"lemongrass" poems
I am at the curly wolfe
Looking at the spruce trees
Behind them lies an army
of
Stout Little Soldiers
Drinking Lemongrass Tea
With Raspberry Tarts
They yell and squeal and raise their hats
Armed with tiny toothpicks
For to them I am a great blue giant
Peering through the Spruce
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
The sun was dawning on her shoulders
but her spine, worn
did not feel the burn
Her tears dripped into the
sink
into the sponge
and the soap (lemongrass)
burned bruised hands
with the sting of lost hope
But Maria was a wish
amid a crowd of stars
and those blissful days of
yore
beyond the shore
Were not as far
And after thinking for a while
she nodded with a smile
and the sun faded away
but she felt warm inside
her house.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 8:11 AM UTC
Knowing you, I am like a girl
who willfully touches hemlock to her tongue.
For among the boney noose of pearls
strung up my spine,
you, with hands that can hold
both knives and violin bows
leak a piece of air into the streams of my back
And I let you—I
let it fever its way around stringy tethers,
up to the oven of blood in my head
while you lick your lips (the moon pours out)
and I do not watch this
because now I cannot even trample
across floors of lemongrass
or brace the line of my jaw for a tender fist.
The earth simply throws a plump tomato at my chest
smirks simmering in its oceans
but all I can do is fall there
lay near
lose years
expire here—
(the sodden match)
(the hot scoop of iced cream)
while the froth of my heart grows cold and colder.
So I can’t even smash your head (a skull I love)
into the wooden wall until it is as
soft as a boiled pomegranate.
For my own flesh is a puddle of sputters on the kitchen table
ready for you to eat (dine, my darling, dine!)
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 1:29 AM UTC
There is something undeniable about this new aesthetic:
Barefoot and barely presentable
as I slow-dance in the kitchen at 3am
Nobody but me, my shadow and a gentle grey kitten who patiently watches me pour another cup of coffee.
I stir in cinnamon,
a taste that's heedy and all too sweet against the roof of my mouth.
So strong it makes me want to gag,
and yet I sing under my breath:
old tunes I have no business remembering
and lullabies brought to me on the wind
[singing] all you have is fire
-and the place you have to reach.
My mother wanted a girl she could put together like a jigsaw.
A girl who would sit still and patiently endure
the effort it took to construct
the perfect plat, perfect updo
perfect winged eyeliner, perfect blush
perfect poise, perfect dress,
Perfect daughter.
Instead she had me
a muddled and confused thing
with a tangled mess of curls and eyes that couldn't quite look away.
Something with ***** fingers that knew the give and take of every leaf and blade of grass
something that couldn't sit still on creaking church pews
because for all the beauty they pursued, she'd seen the unmatched grace of rolling thunder
and the indisputable life of the ocean.
While other girls watched the boy chase the girl to a perfect kiss
she worshiped the women who took up their weapons and refused to keep their peace. - A child raised on a steady diet of Victorian poetry, Greek myth and poison. Stitched together with images of Artemis, Scottish women and a heathenish name.
My mother would lead me in prayer each night before bed, hoping against all hope to change what was in me. But my father made me wonder if I could be a knight one day, taught me to sing their vows of honour and justice during those ungodly hours when sleep was far.
The hours when his blood called to us both in its ancient tongue. The hours where his stories became my Bible. The hours when the smell of lemongrass and rain filled the house.
The hours when I would be barefoot and dancing in the kitchen
Barely presentable yet undeniably free.
Jun 18, 2020
Jun 18, 2020 at 7:01 AM UTC
Chamomile, soft and mild and
Soothing on my tongue,
Pleasing like a sweet spring breeze
And gentle as a hum.
Wild orange, citrus sweet;
I'm drinking up the sun.
**** and dancing on my lips;
Remaining once it's gone
Lotus blossom green- serene,
Tranquility and calm.
Revitalizing with each sip
And healing like a balm
Chai is cozy comfort cupped
Between my chilly hands.
Cinnamon, spice within its scent
Is anything but bland
"Zen" is short for lemongrass
With fleeting hints of mint.
Tastes that conjure memories
Of early summer wind.
I sipped my lonely way through five
Each one a different strain
Their flavors mingled with me as
I watched the falling rain.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 12:06 AM UTC
love, in essence, is blind,
and knows more than it can convey.
the simple sound of your cough
amongst a crowd of weekend shoppers,
red onion in hand for your next soup.
the scent of lemongrass, patchouli,
home away from home.
love, in essence, is blind,
and can see beyond itself.
it touches the ether and knows
your kind soul, your hurt heart,
the deepness of your hugs,
the tickle in your lungs,
the curl of curses on your lips,
and the warmth in your bright blue eyes.
Oct 9, 2023
Oct 9, 2023 at 7:34 PM UTC
Her wild tangled hair,
wearing a halo of evening sunlight
like a majestic crown,
goes haywire,
when a sudden guest of wind,
in the manner of a ***** lover
play with it,
in every which way
one can imagine.
Waves of scent,
of freshly cut lemongrass,
emanating from her auburn tresses,
light wild fire
in his thoughts,
as they go down the hill,
through the narrow path
lined with trees full of roosting birds,
to the clearing in the forest
where stands
the lone hunters' lodge
where they'd spend the night.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 8:25 PM UTC
patience, patience
jaw tight stomach purr
like lawnmower cat
like industrial brewing
like wheat paste motorcycle
like bellowing brook
adapt, adapt
bite tongue with sugar
stick to cold arches
stick to dewy lemongrass
stick to knife scissor sharp
stick to hooves and acrylic
forward, forward
ink rolled down track
onto chocolate silver boats
onto plain air flight
onto lightning scared bees
onto several unsure sets
relinquish, relinquish
dreaming fixed empty space
pushing black blanket bike
pushing solid redwood glass
pushing bowls ceramic smoke
pushing fields blue red and gray
it is hard sometimes to determine
how to proceed.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC
he wasn’t so much a peddler
(as many had quietly assumed)
more of a rural shuffler
or social inchworm
than a mover and a shaker
but boy
could he dish out those jabs
and ad lib on a whim
and draw sweet melodies
from that broken 6 string
all night long
carving out reflections
oh, those deep intuitive divinations!
steadily preaching
on the breathtaking joys
and fruits
of the vibrant land
*grow your own
seeds to be sown
clean and green
a nourishing machine!*
silver linings (straight from truth room)
clearly seen
from those uncompromised
garden views
casting his baited lines
from softly pebbled shores
(his nanna, and poppa
were there, years before)
giving grace…
and basking deeply
in the bounty of the fenua
his love of life was insatiable
moving from town to town
to nourish his soul
digging way beyond the deep
for that shrouded purpose
that soulful existence
that many spend a lifetime
looking to find
three boats settle
in the quiet harbor
a net shed basking in the sand
peaceful and serene
(with a hint of emerald green)
Sunset red
with crawfish (and lemongrass)
to keep us
bountifully fed
Nov 7, 2021
Nov 7, 2021 at 4:29 PM UTC
She's my mountain rose
& I'm her blue spruce.
I'd love to spread
her patchouli
all over
my ylang ylang,
then kiss her cypress,
give her a bit of my goldenrod
& lay in the lemongrass
holding hands
to view
the star anise
wasting thyme.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 8:28 AM UTC
Am I allowed to look at her like that?
Could it be wrong
When she's just so nice to look at?
And she smells like lemongrass and sleep
She tastes like apple juice and peach
Oh, you would find her in a Polaroid picture
And she...
Means everything to me
Oh, oh
I'd never tell
No, I'd never say a word
And oh, it aches
But it feels oddly good to hurt
And she smells like lemongrass and sleep
She tastes like apple juice and peach
Oh, you would find her in a Polaroid picture
And she...
Means everything to me
Oh-oh (ooh, ooh), ooh-oh
Oh-oh (ooh, ooh), ooh-oh
And I'll be okay
Admiring from afar
'Cause even when she's next to me
We could not be more far apart
And she tastes like birthday cake and story time and fall
But to her
I taste of nothing at all
And she smells like lemongrass and sleep
She tastes like apple juice and peach
Oh, you would find her in a Polaroid picture
And she...
Means everything to me
Yes, she means everything to me
She means everything to me
Aug 18, 2020
Aug 18, 2020 at 4:14 AM UTC
The smell of lemongrass
Passes in through the open window
As I scan about the room
Wicker baskets and containers
Overflow with odds and ends
Trinkets and relics alike
On the shelf above
There is a picture frame
With nothing but a stock photo
The room gives off the appearance
Of being lived in yet,
No one has lived here in a long time
They merely pass on through
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 3:21 AM UTC
Happily she flounces
and bounces
on the ground in
her lemongrass-hued
dress of whatnots
Way back when
The worries of the world
Were nonexistent
She ruled the forests
The toadstool wonders
She never thinks
of sadness or misery as
she performs her silhouetted
pirouette
for the birds
And as she flies
Above the trees she thinks
to herself
It will be like this
forever
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
*
Melodious tides serenade along a foam dipped coast line,
we drift as a single composed symphony,
seduced by a pounding surf, its sensuous rhythm pulsates
flooding our hearts, aching to collide
in the tempo of a lone torrent’s embrace
Scorching August passions seize the moonlit sand,
palm tree shadows dance atop sultry weathered dunes
of lemongrass and saw palmetto,
on saltwater breezes moaning our names, mellifluously
from a distant cantata's horizon
Warm dark *** skin intoxicates, I stagger,
lost in hypnotic topaz eyes, reflective pleadings
of deeper desires sought, fingertips probe sun softened locks,
nightshade tresses, mingling with a rippled surf
as stardust illumines moist swollen lips, parted
Harmonic waves wash atop entwined silhouettes
nearing a crescendo, a pinnacle of pleasure,
where secrets are revealed in half swallowed sighs
on this coastal haven when voices sing in
throaty whispers of impassioned ecstasy
Now as heated breaths hover beneath the moon’s glowing stare
we too build and recede, feeding our amorous desires
as the fading night relinquishes its hold and dawn cracks the sky
Our tide becomes one, our union remains unbroken,
our love, eternally bound by the melody of the sea*
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 7:03 PM UTC
What is the secret of being the best poet?
Did he tightly wring every reader's heart
by chewing every word of an epic sonnet
or did he sting their dead minds like a hornet?
Where is the premise of a great poem?
Should it be smell like lemongrass
planted in a coarse sandy loam?
or must it be supple and soft as a foam?
Has anyone ever been born with a golden hand?
Or is it just an accidental discovery of a man?
What is the mystery of being the best writer
holding his pen with a stupendous power?
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
The first rays of sun falling over
the pots kept on the windowsill
I can hear the flowers stretching
out after a nice, cosy sleepy fill.
"Good morning little ones", I wish
while watering them for the day,
I can sense them glee, "You too,
Mr. Nice Guy", I imagine them say.
Getting ready for a bath, I could feel
cold droplets of water splashing
over my body. My new soap
of lemongrass, smells refreshing.
The toaster tings with two pieces out,
And a bowl of milk with fruit loops.
Getting dressed for work, tying the tie,
Slipping the leather belt through the hoops.
A fresh pair of socks near my shoes,
so shiny, I could see my reflection,
I think I forgot to comb my hair, but
I am perfect with this imperfection.
Tap my car remote and it unlocks,
I sit in it comfortably, rev it up a little
Start driving on the road, straight on
but the distance seems abysmal.
It suddenly starts to darken in front,
The chills hitting me suddenly,
I wake up from my dream, still
in dark, feeling cold and in agony.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 10:23 PM UTC
*Eucalyptus & honey,
my throat's been quite funny -
aroused in coughing hysterics
all day.
Green tea with lemongrass,
helps tedious hours pass
as I sniffle and sneeze
away.*
(C) 17/9/15
Courtney L
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 2:41 AM UTC
down the Dearne on a digestive,
up the Thames on a Bourbon,
down the Sheaf on a Garibaldi,
up the Don on a Flapjack.
down the Tyne on a Brandy Snap,
up the Wear on a Hobnob,
down the Severn on a Ginger Nut,
up the Lune on a Custard Creme.
down the Styx on a sunflower seed bun,
up the Lethe on a lemongrass stick,
down the Rhine on a Raisin Slice,
up the Seine on a Belgian Pancake.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 5:46 AM UTC
temere -
they speak lightly,
their dulcet voices competing against the
melodious harmonies of soothing ballads –
parallel speeches,
repeated utterances of
love.
paliona –
people say repetition brings
mastery, perfection;
if these hackneyed statements were
germane to helpless endearment,
I would’ve taken the plummet;
a timid step off the edge of the concrete building
towards the gravel beneath.
nemesism –
yet too much of heaven is a sin,
smothered by the scent of lemongrass
dappled with the caresses of
ebony tresses;
your silhouette fades to nullity;
and I fall against the prickly surface
of gravel with the memories of
the raxeira drawn along the parquet floor;
your hand lying in mine.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
Its been two months
and I can't remember your face
Even in my dreams,
you come to me only as a feeling,
intangible, just out of reach
But I'm not reaching
I'm content to let it slip by
pass away, slowly,
the light has already faded
for the day;
for my lifetime
Dawns taste differently now,
brighter, and sweeter,
with hints of roses, or magnolias,
of lemongrass, and thai basil;
of hope
of all the things I loved and longed for,
yet couldn’t make out
in the dimness of the early day
( in the darkness of your shadow)
Morning sunlight peeks through
my wavering eyelids
and I accept its request,
satisfied
As easily as the seasons change,
your memory lost its colors
gradually, unnoticed by my own eye;
with open arms
I've embraced the new stillness
your absence affords
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
light fades to darkness
creeps in and over shadows
is it just me?
does the world seem to be growing
ever so darker?
ever so colder?
The Almighty Beacon
lights up the darkness
the ways of the world slow you down
picture: sunshine on your face
the warm touch of millions of sunny fingertips
caress me
caress you
picture: fields of open air
the aroma of lavender and lemongrass
calming
serenity amiss distress
your troubles are overwhelming
your thoughts are never quieted
the world has you crippled in anxiety
We are not the world we live in
so many fail to realize
I have submitted by submission
my supplication
To serve but One
To love none short of All
I'm amidst an explosion
as is all of Being
we are exploding
exponentially
neverending
remarkable
beautiful
life
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
When you've waited not long enough
And it almost seems like weeks.
It smells as fresh as lemongrass
But dried it feels.
You know it's not love
But nonetheless, it's deep.
It's a mystery to seek.
When you want to live it through,
But it leaves you.
It's not easy, loving you.
So you choose to go.
And want me to leave you.
Because its easy to let go
And not easy, loving you.
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 1:57 PM UTC
yesterday, she
woke to the waving of
the grass
—bitter, golden,
lovable—
and she swept
the ridges and crests with
sunsets and understanding
like a feeling
of waving, waving
away.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 4:26 PM UTC
You wrapped me up
In love so fierce
That all I could see
Was you.
Nothing but
you, you, you.
When you released your tentacles
And let me leave,
I blinked bleariness from my eyes,
And looked for you, but you were gone.
I looked for the warmth of a new cover up,
Someone who could wrap me just as tight,
And let me see only them,
And forget about you.
But it was never tight enough,
All I ever inhaled was cold, stale fumes,
And never the sweet cologne and hints of you own special lemongrass scent.
I became toxic.
Too many poisons digested, breathed in,
And now,
No one wants to even attempt to wrap me.
I miss you more than ever.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 10:52 PM UTC
that you would let me be your harbor.
grass blades gnaw at my backside,
they don’t mean to bite, they’re just fervent in their suckling.
finger knotted
mirror palm
it always felt more complete when it was just the three of us.
you, me, and the vast, faceless
upon him, you and i finger painted all these parallels.
places we would never see,
rabbit warren cabins we’d never trouble ourselves to clean,
big, stupid piles,
bodies lie vine tangled,
but something halcyon, no more.
“look around the warren.
take what you can carry, because this is the last you’ll see of this room.”
over time, after the border closure,
after the parades of death squads,
faces of our brothers and lovers cloaked in ivory.,
we learned to condense three people into one.
we learned to say less, our words short and curt,
save for hours after, or in between,
when we could warm our skinny wrists over an open flame,
dreaming of the heavy, 72-hour lemongrass day
when it was all just painted doors and blue lights as far as we could touch,
“look around the warren.
take what you can carry,
this is the last you’ll see of this room.
we won’t be back”
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC