"fennel" poems
Zeus, your predilection for banishing Titans to Hades...
anathema of them--revolt was theirs of you...Titanomachy.
Enter Prometheus, second generational Titan, brother
to Atlas--Prometheus of whom Titan revolt at first ran
no fire through his veins.
Thus, Zeus was well pleased and employed Prometheus
to put earth to water, water to earth...as to yield man.
As so man was, and was unto Prometheus...a fondness
entered him of them.
And in of passion Prometheus' veins were run through
with fire...fire fought fire--thus Prometheus reached out
taking hold Zeus' lightning.
Hid in a hollowed fennel stalk, to be bequeathed unto man.
Torrents of fire now ran Prometheus' veins, and in a fit of
infamous mockery presented Zeus with two packets of
slaughtered animal parts.
A hubris was born in Prometheus that being so halved
God-man gave itself fully to that polarity...he gawked at
Zeus and bade him choose between the two packets.
One of ox meat and innards coated in stomach lining, the
other of ox-bones coated in its own abundant fat.
Thus Zeus chose, the wretched lesser of the two...
inconsumable ox-bones coated by fat.
A charged and terrible air cut and heavied all direction,
pointing assuredly that Zeus was one given over to the
surface of things, a psychological casualty of his own
vanity.
Zeus overcome with Prometheus' disaffection for the God
of him struck at Prometheus' family.
At length, this assault could not, would not put asunder
Prometheus from the ground he stood.
A certain Haphaestus was summoned by Zeus...whose
directive was writ in torment.
Chain Prometheus to Mount Caucasus...where from on
high a sackcloth cloud shall shake loose an eagle, whose
homing hunger shall have only a taste for Prometheus' liver.
Day in, and day out, that accursed ***** shall be the
bounty of itself!
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 6:06 PM UTC
In the arid dust I can see a shimmer of you in the distance, the red of your hair mixing with the ochre earth
Amid the noise and collision of caravansary in Jemaa el-Fna I hear your soft drawl joking with Snake charmers, always in hustle
In souks the sweetness of fennel and myrrh swirl in the wake of travellers steps and I'm reminded of your desert scent, like cedar and musk covered dust
In the dissonance of the call to prayer I can feel your awe as struck as mine, while the roiling sound of voices lifted in faith erupt over the Medina
In the coolness of Jardin Majorelle, I can feel your head resting on my shoulder as I contemplate the reflection of Lotus blossoms in stark blue pools
I see your eyes in the green of the Atlas Mountains, echo your amazement at Saharan navigation, feel your peace as the stars appear over the Riad
But can't feel your hand in mine as the sun sets over Marrakech
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 5:06 PM UTC
a late harvest in Brigadoon
plucked from good earth
by strong hands
hauling
uphill, until
a gentle
slope
rewards
a stiff
back; easing
a grateful
burden
that levitates
famine
[ bushels ]
now
ziggarats
in a root
cellar
a Sumerian skyline
of parsnips and rhubarb
with fennel minarets
where Gilgamesh slept
in a pantry of pagan loot
underneath a corner room
at the very back
of a round
house.
where four seasons bunk with an almanac
mason jars of pickled beets
breathing their own blood
hanging gardens from the ceiling
of the Underworld
like fliers of missing children
on telephone poles
i go outside and wander off
you stay home
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 2:02 AM UTC
You found me in the underlit,
Said I was worth saving
So you stole the fire
Only to put it back inside of me
I licked the flames from your fingers
Like a fennel stalk
And in turn, your immortal mouth
Met my soft,
Devoured my flesh
And each time we kissed,
We burned
With only bones left
But the gods were not so pleased
With our offering
They picked on your insides, dissected you
For the parts of me
That made you whole
And left you aching, aching, aching
And empty
My brave titan,
I will never forget the warmth
Of your scorched hands,
The taste of salvation
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 9:21 PM UTC
there are some things,
that just smell so good:
corn freshly shucked, potatoes roasted in campfire coals, carrots fresh from the ground, then washed and stovetop roasted
basted with butter
and lavender honey.
the nape of my toddlers neck,
that clean fresh hopeful little boy smell.
coffee, straight up, freshly brewed
caramel warming,
passionfruit, strawberries, citrus any type, zested. freshly planed fennel curls, mint crushed for a mojito, roast lamb and rosemary gravy.
the smell of planed wood in the palms of my man's hands as i kiss them. frangipani, coconut tanning oil,
earth newly rained upon. popcorn popping, chocolate melting,
jasmine, orange blossoms,
a grove of pine trees.
warm gingerbread and mulled wine.
salt tang on the morning breeze.
the smell that lingers after the lovin.
garlic and ginger in a hot wok.
salt tang on the evening breeze.
prawns all sea salty and
a crisp cold beer.
sandlewood and citrus aftershave lotion on your smoothed cheek.
nectarines, apricots,
a yellow juicy peach,
freshly bitten.
apple scented shampoo daphne & lilac my nana's smell,
bay *** newspaper print and palmolive soap,
my pop's study.
rose petals crushed.
earl grey tea,
toast just before burning damper and cocky's joy
crisp fresh linen warm from the sun.
so many scents, so many smells...
these are my favourites please feel free to add your's, as long as it's clean
and above board.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 7:10 AM UTC
1. There was too much life in that man for him to...
2. It is possible to associate sadness with your name.
3. Strength now walks without a counterpart. She is tired.
4. Your un-presence billows louder than your renditions of "O Sole Mio" ever did throughout this home - throughout this heart
5. There will be no more music. Only everlasting echo
6. The sound of shuffling slippers was my favourite song
7. This house is now a museum. I am 5 years old, flashlight in hand, creeping creaky corridors. I stare as each of his artifacts slowly disappears before my very eyes.
8. We share the same shoe size
9. Now, when I remember him, I think of his hands - sturdy as he grates orange peel, fennel, Parmigiano-Reggiano, smooth as he stirs his shaving cream - Forever moving
10. This hospital is now a museum. I am 21 years old, sister's hand in hand. We all stare as he (yes, you) slowly disappears before our very eyes
11. There was too much life in that man for him to be ever silenced by un-music box
12. There was too much life in that man for anyone to be able to fill his shoes
13. There was too much life in that man for him to disappear with artifact body
14. Now, this man, he is somewhere untouched - the smell of orange and fennel fill his pockets (saved for rainy days). He lives inside and out of The Music, with soles(souls) bouncing.
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 4:24 PM UTC
I wonder how you feel to-day
As I have felt since, hand in hand,
We sat down on the grass, to stray
In spirit better through the land,
This morn of Rome and May?
For me, I touched a thought, I know,
Has tantalized me many times,
(Like turns of thread the spiders throw
Mocking across our path) for rhymes
To catch at and let go.
Help me to hold it! First it left
The yellow fennel, run to seed
There, branching from the brickwork’s cleft,
Some old tomb’s ruin: yonder ****
Took up the floating weft,
Where one small orange cup amassed
Five beetles,—blind and green they *****
Among the honey meal: and last,
Everywhere on the grassy slope
O traced it. Hold it fast!
The champaign with its endless fleece
Of feathery grasses everywhere!
Silence and passion, joy and peace,
An everlasting wash of air—
Rome’s ghost since her decease.
Such life here, through such lengths of hours,
Such miracles performed in play,
Such primal naked forms of flowers,
Such letting nature have her way
While heaven looks from its towers!
How say you? Let us, O my dove,
Let us be unashamed of soul,
As earth lies bare to heaven above!
How is it under our control
To love or not to love?
I would that you were all to me,
You that are just so much, no more.
Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free!
Where does the fault lie? What the core
O’ the wound, since wound must be?
I would I could adopt your will,
See with your eyes, and set my heart
Beating by yours, and drink my fill
At your soul’s springs,— your part my part
In life, for good and ill.
No. I yearn upward, touch you close,
Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,
Catch your soul’s warmth,— I pluck the rose
And love it more than tongue can speak—
Then the good minute goes.
Already how am I so far
Our of that minute? Must I go
Still like the thistle-ball, no bar,
Onward, whenever light winds blow,
Fixed by no friendly star?
Just when I seemed about to learn!
Where is the thread now? Off again!
The Old trick! Only I discern—
Infinite passion, and the pain
Of finite hearts that yearn.
1.9k
Madness like a red coat
Around her throat
Drowning in the ruins
Of her own misery
And
Own sorrow
O’ dear child,
You should have stayed
In that garden of yours
Among the myriads of
Growing daises
And
Gifting each of us a violet
For centuries to keep
But how long can
Leaves shade you
From the
Many faces of fate—
The cruelest ones always name after us,
Victims.
Dwell in the many layers of rosemary and pansies;
Look how is ironic history just became
With its indelible smell of
Fennel and Columbius ;
Drawn towards the many
Spun webs of the
Golden singing spiders—
She floats amongst the
Water lilies
From here on.
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 10:01 AM UTC
Did you ever, as a child, chase a butterfly,
A tiny Golden Birdwing, perhaps
Or a Bronze Roadside-Skipper?
Flitting, faster than an arrow,
Over a rusting wheelbarrow fortress,
Under an electrified washing line,
Dive-bombing plastic remnants
Of the light infantry,
Before spinning away,
Courting the breeze in a whirling dance,
Winged-eyes blazing bright as childrens' buttons,
Vanishing in a cluster of gold chrysanthemums,
Reappearing, fluttering freely,
From a sea of bronze fennel.
Did you dash dash dash,
Arms flailing madly,
Mouth locked in a giggling grin?
And did you ****** ****** ******
Tiny hands grasping, clutching at air,
Desperate to hold natures princess?
Do you remember?
Dashing, Snatching, Grasping,
And suddenly,
She Was Gone?
And did you dare peep, clumsily,
Into your tiny hands,
Between your fragile fingers,
Half afraid you missed her,
Half again, you may find her,
Crushed In Your Hands?
The quest for desire is a chase,
So demanding,
So determined,
So distracting,
Attainment without consequence
Is your end game,
And is all that matters
Until you face the consequence
Of your end game,
When all that matters
Is What Remains In Your Hands?
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
I hear the shriek of the mandrake
As my future dies
Kiss me under the cherry tree
So we can be lucky
A universal sponge absorbing fennel
Waiting for the mind’s revival
Cooperating with my enemies
Hanging by the cemetery cypress tree
The naked and cunning chameleon
Tries to show his true colors
As Cain the unicorn says,
“Have a good line”
She wears a necklace of opal
It ruins her spiritual insurance policy
Born from the foam of an underwater church
She emerges with St. Christopher
As the future Buddha’s laugh at fate
They pick the road narrow and straight
I hear the shriek of the mandrake
As my future dies
So kiss me under the cherry tree
I want to be lucky
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC
Bless me Padre for I have sinned
My last confession was 3 poems ago
Padre, I watch **** food ****
Lamb shank in a garlic fennel sauce
Pig parts unknown wrapped in bacon
Tri-tip and tripe marinated in marrow
Padre, I eat my veggies
(caramelized broccoli florets in a Béarnaise sauce)
But **** that man Bourdain!
Again and again and again!
I find myself drawn to pork stewing
In decadent assorted sweet-meats
Padre, I need a chlorophyll cleanse
Please accept my humble supplication…
What? Three kale martinis and one cauliflower?
I repent! Let the cleanse begin!
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 11:02 AM UTC
Once a month the doctor visits.
She makes her trip inland, driving from
her coastal town to our village
hidden in the hills.
Here, people rarely get sick.
They say whatever's carried in the wind
stops them getting dizzy in the heat.
They believe in the hills,
gifted with sweet smelling herbs
waiting for the miracle of alchemy
to transform them into oils, infusions,
syrups and decoctions-
feverfew for headaches, fennel for digestion,
lavender for dreaming.
The doctor's young,so has an open mind.
Never critical, she's always willing to listen.
Most days, she's woken by the ocean
on its way to demolish the dunes.
Dragged back by an invisible force,
it roars in frustration, straining
like a tethered beast demanding
to do what it pleases.
But Earth won't allow it just yet
and the ocean knows who's in charge,
the rules will change only when She decides.
The doctor's irritated.
She can't see the ocean any more,
her view's obscured by unfinished business-
silent carcasses of half-built villas.
She can taste the salt.
Feeling trapped, she would like to find shelter
in another skin.
But today, her cure is in the hills.
At her door, she waits for the mist to lift.
It whispers there are other choices.
To unlock another door while she still has time.
***
In each on of us there survives an intuitive preference
for all things natural. The great continuum of life that
contains and sustains us.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2014
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
wave-front
cloud-break
blue-grey-movement
~~~
below the wind
watching
Redwoods quiver
~~~
the hallowed wine glass
but ah!
the sweet on my lips
~~~
Fennel every Fall
through the chain link fence
~~~
the warmth of my lover
passed hand to hand
polished blue stone
~~~
dust
breaks the silence
sneezing
~~~
a Rose opens
aging
gracefully
~~~
proud Maple
among not yet
yellow Oaks
~~~
peninsulas
embrace the bay
wave-break kisses
~~~
white Aspens
out of sight
white Egret
~~~
Cypress light
spiked and pining
~~~
paying respects
around the lumber mill
procession of Trees
~~~
October road trip
picking haiku
from the breeze
~~~
cloud layers
puzzle piece
the sky
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
let the race
go on and
be won and
be lost
inevitable
fast
without me
I will be
playing
on the side
of the road
with the daisies
and the crickets
and the wild-growing
fennel
a fleeting whoosh
to the rushing
passerby
and they a whoosh
to me
as clouds
hang humid
and yearn to
speckle their
summer mist
a-top puffs of
breeze and
rosy cheeks
and
saplings
I will be
spending my
sunshine day
with face
upturned and
hair a-mess
and
eyes not
looking where
they're going
© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC
Through olive trees in wooded groves
across sparkling streams swiftly he goes
in a golden chariot that is keenly pulled
by four black Panthers, to the joy of their lord
For this is Dionysus lawgiver wine drinker
god of peace son of Zeus and Persephone
he holds tight the reigns of vine and ivy
to reach the shrine of Apollo finally.
He dismounts his ride still holding his thyrsus
that fennel staff adorned with Ivy poisonous
topped with a titian pine tree cone
here to pay homage to one of his own.
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 2:06 AM UTC
the green fairy visits
if only for a night
to soothe this troubled mind
and take away the strife
the minty taste of spearmint
and peculiar taste of fennel
play of tongue and mind alike
in passing and in action
a quick spirit burn and
the blurry edge of truth
shine a light on my emotion
and pass a pass for you
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
The absinthe was poured
Soon thirst will be quenched
The water then added
The green fairy did change
So my brain could be drenched
And my mind would derange
What was peridot green
Is now most opaline
The fennel and anise
Are present indeed
But the taste of the wormwood
Is the flavor I need
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 2:35 PM UTC
Macerate a few herbs aromatic
fennel, thyme, cardamom
inside the fifties housewife’s head scarf
before she stows away on the back of
an air force drone
to the old country
where her mother’s
slaughtering a goat with a
broken Coke bottle
and her father’s learning how
to dog proof the Christmas tree
No one’s taken off their boots in months
and when she passes them the shoe horn
it’s all over as soon as the landlord says
“Please, no ethnic cooking”
and you foolishly reply
“It’s just hard boiled eggs”
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
Glad you got some fennel
from the Sunday market,
it's delightfully culinary
it look good in the alleyway.
Your neighbour is spot on
there's a profusion of scaffolding
in the street.
she jokes maybe subsidence ?
But it's more,
keeping up with the Joneses;
spending as a reflex action.
People are as elevated as busy bees
Activity, activity,
idleness can turn us into tripods,
staying still, is no good.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 9:29 AM UTC
Macerate a few herbs aromatic
fennel, thyme, cardamom
inside the fifties housewife’s head scarf
before she stows away on the back of
an air force drone
to the old country
where her mother’s
slaughtering a goat with a
broken Coke bottle
and her father’s learning how
to dog proof the Christmas tree
No one’s taken off their boots in months
and when she passes them the shoe horn
it’s all over as soon as the landlord says
“Please, no ethnic cooking”
and you foolishly reply
“It’s just hard boiled eggs”
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 9:10 PM UTC
what do you call that--in the morning?
between dried citrus fruits, orange and
lemon pinwheels strung on fishing wire
persimmon and crystalized cinnabar
soft bread rolls wrapped in muslin
with filtered sun refracting
through the crown glass
around her head like parhelion--
and she touches the spices
sumac, saffron, fennel, mustard seeds
and she touches the dishcloths
and she touches
and she touches
and she touches.
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 12:26 AM UTC
Talk to me like rosemary and oil,
Like the sour with the sweet,
The heat of the noodle stew,
The first sip of a red wine,
The juicy steak with thyme
And shiitake
Look at me with eyes as gravy
And talk to me like honey
That drips like melting ice,
Like fennel and onions,
And biscuits with peaches
Talk to me like umami risotto,
With leeks
Like viola lemonade
And cinnamon cherry pie
With lime
Sip me like your creamy earl grey
And talk to me like toast and egg,
Like bergamot marmalade
Talk to me this way
May 8, 2021
May 8, 2021 at 11:09 AM UTC
Dearest Ophelia:
Daughter of the murdered man
Sister of the murdered man
Lover the man who murdered your men
This is an ode to your fictitious life
Ophelia, my love, you are divine
Oceanic and loving, you are the blessed petals
Of a plucked flower in hopes of a fortune
Irrational, eccentric,
Your whims
Become the whims of others
The ickle darling
Who needs help most
Dying a death so jarring
Sinking, sinking, thinking
Into the murky depths unknown
By the Queen’s words not shown
By rue,
By rosemary,
By fennel,
By *****
By columbine,
By regret,
By remembrance,
By foolishness, flattery, and adultery,
By love,
By faith and hope
Her judgement most bitter-hearted
Her judgement most secretive and dry
Her judgement most sweet-scented
Lost to a fit of laughter
By the maiden’s wit
Her act comes to a close
With mermaid-like prose
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:34 PM UTC
Her fennel failed, so it was off to market-
where local lemon squares cartwheel
with kettle corn
as free samples dissipate...
and the business-
of honing in on
a needful thing
becomes the
sepia tone
on a wharf of
gathering.
with the fog that threatened
the forecast, abated.
the air was gray-yellow
with a new sun cracking mist
as veterans
meander like elk in hoodies
between the fresh catch
of the day
and the venison heart
on ice.
under glass.
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 2:59 PM UTC