hates to wake up to the fact
that we're spinning with mystery
I bring it up
and am called childish and unimportant
So I slug back to bed
with dreams of wish fulfillment
and falling teeth
O the time I waste
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
i choose to be a misfit, it's part of my artistry. i choose to be a misfit, a pirate and a bandit. a slave to my ministry. i outwit your chemistry and scream from the pulpit. i awoke to explosions and time lapsed erosions. the air filled with fire and rainbow smoke. i couldn't find my breath, the bed was ablaze. i inhaled the nightmare and began to choke... just then, things went fragmentary. i was more than just a dignitary. i found myself in a cinerary, facing someone legendary, and they were me. so i looked up my apothecary, knowing that i should be wary. i quickly dispensed with commentary, avoiding all things monetary. but nothing's free. speaking briefly of the goings-on, i stopped to berate the hangers-on. my mouth wove a verbal marathon, it was a virtual phenomenon. lost in my ego. restless, like the myrmidon, i was unsure of my prolegomenon. when i heard the ringing carillon, i went for a swim in the phlegethon. like abednego.
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 6:35 PM UTC
She clung to his waist as if the last fisherman pitched around a lake.
She was not gonna let go until evening
fell,
until they’d made their hotel;
eyes on the autobahn ahead.
They'd once trickled into terraced tributaries hankering after hidden
held waists on corners, continuously,
as they learnt of not letting go,
kept the sense of cologne pecked necks,
fuliginous chimney pots
and the fume of hollowed out leaves on rain soaked trees
stacked next to each other on the latent apothecary's patent leather shelf,
safe in the old factory of a shell.
Their single cylinder sang along the road,
and she did not hear him singing.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 9:23 PM UTC
Ourn silhouette's to tail us
Afoot aboriginal Knoll's;
Her brilliance, imminent
Untold story of love;
Appertaining in her contemplate
Mediterranean, upon ourn plate's;
Barefoot meandering to ourn date
Relaxed and high, none debate's;
She's the apothecary who Selleth me philter's
She allureth me in, and mine soul stretcheth longer;
When I falleth down, her young age maketh me stronger
When I cometh around, her word's art charmer's;
Comely is her impetus
Cometh hither mine lad, she's the amour' seamstress;
Companied, I shalt hold mine lass
Companied, I shalt liveth with her, in ourn nest...
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication/ soulmate mienne
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
Was an aperitif to an aphorism,
An architect of aphrodisia,
An apiary of my ever-buzzing thought.
She slipped into me streamline: Maraschinos
Into a Manhattan. Oh strike of sugar,
Stain the bitterest days a red no chemical dispels.
She was a cryptic gallipot
Shelved in an apothecary
At the Caelian's base.
Her shape was incense wisps, her touch
A song sung in 1940s noir, her locking gaze
Eros himself.
Alliteration ran thick through the blood.
The paintings? Like Debussy composed.
Nothing in the universe could’ve imposed
Anything on her!— Quit it, you idiot...
The admiration, the visions that adorn her:
Subjectively supernatural—
Maybe she’s just a girl, the way that you're a boy—
No air of denigration.
She was intricate, but altogether simple.
I encountered her in stifled confessions.
It was not the beauty of her face, the body
That held her mind and laughter, not the dazed sting
In my hand as it cupped in hers—
It was her autotelism and her hope.
And now her imaginings hang,
Framed in my house; little landscapes of the heart she left;
Retreats that prove I’ve loved and been loved.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
She who dives
down the thorny road
in search for apothecary
to cure the woes
She who didn't
know what she would
find. Is apparently
lost
Then one day
a Galahad would
come bump her toes
Irrevocable.
Inevitable, at least.
This blasts a loud boom of happenstance
Helpless ****** in the face of
the egoist
Both come to terms
and apparently
It has to be
It simply has to
be
Jul 21, 2020
Jul 21, 2020 at 3:57 AM UTC
Wild rose
within a windowless, fire-lit night
flickering angels of the holy moment
swarming over top of my bed
swallowing my soulful thoughtless form
suspending my forlorn figure across the staggering skyway & stretching flesh thin as film across cloudless expanses
A riotous, monumental movement in time
known only in it's infinite form, the destructive creator, by the wholly most defeated souls
-those who seek the warm glowing eternal dawn of the unobtainable realm, the spaceless expanse of godly bliss
those who go mad in their thoughts and weep for misery they cannot detect but which looms, omnipresent, as a deranged creature of scavenged bones and pale white memories
Aug 2, 2011
Aug 2, 2011 at 12:17 PM UTC
He sat with Michaelanglo
a stirring butress, a rife old glutton.
Seething, the temple may be doomed.
And Jude, 'rich' as HELL,
beaming of priesthood. Cursed him
with mired lucher, saying... 'When do
you think our work will be done?"
The stars that shine about the church
over our heads are beauty,
in the Cistene Chapel are the same
stars that line the apothecary of our souls.
How then do we touch a theist?
With brooms over our feet,
with chicken bones to old to feed
to dogs, with lyes that burn the soul.
Tremulous attrition, and godless neoteny.
All munitions to the decks. For
Jude, the job is never finished.
And to a deity, man is completeness.
And the poet says to the unbelieved,
'Why so true?'
"No one will believe in God,...
if no one is in this Church."
The Sandbergs, the Blakes, the Jaynes's.
Here we have felt poetry, awakened to poetry,
and loved every minute of the poet.
What record could democracy create
by Judas? When does the account of
men try femine reason?
'Ill tell You',.. says Mr. Sandberg,
'Ill tell You!,...that naught one of us can forgive a
great poet.' And Jude, replied,... "Whom then
can I believe?"
Carl Sandberg leaned way back and answered,
'You can believe the Truth; she is warm
to the touch and cold for the feature of
treason.'
"Carl why then do we argue in 3rd person?" says
Jude.
Repling again, the Cistene Chapel is open
for marrage, the ceiling is finished because
no one can account for all of the stars, but who
has to pray with us for forgiveness.
My hands prean lust for wisdom with a
pen, my hands pluck keyboards as do
Aeolian Flutes. My heart is a broken sorrow
and my life is just a poet.
Carl has answered a question,
Jude has lies to tell, and a man will finish
painting the chapel with the sound of
Liberty bells.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
This mortar bowl
With a pestled mixture
Of distillations
And impurities
Deserves a Latin name
For the apothecary's label.
A few causes for the concoction:
Pails, shovels and sandcastles;
A child bundled against winter;
A father's shoulder seat;
A son dressing for his wedding;
A daughter walking her child;
Kids with backpacks;
A soldier's farewell kiss;
The return kiss;
A nursing mother;
The wintery smell of a letter
And the anticipation of opening.
The symptoms are systemic.
The heart cannot contain,
The brain define,
The pit retain.
The symptoms are the remedy.
I am
Ground into a fine dust.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
*For being being high and
way too cool,
we're sentencing you to
an eternity in hell.*
Down here, they got nothing to sell,
and even if they did, sell it they would not.
I was banished, sent down here to rot,
got a dude shooting up,
staring at me with a lot of snot
dripping from his nose,
nobody is telling him where his little sister goes,
cause if they did, shoot it they would not,
he's the guy with the dope
and dope talks
(and nobody walks).
He gets what he wants when he wants it
and if you were to tell him his little sister
****** your **** for junk you bought from him,
brother I'm afraid you'd never smell roses again.
Not that you would,
there's a terrible lack of pretty things
just poetry, and rap songs to sing.
Knock on wood, cause you got what I don't,
smoke it while you can,
cause I will if you don't.
Oh ****
I'm bad at rhyming,
please step outside while I prepare a hit
of something strong.
Boy its been too long
since I stuck that needle in my arm.
A ****** in need
is a ****** indeed,
and oh ****
that's just plagiarism,
you'll let it slide, this ain't ******* journalism,
just keep your mouth shut and believe in my cynicism.
Watch out though, don't get overwhelmed by your egotism,
oh **** that ain't fair
rhyming ism with ism
but boy, life ain't fair.
My father told me what I had to do,
you gotta think long and hard
about why the sky is blue.
Broken bottles produce glass shards,
all out of junk, better sniff some glue.
When I first started using nobody said it would be this hard,
hell nobody said anything at all. except for you.
Now I'm just desperate searching my vocabulary,
accidentally stuck the needle right through my capillary,
I want blood and money: My Life As A Teenage Mercenary.
Don't worry, they got the good **** down at the apothecary,
make you so high you can fly like a fairy.
I must be bored, nothing I'm saying makes any sense,
no please don't show my sister, she might call me dense,
she'll remove the shrouds, destroy all the pretense.
Robbing my moms purse, scrounging up a few cents.
Hell if I had any sense I'd stop writing now,
call God and return him his crown,
but he's uptown and I'm downtown,
a sad clown
a dad frown
a mad ballgown.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 6:06 PM UTC
it took me many years to figure out
why your love of math was so prevalent
to understand that you developed
a passion for consistency
and certainty
an assuring stability that you were
sure to find with the order of operations
or the apothecary system
a kind of reassurance that wasn't
compatible with me
and i have since come to terms with
my hatred of chemistry
because things in science cannot
be proven
only disproved
just like your love for me cannot be proven
only disproved over time and
with old age
and how someday i know i will
resemble a cold mug of coffee sitting
immotile on your kitchen counter
waiting for the occasional stir which
i know all too well will eventually
stop coming
as i watch with the utmost silence
you sip from your piping hot tea.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
Winter is up to my ears
Water's in my eyes, the dull chanting squeaks of
Frollicking field mice, dark hungry souls eat dark hungry shrubs
They tear apart the grass until the dirt is overturned. The ministry is dead, into the shapes they throw, weapons in the syllables where voices dear to go. The Spring is hazing the moon, and the gallow falls, the Pines of Rome are just a symptom of autumn's calls. The mouse while he saunters in, gives no notice to the gray wolf's evil grin. Panting the tousle takes them both, no insides give, into the night I sit and stare from my window's ledge.
No apothecary seems to work, all the medicines they give like names, until the doctor fools the patient she's well again. Cloaking in the shadowy stirs of the wicked herbs we picked from our garden and yard. Mellow to the taste, cold to the face, and stings like the tantrum does when the pain is just too much too much.
Have you seen the stirring woes of the frogs, stuck to the cement, thrown from the heavens by so many angry gods. Children hated for their voice, their skins and arms and legs dispersed, any dolt can name a common cure. Sicker than the pain it shoves, while the mood settles into to a rain water bath. In a crevice their may be some thought, but it doesn't even help at all, then the cold comes in and shucks awe and feeling where the aches and screams haunt the unhealthy whims.
After Easter and beyond each birth, no one calls and everything's inert, in the desert we call to the stars, but the birds return to us and make us stop asking for cause. Misunderstanding takes its awful view, and the children stop asking too. The events of hatred unfold weirdly, broken glass bottles splinter on the ears, even blood runs warm, we run hot, and shake our chills through the spine until stranger's call us out on our eyes. Even the wanting can't, and no one can. But the help makes the worst of it even more wrong. Until they can't speak or sing to themselves, whispers on the night break the shapes on the shores.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 12:44 AM UTC