"citronella" poems
Candle flicker
Keeps mosquitos away
The wind is picking up
No sound to be heard but paper crumpling rustle of aspens
A **** seagull squaks; only here
This is desert living
Desert loving
We have a porch
It kind of feels like heaven
Just the moon and lamplights
And pajamas with no undergarments
Citronella smell
Dry breeze
Skin no longer chapped
Weathered from my initiation
During the apex of summer when I read outside at midnight
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
Once upon a time there was an Italian,
And some people thought he was a rapscallion,
But he wasn't offended,
Because other people thought he was splendid,
And he said the world was round,
And everybody made an uncomplimentary sound,
But he went and tried to borrow some money from Ferdinand
But Ferdinand said America was a bird in the bush and he'd rather have a berdinand,
But Columbus' brain was fertile, it wasn't arid,
And he remembered that Ferdinand was married,
And he thought, there is no wife like a misunderstood one,
Because if her husband thinks something is a terrible idea she is bound to think it a good one,
So he perfumed his handkerchief with bay *** and citronella,
And he went to see Isabella,
And he looked wonderful but he had never felt sillier,
And she said, I can't place the face but the aroma is familiar,
And Columbus didn't say a word,
All he said was, I am Columbus, the fifteenth-century Admiral Byrd,
And, just as he thought, her disposition was very malleable,
And she said, Here are my jewels, and she wasn't penurious like Cornelia the mother of the Gracchi, she wasn't referring to her children, no, she was referring to her jewels, which were very very valuable,
So Columbus said, Somebody show me the sunset and somebody did and he set sail for it,
And he discovered America and they put him in jail for it,
And the fetters gave him welts,
And they named America after somebody else,
So the sad fate of Columbus ought to be pointed out to every child and every voter,
Because it has a very important moral, which is, Don't be a discoverer, be a promoter.
3.3k
we went to Little Blue
that summer in a bum'd car.
riding in extravagance
we couldn't afford.
camping in the Oklahoma ozarks,
we brought liquor. the two of us
drank a half-litre honey whiskey
and twenty-eight of thirty Pabsts.
your chick only nab'd two.
we were sunk from that point on.
i vomit'd behind the car, and
there were left retched handprints.
left were a phantom's handprints,
having been drown'd by their hedonism.
the bikers partied along
with us apart from us.
they ask'd to use our hatchet,
that's the way we met.
men share tools, and that was
the only instance of civility
for two days. we ran feral.
rip'd shirt to ribbons,
wrap'd them 'round a stick,
soak'd citronella,
commenced adventure.
returning,
two hours time gone;
returning,
scratch'd and bleeding;
returning,
we lit their paths with
torch burning a primal fire;
sleep,
pass'd out by fire in lounge chair.
been in this spot before,
knew to bring a quilt
and mine was the only one.
startled awake,
fire nothing more than nightlight embers.
raccoon, sitting upright,
stared from his high perch of a picnic table.
apple in paws, nibbling,
he mock'd and monitor'd.
i swiped at it with a stick,
missed. said **** it.
