"camphor" poems
Are you sound of mind?
Addicted to dandelions
like the ocean is to ice.
Wait outside the blood bank,
learn how to write dialogue
and make saccharin spines.
My journal is a tangle of spines,
keep an open mind
help me box up my ****** dialogue.
I’ve always been a fan of dandelions
etching paths along the river bank,
streams within the winter ice.
Buckets of camphor ice
relax the notches in spines
as we wait in line at the food bank.
Thoughts of jawbones on my mind,
the taste of dandelions
and organized pre-scripted dialogue.
Backhanded blue dialogue,
counting the vanilla crystals of ice
blowing the smell of cinnamon into floating dandelions.
My hands handle happiness spines
with the peace of mind
of money in the piggy bank.
Let's rob a bank
shooting quiet malleable dialogue
through an altered state of mind.
Your ribs are two sheets of ice
ivy wrapping around our intertwined spines
crumbly blowing breaths of dandelions.
Second hand dandelions
build up in the river bank
muddy trenches around spines
whisper outspoken blue green dialogue.
Three pounds of dry ice,
warm water vapour at the back of my mind
Store buy your dandelions, bear in mind
that the West Bank is covered in ice
and that spines speak their own muted dialogue.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
That day we came
and having come
lapped at by perfumed light
at once separated.
We bathed in the pool
the water like crystal
in the sunset
our limbs like glass.
On the bank
in the hot conjoined air
we made love again
our sweat
like silver in the moonlight.
the water's suppurating flow
drew our limbs
like flotsam in the reeds
grappling glistering lilies
as we floated in slow, ********
currents.
along the bank, the Camphor
shades the forest flowers
through the long-leaved grass
the python slinks
We leave for home
darkened by the sun..........
tongues digging into melons,
pomegranates laid out
neatly for dessert
******* out the Rambutan-
once the hairy skin is peeled-
fiery, red
the soft core sweeter than coitus-
and stays longer in our thoughts.
is this where the dreams are,
or where the dreaming begins,
between the first caress
and the final gasp of satisfaction?
Where the threshing limbs
devour the sun-shredded wheat
and the panting ribbons of air
swallow the final sigh-
the sleek river flowing
seaward, ocean marshalling
the land,
coral languishing in green pools
of broken light.
Here, within this infused beauty,
********** has power
beyond the weather-bound senses
of our northern homes,
encased in dull precipitation
sunshine a blunted knife
beyond the pot-shaped mountains
high above the trees
like a tear emerging from the sky
drops the waterfall
its descent
languid, its fall sharp and effortless;
tinged with azure, carefully sprinkled flakes
it spreads out like a clear, chiming puddle.
There we spread ourselves
naked in the sunlight
the sea's rumbling noise
distant and fumbling-
spreading its curling claws
into the slyly forming sunset
in reiterated rhythms
like beating hearts
like lungs-
the carefully manufactured beats
blending.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 10:28 PM UTC
*Stellar spirit, fearless flier to high skies, your wings are gifts of freedom,
your florid songs, tug at my heart as much as those plumage,
your elan, though subdued a bit by harsh weather, takes new shoots,
never in disquiet, indomitable, your inner lamp, now burns with camphor light.
I see you fly above the storm clouds, singing anthem of your soul,
spectacular, in clear weather, cheered by your dear ones near,
the hillsides, valleys and dales resound with your dulcet tunes.*
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
"Can't take my eyes off yours"
not withdrawing their gaze
wordlessly he and she muse
without batting an eyelid
"Ḧer eyes are a shade of blue rarely seen ever"
he thinks, before words could charm her
she finds this" Ÿou've the eyes of a girl,
every girl that dates you, I am sure
would note it first" Isn't she right?
Öne girl knows another's heart better
then, do men stand a chance?" he wonders
"But there is a soft wave beating in the depth,
of those eyes" she softly confides
Ït arrests me, can't take my eyes off
..is it kindness or love, or both?"
a welling within happens, he was debating just that,
but how, just how does she know it?
"Ẅhat would you take first ?' he puts it back
" If I offer you both?"
she smiles saying "I know what"
Close by they sit, heat permeates
from thigh to thigh, isn't it nice?" eyes probe
"Let that beam of light I see, fall straight
in to my eyes, let's burn together"
He shuts his eyes and remember
the camphor lights, soft on eyes
and oil lamps on temple walls,
flames that dance like hooded serpents
he feels the heat of her swelled up lips,
fitful bees hovering above his mouth.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
The crow and the cuckoo look alike
Even the cuckoos are hatched by the crow
But they sing a different song
They can not live along
salt and camphor look the same
But their tastes are different
Salt is meant for adding taste to pudding
Camphor is meant for a god's worshipping
We can’t decide anything by its looks
Nor can we judge a human by the sweet talks
We should observe how he walks
In trying conditions the way she acts
Dec 25, 2010
Dec 25, 2010 at 4:10 AM UTC
we take a breath
I have a smoke
thank you for giving me your cold
you rub the menthol on my chest
I hold the camphor to my breast
sometimes all it takes is just a jacket button to break.
10 minutes on they'll drink champagne
and have their fun with party games
everybody yelling "cheese"
10 minutes from a third-world country
in the shadow of the rock
they don't have anyone that'll help
there isn't garbage on the ground
its the street that makes up the whole town
I know you don't even want to talk
You won't even take my calls}
After three years on and off
I would do anything at all.
Have the child of my blood
Then with blood I'd have enough.
Just a picture fairy tale
For a man with a cold and betrayed.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
You who have never known the loveliness of love,
Gather your heads on the torn pillow’s edge of mud,
Under the wood-tar shadows of camphor-aided sleep,
Where your low-flung groans are starvations of sound,
And the amputated clouds, insinuated with gangrene
And blood-stained woods, are still bound to the shooting
Stars that fell beside you and flung up hissing rays of grass.
Parents of the midnight sky, the stolen stars of your children
Open their broken mouths to the battlefield heart of trespass.
To their soldiers’ eyes, the floor of heaven is uncut grass,
Wet with rain and mold and the unlifted wings of Pegasus,
Whose unearthly hoof to unearthly earth scuffs the clod
Of the lunette for the cannons to divulge the great, stuttering
Coda of everything old, malformed of breath and bone.
Some grass somewhere will now seem the hair of a sweetheart,
And those dead eyes will aways stare, too fond of love unknown.
So the dead soldier and grass and sky conspire to hold a woman,
So the soldier makes the truce between earth and sky,
Between man and the divine, though the chestnut trees
In red human tongues, pay their deep-forested encomium to distance,
In misspilled gorgeousness like Apollo surveying his own tomb.
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
Your spirit has the smell of earth,
kissed by first rain,
effervescent with scent of promise,
Your spirit has the smell of the sea shore,
the breeze, sweet with the salty spray of power.
Your spirit has the smell of the mountain side, grassy meadow wild with fragrance of untame flowers
Your spirit has the smell of a monastery, mystic camphor serene thoughts of living.
Your spirit has the smell of the battle,
blood, gore, flesh and fight
Your spirit has the smell of a maiden
out from her scented bath,
sensual, drip dripping
Your spirit has the smell of forest,
wild sweaty, hot and humid.
Your spirit has the scent so honest,
of love pure tho rugged and rough
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 6:06 AM UTC
Feel something i beg!
The camphor in my demeanor tastes sweeter than the salts spread over the eyes of hour dreamers.
Don't trifle, in menial,
spread fires for three,
Gimel whispers; promises me.
Crawl backwards through womb and bough.
Bow forward through the plasticity.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 11:00 PM UTC
A spider in it's web,
is a mistress
of a myriad things:
for instance,
a five finger exercise,
or a full bare breast on which,
a hand is tenderly spread.
On canvas space,
spider forms evoke layers of
meanings.Imagine this:
from secret holes of
moonlit camphor trees,
come out love-lorn female spiders
wanderers of dark nooks,
enticing perfect mates.
