"cloves" poems
lines cut heavy
on a button stretched brow
thick rubber shoes
and dragon canes
fill out the closet floor
gospel sounds
and narratives (drowned)
apparitions set sullenly
amid voices from the past
finger pins
and crosswords
find the favor list
point men and preachers
tip up their tuscany caps
twitching and sign gazing
with spectacles held firm
recurring evening news
and beadledom views
clappers and caregivers
raise a crooked foot
grips and rockers
settle in on the front porch
gertrude grimaces
at an untimely turn
as the gooseberry pie
(with a smidgen of cloves)
chills by the night watch
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 12:07 PM UTC
Fingers smooth like lace,
placed in between her space,
her lips glazed with her nectar,
taste like cloves and honey,
laced with her amazing grace,
not a single drop goes to waste.
Apr 19, 2021
Apr 19, 2021 at 10:49 PM UTC
There is a body floating in the water of Lake Michigan again, but no one is willing to fish it out. There is a body floating in the pond near my subdivision again, but everyone already knew that anyway.
I am sitting eighty miles away, overlooking a city that is not mine, thinking about how the moon outside my window is the same moon that you can see from down below in your partially frozen-over dirt bed. I am thinking about the vampire that sits in his apartment, chugging two-to-three bottles of blood a week, and wondering if he is haunted by the same ghosts as I am.
It’s taken me eighteen years to realize that I was infected with a different variation of his curse all along—I am less human and more lycanthrope than I would like to admit. I am not like you, I am not like him, I am my own breed and that terrifies me. (There are black cats prowling in my heart and fragments of mirrors in my liver and salt that bleeds from my heels when I walk.)
No matter how many rabbits’ feet I tie to my keys, how many dreamcatchers I put above my bed, how many cloves of garlic I hang over my door, I am never able to rid myself of the chill that goes hand in hand with the phantom you left here.
Mother, I think I killed a man two full moons ago and I haven’t been the same since. I threw his body into the lake and watched him drift out into the unknown, watched the kraken drag him down, watched the water spew him back up like a cork. And now I need you to make your way back to the land of the living to sit by my side. I want you to cut off my head and make me a trophy animal. Create a rug from my fur. Eat my organs and freeze the rest for winter. Use me for your own survival. I just want to be helpful.
I want to be everything the vampire was not but my fingers are breaking from holding on too tight.
I should let go.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC
Eating mushrooms, to her is yet another art
she loves to perfect, in my ear she whispers
with such visible pleasure,"I want to be a connoisseur in this"
Her studio smelled herbs and wild flowers of inner forest,
brought me back to the cardamom and cinnamon garden
I played in my days of boyhood; spices build a bridge for us.
More of a herbalist than a paint smelling artist, she seems,
mounted on the wall on irregular fashion were the mushrooms
she painted with a passion rare, and a precision mirroring life;
the paintings brought her past in to the studio, only trained eyes
would discern the cryptic symbolism, a consummate artist she certainly is!
The woman who smoked cigars in succession and untiringly danced,
she said was her favorite, along the lake front we took a long walk
comparing notes; there were parallels that met, we found soon enough.
"You too knew her so well, I am aware", she said. A room filled with smoke
where we dance, make love, grow tired, fall down and sleep, wasn't it our life?
No one can miss the signature smell of her dense cigar smoke on my dress!"
I loved the smell of cloves she exhaled while eating mushrooms.
though detachment she pretended, eating mushrooms never was that!
I kept looking down at her eyes, a sailor about to sight the land,
any panting moment that rushes with a monsoon song for me and her.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
A domino pile are my notebooks
and the bottom thoughts
hold my wand.
Unleashed with certain and schemes,
the past asking what ends meets means.
Walking somewhere
going through,
But be careful to slay the monster,
what a story can become.
Once the swift master,
now a slave to my dog.
The Archer and Orion,
Apollo and Venus shining.
Battle for my sake.
It is, there minds and souls
weaved from foxed cloves
the slip in space and rhyme.
Just in my skin as a stitch
and storm to sailor's plight,
"Oh my captain, Ishmael
Sank into the night!"
Leaning Tower now breaks
inside,
opened window to the sunrise.
Tap. Tap.
Went the sound of ink,
Ocean breathes me
I breathe the sea
princess and
pea
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
When the guests arrived we would hasten to sit in separate rooms.
Quick to cover and observe deep voices through walls,
Men with domed hats and flowing kameez would arrive and wait
for steaming chaaval,
brought in a mound topped with cloves.
Dishes placed and eyes down, they would acknowledge with
half nods,
hairy knuckles to pour the saalan over geometric bowls.
My aunts would hush in the kitchen,
pinning their scarves in a zig-zag fashion.
The colours burning from the tiles,
watching them made me dizzy and inside
I longed
that my plait would one day thread gold like theirs.
Timed silence was a key,
and a pyramid that was never fell,
unlike the tasks that could be
stitched to your hands,
structured stiff – like a testing lap.
Boiled milk in china cups,
there would be nods, gap-tooth smiles, low chatter
with ears pricked to
the humming of satisfaction within.
Sounds through division that showed that yes,
in the right hands
the colours could burn brightly,
and that yes,
in a brush of joint henna,
we would stand separate from your
Vision of us.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 7:55 PM UTC
It’s been so many sweltering months.
I still choke at the smell of pine and cloves.
These scars are growing after I end all these hunts.
You can see the bruises on my neck and the carving on my bones.
Each individual finger and each single tooth.
They embed into my being as I try to mend what you broke.
My foundation rebuilt with my basement of truth.
It’s there that I have to wander through smoke.
It’s there that I crawled through the blood and despondency.
So desperately trying to maintain a hollow connection to someone so lecherous.
You stripped me of my color; of my effervescence.
What once were gilded rays turned to acid showers.
My skin began to boil and my heart began to spoil.
I ripped myself apart to keep you whole.
You threw my pieces aside like they never mattered.
You had no plan, no goal.
Instead of a future so lovely and lavish you abandoned me hopeless and tattered.
After swelling to the poison in your silence, I finally understand who you wouldn’t let me be.
Now I know them, and I hate what you did to me.
Jun 23, 2022
Jun 23, 2022 at 10:50 PM UTC
It might be the brilliant yellow of turmeric
boiled into salted potatoes,
washed down with the brown
of peppermint tea.
Or the intoxicating fragrance, when
we are hungry enough, of simple
spices. Cinnamon and cloves,
in another dish of oatmeal.
Outside the house, across the street,
the neighbors' children scream happily
into the warm night, where
the first fireflies begin to appear.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 12:29 PM UTC
Be afraid.
The breakdown of civilization
is at the hands of our well-meaning,
overly thrifty,
spoon-wielding mothers.
Be very afraid.
They are entranced by spices
and covering condiments,
pepper and powder,
onion and garlic galore.
Gingerly they add cumin and dill,
cinnamon, nutmeg or cloves
with thyme to add sage and curry,
parsley, paprika and allspice.
Their casseroles become
zombie food
as the dead
reanimates.
These cheese-added monsters,
hungry for mystery-meat,
render brains to mush
and bind our bowels.
They stiffen our gait
with numbness and nausea
until we are rendered victims
of another pepto-pandemic.
And in the night
of the living dead,
feeding us salt
in a casserole apocalypse,
we panicked victims become
the casseroles we consume.
Now paralyzed
in fear
by the light
of the open refrigerator.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 1:00 PM UTC
i felt so safe, sleeping by the bear cave
and the honey he brought me kept me warm
the morning dew glistened while he danced for me
while i ate the honey
funny bear
you make my heart melt
last winter seemed like it lasted forever
and the frost froze off my toes
he carried me in some spring water, and cloves
i kissed him on his big old nose
i felt so good, laying there and dying
the comfort he gave me was irreplaceable
then i heard the hounds
he buried me in some cedar and pine needles
i could hear him climbing the big oak tree
the baying of the hounds must have lasted a hundred years
and i was still alive
so was he
then you came
you took out a pellet rifle
you started shooting my friend
you started shooting my friend
the excitement of the hounds grew
the hair on their backs stood on end
so did mine
so did his
why did you shoot my friend with that air rifle?
why did you shoot my friend 23 times?
i was laying there listening when he fell
when the dogs jumped on him, at your command
i listened while your dogs tore my friend to shreds
my friend didn't even make a sound
he was a good bear
such a good bear
he didn't bother anyone, and would have given the hide off his back
but you killed my friend and took his hide off his back
you killed my friend
you killed my friend!
you let your dogs tear him apart
================================
i can still see you dancing
funny bear
you saved me from freezing last winter
my toes even grew back!
thank you, my friend
your warmth and love has kept me alive
the things you taught me will help me forever
will you please dance with me?
