She is A Queen
She's something special, similar to a candy coated dream.
The God in her will sooth you soul as if you were Listening To the sound of the rushing river Streams
Her spirit Shines brighter than a car's high Beams.
Her love is sweeter than brown sugar
And Me oh my she is Looker
Her big chestnut sultry eyes reveals the beauty of Her soul inside.
I can just smell the aroma of her Shea butter and coconut fragranced skin as it glows due to her internal flame shinning within.
Cocoa Brown is the color of her melanated Bronze complexion.
Man, her smile drives me wild.
That luminous smile, her glorious smile, is as gorgeous as the clouds when she shows her pearly whites.
It brightens my day like a lamp in the darkness of the night.
And her mind Is a secret treasure That only her King Can discover and uncover the bountiful mountains he'll climb.
She's Artistic and Musically Inclined
And at the drop of a dime shell bust out in A poetic rhyme
And her words, Gosh her blissfully profoundly spoken words, will send chills up your spine
She's My own little personal ray of sunshine
Radiating truth and her words are so kind
She's simply divine
She's a peacemaker staying serene
From the inside out she is a beautiful Human being
She's good for your mental hygiene
Kinda like how your body needs protein.
Royalty is embedded in DNA gene
And her crown is made of lustrous flowing locks shining like oil sheen.
She is Royalty, She's My sister from another Mister, She is an Unshaken, Strong, melanized Beautiful Queen.

1
Shh…the rain cooed, calming the flood that rages
Still a concern…or was
Now placed upon the wetted soil
Transfigured, blessed in holy oils scented with cinnamon.
#2
I grasp at the compass that Donne reassured,
Tragic to find it etched in notes
Of the Song of Swans:
It may commune beneath a firmament of birds
Yet, it seems divided in this steely sky—the color of wrathful swords—
I sniff: it smells of cinnamon.
#3
I am drawn by the scented bliss, anointed in general
That is, with the rest,
But somehow, cologned, it’s too sweet, too new
Now a criminal to laws of ancient Hebrew.
To the iron clouds, the necks will bend,
To turn from he who smells of
Cinnamon
That is, with the rest.
#4
Yet, they do not smell
Nor peel back its bark lest it poison the oil
As rain poisons soil,
And ignore, as they do, when rain is to come,
The oil is fragranced evil with cinnamon.
#5
And though I complain, clack to the mud
It, too, smells of cinnamon,
And so we’re the same.
#6
“****” is my cry. “**** them to their hell,”
Burn the concrete buildings, tear away social offal
That, with some entreaty, seems to plague us all! Why so much Injustice?
Who are you? A God? What makes one lump of clay
A clod, the other a home? Upon the heads of refused beings
How do you stand so tall? You can’t lest your empire fails
While the seesaw of suffering hoist up the side of wails
And smoke the vital oxygen,
Scowls, the first impression
Worried not about advancing goals but living day to day,
The things that move metabolisms, world-wide, subject to pay,
Wasting our lives not in 9-to-5s but looking
And failing to find
And toting excess and praising their holders
While blaming the others born from behind
Partitions drawn in world wars started for oil
For money, for wealth, both so glutted and glutting pride a nation wide
While its cells are tinged with cancer,
Both sides of false dichotomy claiming they have the answer, to answer the question
Of recidivism, the poor and they are to live or get along, dangling the carrot so high
It goes above their dreams, and it’s so blurry that it’s hard to tell
What exactly one pursues,
Or race, religion,
Of a woman’s place in the is to see how absurd such a question should be,
Here is a question that seems appropriate: why are differences discouraged,
Who says what is better but the powers that be
Lenses shaped for us to see only those things specifically made
To make the made untouchable,
And they do it, and will not stop, we’re left with no hope
But from where pleasure is wrought: drugs and sedatives that
Blunt the mind that worries, sober, replacing them until they’re over
But without any solution; a bandage to a bandage
Since a sober mind that cognizes problems can’t possibly solve them in the same state
Of mind.
A lust for love with no genuine conception,
*******, deflowering with cold, stony hearts
Fostered in a day and age where manipulation is more inescapable means
And less insidious art,
So broken by our broken dreams and forced to walk without contention
Compromising on who we are
No struggle to help make us strong
A simple shrug to carry on,
While the most powerful blood, the fire in our veins is given, given, given
To those we think we love,
While we sit dreaming and falling in love with love
Always coddling the scars, where the blood and sinew were streaming
Until they are closed and pink, taut and empty like a drum
Still yearning to beat the same rhythm again,
Needing to learn before synchrony may happen
And two drums may beat to the other’s tune,
Feeling some pulse that holds us feet from decay
All the warmth and butterflies
Come in a zephyr smelling of fetid, carrion meat
That makes true affection
Feel like maggots in the skin
And we leave to new horizons, akin in their process:
Where they end, where they begin.
And yet we’re so weak in every regard, being the forge of our own fortress’ petard
Sade-masochists that run, run, run away
Feeling as though we’re cast to sea, waiting for the problem to deal with itself
A shining light house on a miserable horn
Hides by our back, the shore receding out, and even in the darkness
The vastness of the sea, there’s still the light cast ‘cross the sky
With the same, though fleeting, periodicity.
And I can do nothing, least, nothing of worth
Being as I am, a whiny little white boy with middle class struggles,
Well-fed, well-cared for, and some domestic unrest
But I am minor, mediocre at best,
And have never had the muscles, the mettle, put truly to the test.
So I can only complain beneath the anthill of my worries
And all my attempts to make any change are thwarted by my failings, my comfort
My life,
Doing drugs, self-medicating because it’s the best I can come up with
Spiraling beyond uncontrollable until it is no longer
Me whose spinning down to destruction,
That was something of the past
Now, I truly have nothing to grasp
And I kick and I scream and I try and I try and I try
But look in dismay at any hope I may have for people to change, yet their conduct belies
A sense or desire to be anointed enspiced
Since the general oil has seemed to suffice, and that’s not enough, but I just want some change
Some honesty, but I can’t find it, I know not what I feel
All this angst piling up, like a chapter in the life of Holden Caulfield:
He’s my ******* idol since I pressed with all this
Stupidity with no venue but complaints
And this is doing nothing, this ******* poetry, neither solving nor affording comfort
Back to me. It is art and no one cares
It has no voice, save the face-value point
And I want meaning, and so I try to make it knowing full well
The intention is demeaning, but not in my writing
Its filthy fingers touching on everything that I’d like to achieve
Legitimately, but it’s all conditioned
It’s breakdown is imminent  
If only I knew how accept
Oils scented with cinnamon.
I wish I was different, or acted upon it, instead of just ******* in the lines
Of a sonnet,
Or that others may smell of their own fragranced oils
Then trifles, then problems may seem something
Of little toil
But, but, but, where am I to go, where do I begin?
I’ve gone in circles, where I stopped I’ll start again
And I’ll never escape because…
#7
Shh…the rain cooed, calming the flood that rages
Still a concern…or was.
In due time the sun will do as it does:
Show us what is, is soon to be what was.
The nature of me, with little consistency, is grasping for a dawn
I see it coming up
Now that I’ve smelled the breeze
Of cinnamon.

I wish my love is your first breath
   of crisp, fresh air;
the first glimmer of sunlight,
   lining the horizons of dawn,
      as the lights of the Ferris wheel burn out;
your lips stained with nostalgia,
   kissed with the cherry tint of candy floss;
the smell of clean fabric against your skin--
   I wish I am--
      fragranced with the scent of popcorn--
after the carnival.

Give me a spring morning, far from winter’s troubles.
On an earth axis-turned toward the life-giving sun.

Announce it with tulips and trumpets of yellow daffodils.

Watch as young, colorful, impressionist, bluebell,
dogwood, snowdrop, and primrose blossoms preen,
in the candid radiance of the abaxial springtime sun.

Enjoy new life dancing, playfully on tactile wafts of warm air.

Inhale that air, freshly fragranced by flowers in luscious bloom.

Catch the bright chirp of new life and hear the humble
buzz of bees hard at their work, spreading the pollen of life.  

Then lengthen these hopeful, verdant days, like a blessing.

It was only a matter of time
Before his gorgeous scent
Swept through the room
Soaking into my airways
Filling up my lungs
Making me weak
It was the smell of love
Taking over my bloodstream

You sink into the fresh cotton ocean
fragranced by the oriental softener
I want you to reach into your inner
most abyss, while I pick my lotion.

We are alone my love, tonight
I owe you with my hands, give up the fight
Trust me, while I weave a warm thread of
tenderness on you, with me, you tread.

My fingers cascade and snake along your spine
I dedicate this moment to you. My message
is carved into you during this slow massage
To me, you are truly defenseless, thus divine

Imperceptibly, I skim your skin,
your breath, I appease
my angel, dream with ease
fallen asleep at my shin.

April 9, 2018
To Laurentin

***** summer(deeply1st)on edge
season, bonny, svelte and croons
with wide cheek rouge splashed
damson thick eve: muscled up
thick little back splayed fitness
invites sin(2ndnever)body the
white heather, comely fragranced,
dew weeping lilies are hushed
coolly at petals crush, the stem
carries 'pon winsome morn
and
                the faintly murdered, caving rush

My soul married yours long before it told the heart,
That was your secret gestures, it had been concealing
And shy alphabet letters formed our non-linear talks
On which ancient symbols were awakening with the news,
That my rapt countenance longed to behold only you.
And in Morse code, my riotous pulse was pinging,
In tiptoeing tiny steps, toward your smile-fragranced planes;
With small sips of blind and drunken-wheeling wonder,
On Adirondacks of time, I finally met your gaze.
And together found, we were writing the same vows;
Our fingers following a bright-feathered knowing,
And scented blooms of flowers knew your older names;
And avalanching comets swept clean the turgid dawns.
Then the seeds of forever were pocketed in your breath,
Wreathed by stars, and saved for hidden yearning.

Fantastic fantasy flounders floundering in the fleece.
Fleeing fervent frustration faces, phasing in for free.
Final frolic frothy, frim and folly forth.
Felix feline fragranced friends and fluffy Faradays.

when I was young
the sun always shone
in the summer

the sky was a paint-by-numbers colour
blue thick and solid
always there

the grass was the green
of a dragon’s back
long and populated with insects

birds sung
from morning to night
the air was fragranced with roses

days lasted for ever
sleeping with sand between my toes
dried salt on my skin

we collected winkles for supper
running back up the hill
shells clanking in the bucket

shelling peas on the back step
popping them open
with our thumbs

I know in my heart
it rained sometimes
but it never mattered then

two souls enjoined by God become one flesh,
no more are they a husband and a wife,
one body, all its capillaries meshed,
one heart, two lungs, one breath, one beating life,

oh, we are interwoven, every thread,
like lovers' fingers interlocked in time,
as slowly flesh cleaves unto flesh in bed,
we are but one alone, not yours, not mine,

though when from me you tear yourself away,
our tapestry becomes unraveled, cringe!
how is it you are whole still, as you say,
while I remain a curled and tattered fringe?

our love once fragranced every single breath,
now torn, it seems alone I bleed to death

(C)2010, Christos Rigakos

by keen edged light do slice and fray the knotted chord of sanity
shed miraculous logic
for 2 bold fantasy, thy fancy of bulging rainbows,  a serrated pillar
of luminous children
midnight is a laughing thing, a great greeting lassitude, as carefully
collapses silken hair
for who's art i slaughter apprehensively motion, becoming prone
a receptive son             of the calming burst of gleaming fur
i stoke repetitiously the cambered vertebrae of fire
and by fingered velocity i stroke about the brash sliver of hair
  bashing aggressively from thy stupor of unclad flesh(a bastion
slight fragranced as aphrodite, the hollow of thy lip brimming
incandescent droplet

     a treat
                    i thee
                                oral
)...!

Secrets pattern my skin,
Purple, blue and black.
Starting with cotton candy blooming,
Ending with music locked in sunset.
Each of these secrets are printed with lips,
Scattered over my body like dying paint splatters;
Starting in my head,
Curling across my goose bumps and
Pooling into my toes.
Sometimes I shed my patterns,
Making room to gather more.
The war paint doesn’t stop at the face,
It runs down like fragranced snow,
Soaking my collar through.
My delicate little secrets
Never wash away.

up against moon chimney
a city newly fragranced

       SprinG

like quickness sputtering
with young lean night
sinuous with boysandgirls
laughing
                  with each other
at how nice the sun was
by the lake and little crests
of smiles imp their cheeks
(and my cheeks
                            at how
lovely they are and against
springnight young with
them seems even warmer)

A dark line snakes along the shoreline
Vanishing into a towering temple
Home to the finest Michelin cuisine
The ravenous crowd awaits, raven-clad, fangs out.

Chef Yukinosuke’s obnoxiously fragranced guests
Survived his expertly orchestrated dinner with death
They devoured his fugu main course, without remorse
******* with a familiar demon, gatekeeper to hell

Muffled screams can be heard behind the rice paper curtain
A clamor of voices arises, one can hardly maintain
The merciless knives wielders, red lips kissing bone
Eternally insatiable of sins they can’t atone

For. Yukinosuke adjusts the nori bond
Of this new victim, his room will be fond
One poised drop of noir caviar in her navel
Her scaled-tail undulates, tale-tell

Signs of her struggles before slaughter.
Queen of the seven oceans served with a side
Of whipped up seaweed cream from the tide
Her breast perspiring under a life-like lotus flower.



Before her, watering mouths stare in disbelief
***** men eye her perfectly tamed skin
A woman sadistically touches her finger to her shin
Yukinosuke’s knife glistens, still free from grief.

Marred mermaid munched at midnight
Lusterless tuffs of salt-streaked hair
Vanished into thin air.
A trampled on silky red ribbon in lieu of a gag
Remains. Her turquoise scales to be made into a bag.

April 8, 2018

And forth came a glimpse
Of a withered face,
In the broken mirror,
That stands behind the curtain lace
Grey, messy hair bun,
Wrinkle filled sunken eyes
A heavy set of, glass rests
On the nose, pointing skies
The fresh mint tea brew
Excits, the twitched lips
Oh, dear I miss thee -
Thy soul that rips
Guide these trembling hands
To thank in a prayer
The lousy back won't help
For my walker, has lost a pair
Dragging one leg by other
As I sit by the fireplace
Sipping the fragranced tea
Rocking my chair in a pace
Thousands of memories
Rail down my alzheimers head
So many years gone
Now, it's just me and my empty bed
Tears fill and spill by its own will
I got to pack up, for I to, have to leave
Leaving all memories behind
In a slient place to grieve
A small room, I am spared to
At the golden age gardenia
I am almost gone from myself
Just few threads, hanging near...



©sim

Wild Rosehip grew by roadside in the dusty stony soil,
The thorny shrub, by life's dull prose tough struggle hardened,
Being unaware that indistinguished are its heart and soul
From ones of rose, which lives in beauty of well cared garden.

But Gardener instilled in lonely bush hope's stalk - to cure its past loneliness and worry,
And blossomed it in Spring, to the surprise of self, with shine of tender fragranced glory ...
That morning wrote the bard his best love song, the song, with feelings passion fired,
- To fame the beauty of the one, to whom his heart belongs, by nature's miracle inspired.

ive spent my life indebted to people
like my presence costs $2.50 an hour
and the global minimum wage isn't high enough
to sit down and listen to me mumble about how sad it is that people at grocery stores artificially dye flowers to make them bluer than your eyes as if the world is a losing competition against your hands around my neck
i have not spent all my life afraid
its worse than nostalgia
and not as present as deja vu
but i used to dive off of cliffs
and fall in ignorance
but ive known since i was young
everything costs something
$2.50 an hour
a lifetime
a century
whichever comes first
i was told to be afraid
because no one wants to stick around a raincloud with no umbrella
and every word i say is fragranced with an apology
i lost the person i used to be
there was no funeral or mourning
i can't even bring myself to thank the people who dont mind getting their clothes soaked

Soft as blue night-time,
fragranced allure
beckons in
me a need for
a You-time
with scents of pure
passion used
for good mood-time
I dash to my
You-time
under full moon.
Haze of a dream-time,
fathomless draw
will drowse
me to love-time
just as before.
Surreally floating
with no time
for more
than my You-time
I choose
only that time
with you evermore.

Men and even some Women meet in
over weight and over fragranced,
obnoxious groups.

All wearing the same colors like mutant
cheerleaders or
under achieving private school kids.

The food they eat is greasy and their conversation is
nothing but repeating what their
television screen had already told them .

Men argue over numbers and Women try to still
look cute while dressing in mens
athletic gear looking like fools
with their hair done.

The more Beer they drink the more
screaming they do at two
dimensional people
on a huge television screen
who can't hear them.

And they call this entertainment .
I call it insanity, the worst kind of sickness.
A sickness that no one's aware enough or awake enough,
to ever know they have.

We are all here for a reason.
That reason is unknown.

The flowers are my god.
They are there, no one can explain them.
No one...

Flowers are my belief.
They get crushed, yet bounce back up.
They are calm, colorful, fragranced.

What is your God, your Belief?

Nourished by love
for the unseen within,
when seen with a heart,
Shimmers, sans end.

Swells the bud
a flame before bloom,
sans thorn, sans pain
sans sojourner's wound.

The wilting, the dying,
the falling to earth,
the paradox wrapped
in a gift of re-birth.

In death so many
nod in decay
who’s hues loved light
until light loved gray.

Deep hearted thinker
Let loose the reigns
To careen through
redolent gardens again.

Moments pause
on a fragranced path
you’ll hear a subtle
message plash…

twas a tear
of Mercury’s reflection,
spake, “whence you came,
is where you go,
take heed; all roads,
but One direction.”

Blessed is a heart once broken but finds a way back home
Pricked fingers against thorned faces once here, now gone

Faces of roses fragranced in deceit yet showing colours of love
With roots scarcely below the surface, ready to let go of their grounds

Grounds a heart once wandered, believing they were home
But tripped over their unsettled roots and fell onto unforgiving thorns

Pricked fingers bled on the roses with much fright and despair
Alas, the thorned faces had no love to spare

Blinded is a heart for believing love can be given by thorns
But blessed is a heart once broken and found its way back home

We are all here for a reason.

That reason is unknown.



The flowers are my god.

They are there, no one can explain them. 

No one...

Flowers are my belief.


They get crushed, yet bounce back up.

They are calm, colorful, fragranced.



What is your God, your Belief?

There once came a tale that didn’t want to be told.
It shuddered in the light of the voices decrepit and old,
That tried to conjure it at the peripheries of its boundaries.
But it fought back lingering in its formation in the foundries.  
It would not be cast so easily like metal,
It would not be set so willingly in stone,
It would float on the tip of the tongue a fragranced petal,
It would bounce on the edge of the mind an ineffable tone.
Never drifting too close to anyone’s ear,
It remained in the distance away from the sages and scribes,
Always aware of its greatest fear,
To be misinterpreted by the way a human describes.
For who in all of creation has the ability to tell a story such as this?
With all the glory and irreverence so subtly intertwined,
The colour so luminous, and texture beating with bliss,
With no earthly writer could this yarn be aligned.
The muses who birthed this defiant prose did weep,
When they saw their child miss its chance for eternity again and again,
They beseeched their progeny to take the leap,
But over and over it would say no and cause them such pain.
And in the absence of this story the world fell in disarray,
Chaos ran wild and fear grew rife,
Without the stories guidance, the part it was supposed to play,
Soon it came to the end of its life.
For the humans had lost their ability to imagine such a story,
And it was lost in obscurity, unconceived glory.
It was then it saw the errors of its foolish way,
It tried to enter their thoughts but could never stay.
It was now far too late,
It had created its fate.
And everything turned grim, in a darksome pit
When it realised no one would remember it.
And the moral of the story is this,
Take this token a gentle kiss.
Play your part and play it bold,
Let your story be one that’s told.