The deceptive calm
in them is the most
dangerous precept,
if you know the spider
the way you should.
I watch her sitting on the floor
at the far end of
the poorly lit room where
a group is in it's
usual squabbling
she is bored, still aroused
no one else, and she
looks at my lips
The spider web
is a sign language she
communicates:
she playfully points her finger
down between her legs.
Curious, I strain my eyes
in the oily yellow light,
see the phantom of a spider:
dark, sinister with a gleaming eye.
OOO
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 7:54 AM UTC
Old churches smell of Camphor
New churches get febreezed
New churches have soft benches
Old churches wreck your knees
Old churches have stained windows
New churches have foam walls
Old churches fill you up with dread
New churches look like malls
New churches have young pastors
Old churches, not so much
New churches have no feeling
Old churches hurt to touch
Old churches scream religion
New churches whisper "Hi"
New churches aren't forboding
Old churches make you cry
New churches full of speakers
Old churches you just yell
New churches all have daycare
Old churches threaten hell
Old churches full of people
New churches full of young
New churches and new hymnals
Old churches,,bells are rung
Old churches make you wonder
New churches keep you cool
New churches...air conditioned
Old churches are a jewel
Old churches...God is power
New churches...God's a friend
New churches....rules are broken
Old churches do not bend
Old churches are my background
New churches I don't know
Old churches full of stories
New churches full of show
Old churches there's confession
New churches there is not
New churches you say sorry
Old churches...it gets hot
New churches have no devil
Old churches he is there
New churches full of comfort
Old churches just to scare
No matter what religion
Be it new or be it old
Faith is one commitment
Forever,you should hold
Old churces are my favorite
New churches quench a thirst
But if I had a choice of one
I'd pick the old church first.
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Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
*That camphor light, in your tranquil eyes,
revealed everything I searched all my life,
all those fantasies that gave sleepless nights
how they all reduced to naught and ashes!
when, first we stood, lost in each other's eyes
moments flew excited like butterflies in thousands,
From the light, I realized, life began its journey first,
when the voyage reaches its last port,
the shoes hung, never to be worn again,
All sounds go down to a whisper and sink
in to the grand orchestra of silence.
I would see those flowers, that made my garden fragrant
once again, like a pantomime dance, of stars.
My wings, never opened once, will come alive and signal
it's time to soar up, up transcending the speed of light,*
**Would you make your eyes sing that song of light, you perfected,
one last time, and hold your tears?**
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 8:16 AM UTC
Love, merry are you as a midsummer flower
And blithe as a lark upon the camphor’s tower
Singing free by every hour
Which passes in dream, on and through
Most graceful are you as a lithe falcon, flying
Or a gentle hawk by the spinning wind, crying
Or wooing tone, slowly dying
In pain’s midst for the song are you
And not austere as the cruel mistress of ice
And most warm and most crisp as the midsummer skies
Free as the wind by morn that flies
To carry scent of lilac and dew
As gorgeous are you as a bright dream of sweet love
And as gracious as the Eye of G-d, high above
Ne’er in my life, I can’t hurt enough
To have me loved as I love you
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
the camphor of your exhale, is me -
easy breathing the tear gas.
i bark like a dog.
i chase habits with discipline; chumming the waters of known sharks
that pray on other oceans and hunt other seals...
like prey.
i'm so elaborate, my symbols call ' time out '
just to catch a glimpse of my
always.
i tangle me.
a morphine drip of metronomes
yawning splendidly... a tide of pools.
an uncommon dress -
in a code, derived from the stomach -
of the throat...the next, next; and the kept boat
capsized.
no joke.
Ha.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 3:20 PM UTC
Our affections are resinous
By the grindstone, made
Confections.
Our patience tasteful impressions
By words, sweet turpeny made
Ever-growing since.
Our laughter like camphor
Sowed by thyme, made
Love, after.
Your love is unwashed
Grown and ground, made to steep
Cherry beans, grown in their burgundy glove.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 7:51 PM UTC
My menorah is three-branched:
three the lamps that light my firmament
one, ineffable, more ancient than time
the other immanent,
and the third, the Lamb, incarnate love.
I drank of the them in a drop
of the tears the autumn sky shed.
Yea, I held a camphor to the skies.
An eternal flame, that
burns in the chamber of the heart
where I stand anointing the beloved's
feet in perfumed oil. This crimson eve
when the shadows return,
I kneel lost in the light of his love.
A silken stream from the unknown
that gushes silent in the creeks
of the heart, where I sit in gratitude
feeling the warmth in my palms.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
The dance of Amphitrite
I used to see
When I lived by the sea
Which in turn saw me
With her ever azure eyes
Below clouds, camphor-white
Her tides used to rise
With the coming of the night
And descend slowly
With the advent of light
I was welcomed everyday
By her king's white horses
Who galloped by her bay
I used to watch with wonder
The seagulls by her quay
Zephyrus, the west wind
Caressed her wavy locks,
Composing mellifluous harmonies
(The songs of the sea).
He brought with himself,
Ships, salts, sand
And faraway lands'
Numerous stories
The swash and backwash
Were like the ballet of nature
Performed by the sea
Which I used to see
As the sea saw me
With her ever azure eyes
As her tides used to rise
Sometimes low, sometimes high
In the Amphitheater of Amphitrite
Dec 6, 2020
Dec 6, 2020 at 6:46 AM UTC
"People do not know where to go face, Love and be loved." Really like these verses, could not help feeling that life is a dream, an idea into the air. Some words, hearts will always comes to feeling; Some things always lived to be relieved. This is how we always like to look for someone else's story from his own shadow, and then looked at other people's stories of their own tears (Yiwu buying agent).
Had spent a lot of time to take care of those complicated, the end result may be in vain. Inadvertently catch a glimpse of beautiful campus that piece of peach, suddenly remembered a time a few years ago is also in love with the campus camphor tree. Enron tree is always standing, wait Jubilee winter rain, contemplation joys and sorrows, in a silent gesture of compassion. I just suddenly a little sad, perhaps too young time is easy to miss a lot of things, too easily done something wrong. A lot of things we in strong faith, but give way to the temptation, we know everything, but we do not go to practice. Young is so, the spirit of a passionate young heart, walking ring road, and then we slowly started to become mature. (Yiwu export)
Each time period will always meet different people, and then began to experience a new course. Little four work "before the arrival of the summer solstice" in the summer solstice heroine, said: "You do not wait for me, it is time forgot me." I thought, we can not help feeling the time to go short, always could not help but complain about time to bring our unfair. In fact, our minds are not mature enough, do not comprehend the true meaning of the time is short. Then so be it, began a seemingly daily busy life. At that time, I remember when I was just a boy, I do not know that he grew up, or the time to go too fast. I knew it, I found that I was no longer young. Ebb and flow, clear understanding trace.
When flowers, youth pass by; flowers when we are old.
I have no nostalgia, I do not think the youth the more regrettable. Recollections on their own, the young own way to go, so the memory in my mind. I'm passing scenery, certainly in others different, because different state of mind, not in time, and our experience is also different for each person. (Yiwu export agent)
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 1:25 AM UTC
She smelled
camphor and wonder,
my wet hands caressed
the fruits i wished to plunder,
mind transcended
to clouds and whispers,
falling incessently like a pleasant rain
drenching us , till we can ask for no more.
Her lips were
soft waves sent by
the sea of tranquil night
that nibbled the shores,
little by little.
Her lips on my lips created
a myth, of a land of happiness
which before my eyes became real,
i found my inner pains have
completely vanished,
we were consumed by a pleasure,
that was full of nocturnal vigour.
What would you do
when, ***** are on fire?
we were in hunger,
she said, we would build a slow fire,
and make our pulsating veins dance
around it, till every hunger is fully satiated.
I found this dance so tantalizing,
she was in fits of pleasure, surging
from the deep centre
that kept on erupting.
It seemed our bed had swift moving wings,
she swung up above me
a bird ******* honey from a flower
hovering over it, on her wings,
her alacratic moves
made her look like an acrobat
perched on top,
the journey was across time and
we lost all awareness of place,
she moaned her mantras,
pleasure seeker's chants,
to attain the higher reaches of the peak,
faintly visible.
We came swimming though
the turgid waters,with an urgency
rarely known.
The hands of raising sun
was feeling our bed,
i looked up to see what happens
the night has stealthily left,
early morning light mischevious
peep through the window
to see us lying
in each other's hands
Then again,
we saw the sun a perfect red ball
falling down, to drench us in purple rain
we ran after it , amorous spirit
still glowing inside,
and at that moment we heard
melodies within our bodies.
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC
The Sadhana of God's Love
is a blissful employment
from rising sunlit tides of dawn
to iridescent dusk
my hymn floods
the rubescent horizon
Spending time with You,
Divine Self
soothes the furrowed brow
heals the broken heart
Lilac shadows steal through the
Prayer room
delicate footprints
Gods and Goddesses
make their presence
known
Happily I ignite
warm, inviting glow
candlight and camphor incense
while settling down softly
in
the blue meditation chair
my gaze ascends
venerated, timeless vedic scriptures
unfold
beautiful words, fragrant pinions
waft through the universe
recalling God's majesty and glory
Hari
!
Your myriad names and leelas
a glorious testament, celebration
to all that is good and virtuous
dances
across my japa mala
anointing body, mind and spirit
with true peace
Gossamer wings brush
past my flushed face
shimmering in the quicksilver luminosity
I feel You so radiantly near
Yes, it is possible
with dedicated devotion
and spiritual practice
for us to experience the
ineffable Presence of God
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
My grandson Alex said something very profound and intriguing after his graduation ceremony.
I was complaining about how thin my hair had become and blamed it all on growing old. Alex looked at me with quizzical eyes partially covered by a mop of black sheepdog hair and declared,
"Well, Grandma you are an old lady."
I gave him a piercing look and said,
"True, but, remember this: The Soul is Eternal."
In that moment, my 14 year old grandson said that I reminded him of an old lady living in an off-the-beaten road shack. As I listened to him and the evocative images he spun I took the liberty of embellishing his description:
"Hidden by a dense patch of wild crafted herbs, a hint of mint, diamond needles darning their way around the bucolic scenery, a peculiar little hut comes into view.
The round oculus amethyst windows appear as portholed eyes to another world. If you pause and listen keenly you can distinctly hear the hum of otherworldly chants echoing from its eaves. Indeed, everything about this strange occult cottage exudes magical charm, you'd think it was inhabited by a priestess or something of that nature.
Slowly, I open the creaking door, puffs of rose moss incense and pooja camphor burn in small brass pots. Countless multi colored bottles, all different shapes and sizes, antique knick knacks, curiosities crowd the musty shelves. And a soft, rainbow mist floats through the room. This enigmatic Shack oozes wisdom......My Granny, her hair thinning, bits of silver creating a halo of stars, welcomes me. She gazes at me with a wise, weathered elderly smile while applying a red *** *** dot on my third eye and says:
"You know Alex the Soul is Ageless."
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 7:44 PM UTC
inside that inner cave
shines an effulgent flame,
complexioned like camphor
bearing a crescent moon
he’s pure as white jasmine
sole terminator
of the veil of illusion
cast by the lilting tunes of
that captivating flutist
© 2020
May 31, 2020
May 31, 2020 at 11:36 AM UTC
initially,
crossed the great divide,
sea to the land, from
one to another, then, talking.
crossed the narrow bridge
talked of the past,
revisit the old place.
all plumbing and stair rods,
you know what i mean.
courage to walk away
from objects that irritates
our eyes, to eat another way,
with snakes and camphor oil.
you know what i mean. with
the kindness of strangers
to cross the mountain, be led
home.
they say it may be drizzly today.
sbm.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC