"aromatherapy" poems
With skin the color of coffee what I wouldn't give to have a cup of her
Putting my lips to hers taking long slow sips warming my insides
Her fragrance is like freshly brewed aromatherapy healing my soul.
Written by Keith Edward Baucum
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
first I smell myself.
the deep bass tonality of my musk,
hot, creamy, sweetness unique, of coffee and creamy,
my owned sweat oiled secretions massaged into her skin
emplaced by vigorous parts rubbing and tongue caressing,
under the fading shadows of my glancing, desirous admirings
then I smell herself.
sinking sunset glimpses of last nights parfume parfait,
scattered in random strategic locations architecturally planned,
some flavors come over me like modest waves,
others spelunking found in crevices, cracks and caves,
where humans tread in guileless search of guiltless pleasure
then I smell our sharings.
lemon and thyme, paprika, sea salt and pepper,
a basted rub laid upon animal skin consuming, and consumed,
the vinaigrette balsamic and California yellow raisins, pine nuts,
decorating leaves of red soil spinach and spicy arugula,
word salads, so miraculously ingenious, you swear off eating flesh
then I smell our combinations.
the air conditioned atmosphere that blends us properly chilled,
the olive oils pressed from two colored differing skins,
the mortal and pestle finely grinding our own fresh crumbled dirt,
appearing in places where dirt is wet panko crumbs encrusting us,
our combined liquidity, shaken and stirred, drying in martini tandem
it is 8:17am and this recipe of reciprocity,
at its most pungent peaking,
for soon raining waterfalls of potable city water
and the sophistry of French soap,
the pseudoscience of modern chemical shampoo,
together erasing, scrubbing away this poems aromatherapy tapestry,
your perplexed complexing nostrils will mock you once more,
for ever disbelieving, thinking you could no longer write of
only love poetry that crested high above the trite
Friday, March 29 2019
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
my love brought
me tranquility.
my love bought
me tranquility,
in a Manhattan bodega.
late at night in my city,
everything is for sale
where least expected
in mini marts, local delis,
greek coffee shops, spanish bodegas
pizza parlors, hardware stores,
all selling
salves for late night salvation
purveyors of
differential equations of
differing soulful sustenances,
certain imports that will probably never be
for sale in Walmart after midnight
all, readily available,
twenty four seven
in my miracle Manhattan heaven
My woman,
mapper of the byways
of my ****** landmarks
worn broad~ways,
his-toric foot trails of tears,
lines of laughters,
even a
purported dimple
I call a crevasse.
a sole survivor of
a mother's birthing skill marker,
duly recorded by her upon my visage,
in my miracle Manhattan
She knows, as do
some of youse guys,
that my poetry is
water born(e) and water soluble,
but Peconic Bay always
ain't right handy,
so bring on a
substitute teacher,
a hot bath,
helps me to enunciate
my verbal visitations
my love brought
me tranquility.
my love bought
me tranquility
in a Manhattan bodega.
pour the aromatherapy,
my love brought me
for inspiration into and upon
my liquid writing table,
"Tranquility,"
a summer garden aroma
It soothes
my bad memories,
the herbs salve
accursed ancient wounds
that will never
ever fully heal
or be forgiven
my love brought
me tranquility.
my graces restored,
this poem offered in
grateful appreciation
with unlimited adoration,
something,
maybe even the
very one thing
**that can't be bought,
even,
in my miracle Manhattan**
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
His hair so rich and thick
Spiraling upward higher and higher
Voluminous in appearance
Bold in its statement
Copious curls demanding attention
Natural, beautiful and free flowing
Standing tall to whomever it encounters
Sunlight beaming into its brown hue
It tells a story of bloodline and culture
Narrates history, prejudice, acceptance
Perseverant by nature
Resilient against criticism
I worship his hair from a distance
Yearning to feel it in between my fingers
Kiss his strands one by one
Inhale its scent like aromatherapy
Aug 6, 2019
Aug 6, 2019 at 1:30 PM UTC
It's pumpkin season.
I'm alone in a cold house; I fill it with candles to deceive my mind. The room smells like fresh baked cookies. Oh, how I wish my house was a bakery! I would ****** stranger's noses with my cinnamon cakes, feed the bellies of my neighbors, and recycle the crumbs to the mangy squirrels. But my oven is imaginary and the heater is broken.
There is much in my heart I seek,
I don't feel much like baking.
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
The lemon, yellow and juicy
With lots of zest
Squeeze it to make lemonade
Or some extra zing to your tea
The cocktails give a kick
When lemon juices are mixed
Well ripe ones are pulpy
It has got hue named after it- lemony
Pickle it to have it throughout the year
Or use its oil for aromatherapy
A lemon drink will keep you cool when it’s sunny
So life can become more fun and tangy
© Amitav (Radiance)
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
Easily the best remedy
Ailments and sorrow washed away
Restored inner vitality
Liquid aromatherapy
Golden tea bergamont infuse
Relax, enjoy, repeat at will
Englishmen at 5 won't refuse
You can be sure I will not spill
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
i make my bed
four times a year
because when the blankets
are on correctly
it's not easily accessible
to wear as a cape.
and i sometimes wish that
i could get out of my
own
******
head
and open up enough
to love someone
else for once.
i sometimes spray more
perfume on my
pajamas than my
dresses it's not
aromatherapy but sometimes
i calm down.
sometimes i manage to
forget
about these
disturbing
thoughts
just
reverberating
through my mind.
and sometimes i just
fall apart
but sometimes i pull
myself together.
today is the sum
of those times.
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 7:39 PM UTC
Aromatherapy heals by scent alone
you're scent alone healed me
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 9:04 AM UTC
The sky is too loud,
my music too bright,
my words too salty.
I'd really like to curl
myself into you and
drown in your smell.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
something to fill this empty room,
besides the scatters of something started;
a work in progress, never finished.
something besides the
dull smells of fake fragrances and a thousand candles,
spent and past in brazen attempts at aromatherapy.
something to accompany the
ceiling stared at, night after night,
besides the spider and moth that live near the light.
another human, perhaps,
if there were room, at least. another set of thoughts,
besides ones own, weighing heavy in the walls.
a monster under this bed,
give us something real to fear, make me leave,
make me feel, make me scream.
something to fill this empty room,
besides everything still in it. not empty at all,
just worn and torn, bored, full,
empty.
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
I shall build my bathroom vanity to suit my person needs
In a marble glossy white strip featuring tea leaves
Where the sunset would lift my morning moods
As I quietly sit on the toilet with the latest Bluetooth
I shall lie on my high pillow top bed
And listen to the sound of the larks
While the wild baby monkey sits on the ledge
Where tiny soldiers of marching ant crawl in the dark
I shall refreshed my house with Natural Aromatherapy Incense
Just to keep evil away,
and in addition keeping the blessing in
While broods of Dominique hen cackling makes a loud annoying song
In the year two thousand forty-two, I will represent
As for now, I am planning and waiting for my long awaited retirement
Feeling so worn out:
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 12:18 PM UTC
Coffee
Rich and dark
Slowly spinning in a white cup,
Therapeutic aromatherapy
Creating a warm feeling
Even sophisticated,
A smell that sells houses
Breakfast
Sizzling, crackling into life
Taste-buds still blurred
From the grogginess of sleep,
Bacon and eggs
Like Morecambe and Wise
An inseparable odd couple
Newspaper
Folded and re-folded
Onto an article of vague interest,
Words from another world
Unimaginable, war torn, desolate,
Colder than the rain-washed street
Outside this café window
Cigarette
The first of the day
Smouldering between yellowed
Fingers moulded to its shape,
Smoke slightly burning eyes
That are awakening to
Another fragment of life
Jul 22, 2019
Jul 22, 2019 at 1:15 PM UTC
She worked like an aromatherapy
and affected him like a curse
he won't be able to escape
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
Why do I have to go through this?
When will the chattering ever stop?
Am I capable enough to follow my dreams?
I wonder as I turn the doorknob.
Every cell in my body was hated
by every cell in yours
I was only a child
Would you rather suffocate me in drawers?
What do you even benefit from it?
Being happy in front of others
But spit hateful words without people knowing
Oh what a hypocritical pretender
It’s like being
Chained up
Whipped up
Getting all messed up
Or like the cool cyan water
Being ferociously consumed by
the swift fiery orange
Rushing through like the high tide Seine delta
But Plushies,
Blankies and
Aromatherapy
Radiate through every inch of my body,
Experiencing tranquillity
Faintly hearing...
“Are you alright love?”
“I was afraid you would.”
“I’m glad that you’re okay!”
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 9:59 AM UTC
simply awake
No music lulls
No quiet snoozes
No counting naps
No stretching tires
My clock taunts me
No comfort lullabies
No breathing relaxes
Pajamas strangle me
No coolness soothes
No meditation stupors
No visualization sleeps
No position tranquilizes
No supplements sedate
No aromatherapy calms
or finger painting slumbers
I am insomnia’s vigilant sentry.
Where, oh where's the sandman?
Dec 16, 2021
Dec 16, 2021 at 9:43 AM UTC
I shall build my bathroom vanity to suit my person needs
In a marble glossy white strip featuring tea leaves
Where the sunset would lift my morning moods
As I quietly sit on the toilet with the latest Bluetooth
I shall lie on my high pillow top bed
And listen to the sound of the larks
While the wild baby monkey sits on the ledge
Where tiny soldiers of marching ant crawl in the dark
I shall refreshed my house with Natural Aromatherapy Incense
Just to keep evil away,
and in addition keeping the blessing in
While broods of Dominique hen cackling makes a loud annoying song
In the year two thousand forty-two, I will represent
As for now, I am planning and waiting for my long awaited retirement
Feeling so worn out:
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 12:16 AM UTC
No, I'm not hungry.
But my taste buds are testy
for tasty
My jaw is itchy
for chewy
My nose is tingly
for the aromatherapy
of rich and meaty
No, I'm not hungry.
But my stomach aches
for feasty.
Dec 10, 2024
Dec 10, 2024 at 8:42 AM UTC