Mar 13, 2022
Mar 13, 2022 at 12:02 PM UTC
Sometimes I steal
from grocery stores.
Nothing serious of course,
sprigs of cilantro,
basil,
snap garlic cloves,
sleeve a single strip
of green onion,
occasionally, palm a jalapeno
I think it is the tiny thrills
of being a petty villain
that provokes me.
The warm slick sheen
of salty palms,
brow sweat, and
the shivers of pulse
that drums
my heart
when door greeters pull me aside to
verify receipts,
and never notice my aroused pockets
tight and bulging
pickpocket produce.
I'm no outlaw
nor bandit,
I do not pillage or
plunder,
I know the gray lines
that divide
good and bad,
because I'm at one of their
thresholds.
The cashier checks my driver license,
and address before feeding a worthless check
into the scanner
where it gets tagged and stamped
I feel no thrills,
no bad boy euphoria,
I am too numb for elation,
and too numb for shame.
This crime Is justified.
I have three more days
till payday
and hope the check floats
Last week was a short paycheck,
gas prices are high,
rent is past due
cigarettes aren't cheap,
and then there's that drug habit.
I could only write it
for twenty five over.
It's going to be a hard stretch.
I stuff easy cash
into my front pocket
and try to catch the eye of a pretty cashier
an aisle over.
She drags barcodes through laser red eyes
that decodes sale prices
She doesn't notice me,
but she might not be into bad boys
A small girl waits
in a shopping cart
with pigtails
and new teeth,
holding a children cereal that comes with a prize.
Her mother does not see
her kick off her shoe.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
Hey Mom?
I miss you.
Like a lot.
I miss dancing in the kitchen
To Madonna and Meatloaf.
I remember singing under the paper lantern
From the dollar store.
You bought it just for me.
I miss your strong, muscular embrace
And your scent of cloves and earl grey and earth.
I miss your long, silky hair
Just like mine.
I cut it all off last week.
Some days,
I just wish I could talk to you,
Talk to you about what hurts
But you hurt.
Just to remember hurts.
You're gone.
Hey Mom?
If you're still in there,
Beneath all the alcohol-infused blood
At the bottom of the cavity in your soul maybe,
Could you peek out from behind the curtain?
If only for a moment.
Could you give me some signal
Some kind of hope
That beneath it all
My mother is still here
On this earth
That she isn't lost to me forever.
That the woman who cherished me in her lap
Swaying me back and forth while I cried
From bad dreams or heartache
The woman who taped up my broken arm
And taught me how to make the best spaghetti
My mommy,
Who taught me to sing with beauty
And shared her green thumb secrets.
Please.
Please.
Don't be lost to me entirely.
Please come back.
Hey Mom?
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
I take my shoes off at your door.
It is Christmas eve.
The walls are paper thin, and the lantern
Burns in the corner.
Silently.
The tea is bright and woody.
Cloves and cinnamon.
It seems you are a woman,
although so wan and thin
You have been so tired this year
The wind is coming in.
Regretfully.
I put my shoes back on,
and close you back with kin.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 6:48 PM UTC
The smell of stale french fries
and E.coli coated beef
the raw onions and garlic cloves
stunk up the kitchen and watered my eyes
no ice in the drink machines...
but plenty of warm pop
Chicken nuggets with 16 new herbs
and spices and hot fudge Sundays, without the hot fudge
banana splits with rotten bananas
and the tomatoes weren't that fresh either
the cheese was moldy and the buns, moldier
The advertisements claimed "Have it your way"
it wasn't my way, it was their way
I paid a dollar fifty ordering off the dollar menu
it was a ripoff....
I spoke to the manager
and the manager spit in my face
and said "Have a nice day"
it wasn't a nice day, it wasn't a nice day at all....
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
In this tightly interwoven
tapestry of
silks and cottons
softness upon stems
an intricately-boned
journey
manifesto of life
I find myself in
patchwork landscapes
of ochre and
rust turning
turquoise
earthern shades
of cumin and cardamom
cloves and coriander
piquant red of paprika
alighting the senses
My fingers reach out
to sift the powder
to crush
fragrant fronds
of fresh basil and oregano
upon the blueprint of tips
allow their scent
to permeate my skin
and infuse tissue
of tongue and lips
and I seem to be
in this
bustling marketplace
my blood afire like
dried ghost pepper
searing and brightening
all flavors
fenugreek and asafoetida
to soothe the ache
of emptiness
chervil and chive
to get juices flowing
I want to slit open
vanilla pods
get at the beans
revel in their essence
wear it all over me
In this realm of spice
and paradise
I am flying,
a magic carpet of dreams
unrolling before me
like an unfurled flag
of new existence
The sounds of hagglers,
fading in raw visons
of shiny apple colors
olives piled high
textures of smooth cherry
budded broccoli
of walnut wrinkles
aroma of guava
Music takes over
I am in a cloud of
oud and lute
syncopated tabla
bells and rumbling
taut skin drum beats
Or is that long low whir
simply my heart purring
to the cadence of
freedom's call?
I only know
that in the whisk
of a second's split
I will savor the flight
and also the
fall
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 4:51 PM UTC
Rainy summer day,
storming actually
The kind of day that made you want to crawl under the covers and forget yourself
drift off to sleep
Still
despite the navy skies
It was still summer
summer means peaches
big ones, bursting, dripping
honey nectar and sunshine
so we make a peach pie
cinammon and sugar sticking to our fingers like slow molasses
underscored by the constant drip, slip, flooding
arranging produce like composers
and we waited
we waited for the pie to bake
we waited for the crust to crisp, for the sugars to melt,
for the peaches to ripen, to brown and butter
we waited for the rain to stop
we waited for sunshine, for dry shoes, for beach days, powerlines
we waited for hours
we waited for months
we waited eighteen years
we sat, and we stood, and we waited.
We sat in front of the oven
eyes pressed against the window
we waited
watched the sugars bubble, the scented cloves
we were two years old and one hundred at the same time
we waited for the kind of lives that we saw in movies
the kinds of dreams you wanted so bad it hurt
we waited with stomachs churning
wasting our youth, one rainy afternoon at a time
waiting for life to begin
Rainy summer day,
storming actually
The kind of day that made you want to crawl under the covers and forget yourself
forget about the peaches
forget about summer, about friends,
about anyone and anything
drift off to sleep
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 9:28 PM UTC
Take a simple packet of minced beef
Add a drop of water to the pan
Finely diced an onion and 3 chopped garlic cloves
Oh! Don't forget the fine cut celery
Now cook gently with a touch of love
Until the mince is brown
This now is the time to add just a pinch of dry mixed herbs
A liberal splash of soya sauce followed by a gentle stir
Important now please don't forget
A large pinch of marsala spice
For this will be the beating heart before you add the rice
RICE! Did I say rice?
For the amount of minced now in the ***
Cook an equal amount of rice until soft
Of course in another pan
Now just before the rice is done add mixed veg to the mince
In the other pan, frozen veg will do
Now strain the mince but save the sauce
Worth its weight in gold
Now, yes now's the time to strain the pan and add the rice
To the mince so savoury and brown
Mix the rice and mince with love until well combined
Place into a baking dish and set the oven high(160)
20 minutes will be enough so now the dish is done
Thicken the sauce you strained from the mince and bring to a gentle boil
Serve the mince/rice with new boiled potatoes and the sauce
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
Roses spices and onions skins off
Richie ride me back home
there's nowhere to hide from your love.
~~~~~
I thought I could find a place not to think of you for one day, so I went to the kitchen for a soup there was nothing to eat but pasta sauce and there you were
in front of me up in the spices
I had to use in place of meat on bone for boiling a soup.
Heating up battled water added cento tomato and the sauce
all kinds of spices; parsely real sea salts garlic pepper a pinch of taco spice wild cilantro, a garlic squized and cloves
(no basil)
cayene pepper did the magic
lemon juice added the final punch for my Mexican soup;
added a few granes bazmati rice found, added a white onion slice and blessed as I felt
"I cried me a river for you" and
The White Cliffs of Dover
songs came to mind to console
me as I broke shrinking down
the stinking onion was me
and noone to share my soup
I turned stove top off to go
wipe face off and
entering the bedroom I tripped
knees on the red floor unconsolable crying.
Yes the room was filled with
roses wild and roses red!
and again you made my day.
I felt so blessed to have
held so many of your treasures
in arms to see my hands half full with roses
and half full with bittersweet spices beheld.
Upon my bed a heart was carved
inscribed in tiny little
red rose buds and purple hearts
in your words "I love you"
I craweled to reach the bed careful not to disturb the million roses nor bleed feet with their thurns as they layed artisticly everywhere room full of roses,
I wept there caressed by your roses spices and songs
hugged all night long.
by insomnia bug
Oh please my darling Old Richie "ride me back home."
there's nowhere to hide
from your love.
~~~~~~~~~
Karijinbba-03/2020.
Copy Rights
Mar 8, 2020
Mar 8, 2020 at 7:59 AM UTC
Can a broken heart,
be compared to a lily field,
where every stem a sword it wields,
their smiles sweet, their words bitter?
Can aching feet,
be compared to footprints in the sand,
from days of old and days of man,
where journeys traveled over yonder?
Can a hoarse voice,
be compared to howls of dark wolves,
cinnamon tasteless and not of cloves,
when taste buds are uselessly used?
Can red dry eyes,
be compared to blazing suns,
ones that do not walk, but do not run,
and never fly faster than the wind?
Can a senseless poem,
be compared to fickle hearts,
where it depends on a person's part
in their imagination?
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 10:15 PM UTC
When I peer into the mirror
(Clean clear glass on silver
A porthole into backwards-land)
I see a certain spice in our swirling eyes
Absent in those of the lonely
Cloves and cinnamon and vanilla
It shrouds us in its heavy fog
(We don't mind, we see not much
Past each others' eyes)
In the mirror, our arms are tangled
In a comforting, swaddling mess
Our heads are leaned together (a teepee)
And our smiles stretch around the world
But the mirror shows us backwards.
(Reverse, opposite, inside out, and outside in)
And I know that really, you lean away from me and frown.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
****** Mary sunset
Soft tequila sigh
Ivory teardrop tumbler
Disregarded sky
Street breeze through the window
Kettle on the stove
Chopin in the parlor
Empty pack of cloves
Resonance of redwood
Essence of the earth
Shrine to Mother Mary
Sacred ****** birth
Portraits on the table
Gazing toward the floor
Cobwebs in the dresser
Tucked behind closed doors
Violins descending
From the upper room
Dissonance impending
Lost in worry’s womb
****** Mary sunrise
Flower pillow sigh
Alka Seltzer tumbler
Halfhearted goodbye
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
Nights under stars
Sand between toes
Drive-in movie cars
Freshly fallen snow
Raggedy dresses
Waterfall rainbows
Socotra trees
Ripped pantyhose
Unmatched socks
Leaves in transition
Innocence and sunflowers
Lighthouses and words written
Familiar kitchen patterns
In a stranger’s house
New Orleans architecture
A cemetery mouse
Flip-flops in winter
Zebras and block parties
Cinnamon and cloves
Whiskey and Bacardi
Candy in pillow cases
Static electricity in the dark
Barun Valley and painted faces
Houses made from tree bark
Wrap-around porches
Neon city lights
Lightning-bug torches
Thunderstorm nights
Epicurean summers
Lapis Lazuli skies
Youth prayers in rocking chairs
Heterochromatic eyes
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
I have a heavy taste in my mouth.
cinnamon sticks and sage
broken wisdom in sound words
I have the earth on my tongue.
cloves and winger squash
thirsty for sweetened rain
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 4:55 PM UTC
Santa stood by the fire
With a pipe in his teeth
With smoke in the air
Circling him like a wreath
Clement Clarke Moore
Said this so long ago
But, what kind of pipe
I'm sure you don't know
Santa, a smoker
That's nothing new
If you remember the poem
Then you'll know it's true
The pipe, oh so slender
A small bowl at the end
A slight whisper of smoke
In the air, it would send
It arched to the floor
To the end of his beard
If it ever got close
Then his beard would be seared
The tobacco he smoked
Was a Turkish fine blend
With cloves and some nutmeg
Just how much, would depend
Was he giving out presents
Or sitting down by a fire
That determined just what
He would put in his briar
The pipe had a name
It was a Churchwarden pipe
Made of briar so old
A now long extinct type
Red Man tobacco
Some days he'd switch
But, not very often
It made his nose itch
The pipe is a classic
It shows Santa had style
Though it had a small bowl
It would last him a while
He could make rings appear
And they would circle his head
Or he'd just taste the spice
And form a small cloud instead
A Churchwarden pipe
Can be smoked by so few
It's a long way to draw
It's a tough thing to do
The scent that it leaves
Is of burnt spices and pear
And if you should smell it
You know Santa was there
So, this Christmas instead
Make it your pre bedtime goal
To leave out some OHM Turkish
To replenish his bowl
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 6:32 PM UTC