slept in the car that night.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
It makes me think of the cloud
Human heart-shaped humble
Floating alone against an onyx horizon
We see it because of the lightning
It wants us to know of its presence
Through inner struggle
I imagine that is how the heart works
Lightning bolts from the top to the base
From the sides
The smallest thunder
Even little voices stop us in our tracks sometimes
On a porch in a cabin in the woods
Even when we get away
Some things never leave us
It smells like citronella
but still feels like bug bites
a certain kind of back-of-mind reminding
It tastes like laughter
and feels like deep breaths when I need this more than ever
Life suckerpunches you in the gut
And sometimes feels like killing yourself backwards
When you finally get that gasp
You realize how sweet your own breath actually is
It is so sweet
Like them
A perfect collection of breath forming smoke
from the cold
and the ****
and the cigarettes
It warms me
Fills me like a lone lighting cloud competing with the beauty of a horizon
with simple flashes of light and the quietest thunder
Hear me heartbreak and simple chatter
Makes me think of the boy with the hospital gown smile
and the hopeless optimism
My beautiful back-of-mind bug bite
when we both need this healing
Healing is a fire sometimes
That feels like at any moment
It will burn out
But the embers pulse a diligent glow
to bring this back to life
Bring me back to life you poorly polished diamonds
We will reflect your light and bend the beams an entire spectrum
Notice me and this quiet voice
The smallest thunder and flashes of light like living Morse code
The simplest message
And this feels so much like a bent harmonica inhale
A beautiful gasp
A collection of smoke made from ***** lung laughter that doesnʼt rain
Only begs you to join it like the voice of god in a thunder storm
He speaks Morse code lightning
If you look carefully the voice is always there
The answer is always
you
The answer is always
you
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
it is circulated deep into the soil
that you’ve wore the dress of paraffin
in the multidimensional wind of the winter
the cash-memo of the recently purchased
gold-bangles
would reside for some time more
then all the pregnant women
would assemble in the river-ghat
to meditate on the paddy-blossoms
all diamonds and clubs
would overcome their insomnia
through this arrangements
the crushing-news of fostering
flows
this dilution is well-known
the river-ripple of the air
after reading the sun
would keep some extension of dahlia
on its palms
in an unwritten evening
the demi-god-birth of the fire-flies
would break
their easy dead bodies
by the instigation of the surges
would ring … and ring… and ring
and spread cheerfulness
the elderly rain-tree comes to spray anti-biotic
on the spoilt top-branch of the young lad
covered with citronella
Sep 28, 2010
Sep 28, 2010 at 4:35 AM UTC
sweet child of the stars-
never forget these bright lights
and pages of gold
blaze of fireflies-
momentarily trapped in
mason jars; glass-hewn
a saturday evening in july of 1987, pottstown, pennsylvania. the moon peaks over the horizon, craning its neck at the carcasses of lost dreamers littered across the landscape. denim jacket, stone wash; unintentionally half-popped collar. a glass of cinzano bianco in one hand and store-bought iced tea in the other. eight wicker chairs on the deck; chittering and smiling and shuffling and laughing. an evening soirée illuminated solely by stars and citronella candles. sticky, humid night. grill roars heat as yet another batch of burgers are flipped. step down into the murky dark.
fireworks ignite-
brilliance across nightsky
eyes gaze in wonder
new-age americana at its finest—
we are here and we are now. the product of every moment leading up to _now_. smoldering remnants of infinite reactions, extraordinary in their own right. what are you cultivating within? what will stay and what will go? what will take hold and manifest? what legacy, what footprint do you dare to leave on the sands of time? in this sublime psalm of life, we can only dream.
Jul 16, 2019
Jul 16, 2019 at 11:24 AM UTC
frankly the frankincense is funky
and the sweet jasmine burns my nostrils
jamaican vanilla is ungodly overpowering
and the desert sage smells like an ***
mountain violet makes me violently ill
and aspen rose blows
give me a stick of Nag Champa any day –
green tea and cinnamon don’t have any weight
while sunset on the lilly is far too heavy
my mind can’t reconcile mint
and fruity candy flavors are for children of yuppies
I can’t stand being inundated with gardenias
and I don’t even eat fresh baked bread,
no, just give me a stick of Nag Champa –
moonlight in Senora is not a smell
morning dew on the Rockies is faint at best
I am pretty sure patchouli is **** water and cat ***
amber is petrified tree sap
and who wants to sniff dragon’s blood
nah, just give me a stick of Nag Champa –
I knew an egyptian once, and his musk stunk
and voodoo is a cultish religion
harmony should not even be on a shelf
lavender citronella might slow mosquitos,
but should we be breathing in pesticides?
I will never go ‘round a mulberry bush
and my history with ****** keeps me from trying
an ***** scent…
I would rather a nice stick of Nag Chanmpa
anytime –
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
I
Tiny, they dance through me on the green wind;
They breathe me in: flame-inflammable and time
Out of memories. Damsels in foreign stories long eaten.
Yet I feel so drowsy. Martyr-like they whisper trails
Of their sugar dust onto my face and make me
Itch. I scratch with citronella nails and burst
Forward into the night. One imagines they’ll follow,
Seeing as how they think I’m their sun.
Do you remember that summer we spent with the
Dead? Maybe it was too long ago for you, but you
Always woke me for the sunsets. I remember.
And there was some song or other that kept break-
Ing through the radio… with the raindrops and some
Stately clock that I always associated with you.
II
You were always underneath me
Writing those idiotic sonnets.
When you broke water-heavy from
Me, of course I tried to follow.
The song to which you referred
Was “Night and Day”, but you know
I can always remember the words
To you better than any foolish
Song. There’s a torch within me
Keeps repeating “You. You. You.”
May 3, 2010
May 3, 2010 at 1:00 PM UTC
You are my citronella
When my thoughts hover like mosquitoes salivating for a bite
You say, “not today ladies”
You are my natural remedy for a challenging foe...
Myself
Keep smelling sweet with a hint of citrus
My mind depends on it
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 8:44 AM UTC
We told citronella secrets
Under the summer stars
When the Christmas lights burned
Out of the airy tent
The tiki torch tradition
Was newly begun.
We told laughing love stories
As we walked the phantom dog
Down the silent, midnight road
Occasionally lit up by giggling headlights.
We drank soda from crinkling cans
Sipping down our suppositions
Rehashing the year and all
Our misconceptions by the
Light of the tropical
Tribal flames.
We told citronella secrets
And shared our autumnal fantasies.
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
Flickering candle.
Citronella smells so nice.
Don't feel mozzies bite.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 4:20 PM UTC
it hadn't been since aunt martha gave me the gift of a warm cinnamon hinted hot chocolate on that brisk winter day, had I felt such warmth from a kind hearted soul...hands heated, warm ceramic reviving my icicle ******** (slow) blood flow
the cinnamon sparkle that gleamed and aromatized my gibbous eyes giving me a sense of acknowledgement
helping me to reach a state of full illumination
emit unprecedented light
such kindness and welcoming feelings
Wonka had encouraged me this way as I chewed my way through his half eaten golden ticket
a delightful treat but my taste buds hadn't treated it toooo delightfully
thank you for giving me your time and many thanks for permitting me to give you mine
the best part of my day is seeing you
and if i ever said i wasted it away....
just
remember
out of the 7 billion people (1000 i really know)
i chose
to waste it away
with
you.
p.s.
citronella and sit down with me cinderella
Dec 28, 2020
Dec 28, 2020 at 8:04 PM UTC
Like the mouse avoids the cheese in the trap
And the water avoids the flame
Like mosquitos avoid citronella
He avoids you all the same
Like the fish who avoids the hook and the line
And the grape avoids being plucked from the vine
I hope that you'll stop reading my rhyme
And wake up, he avoids you all the time.
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 7:47 AM UTC
With a citronella candle,
A lofty perfume,
Delayed expectations,
Friendly champagne flute--
I will wonder in between
Inebriation
Being patient,
Believing in the irredeemable soul.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 2:49 PM UTC
twas seven twenty
on a thursday night
ma was in the ground
pa was inside
and i
was sitting crosslegged
sipping dark chardonnay
with a dead fly
in it
feeling high on fumes of
citronella candles
while the horizon
turned to rust
and huckleberry stains
and so did my feet
and the dirt smelled the same
come to think of it
but i didn't see nothing
i'd already seen it all
that's how i
broke out
of the hoosegow
that's why i'm
freer than the flies
that can't bother me
(i never saw a ****** thing)
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 10:06 PM UTC