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Hadrian Veska Jul 2017
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
Delilah Moon Feb 2015
I am at the curly wolfe
Looking at the spruce trees
Behind them lies an army
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
Helena Jul 2018
The sun was dawning on her shoulders
but her spine, worn
did not feel the burn

Her tears dripped into the
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
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.
Sarah Spang Aug 2014
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.
I was really bored at work today and tried to drink every kind of tea they offered. I'd say the brand, but I don't want to reveal any personal preferences ;)
Rohan P Apr 2018
yesterday, she
woke to the waving of
the grass

—bitter, golden,

and she swept
the ridges and crests with
sunsets and understanding

like a feeling
of waving, waving
on a rainy day, the smell of lemongrass is like the warmth of your memory.
Loxlei Blaire Nov 2012
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!)
K Balachandran Apr 2013
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.
Lyzi Diamond Feb 2014
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.
Jonny Angel Jul 2014
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.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
it's largely based on the introduction, drunk poetry of Bob Dylan's blonde on blonde, or Dave Bowie's heathen albums that can be treated as fully-loaded novels with missing charting song, you can champ the narratives akin to nearing ancient symphonies making Nietzsche more of a German Chopin than an idea formation, excusing himself with too maxims; yep, Bob Dylan's blonde on blonde given Nick Hornby's care for the music in what's a fluke of care for piquant fidelity, country and blues, bought at a supermarket; or avoid both and head straight for Ticlah's si hecho palante.

for some strange reason i woke up early,
usually i miss the morning staying up
till 5 or 6 a.m., like a vampire scared of sunrise,
winter is my most productive period,
summer my least productive,
spring and autumn are seasons when
magic happens, just today the oak tree was
brushing away its flowery bloom
before the fat yoke of chestnuts would fall
a few months later, the spring bloom
of pink or white was already tailored for
the excess greenery of summer, over a period
of two days the flowers withered and
the green leaves appeared.
she once complimented on my cooking skills
and my taste of music, notably *tool
i first met her when we got together in the
student flats and two girls were *******-up
frying pancakes... the dough stuck to the
frying-pan... so i said 'you need to put some
oil into the mixture!' hey presto a Michelin star
on my attire rather than Victoria's crux
of a soldier... that's how it goes with philosophy
nothing pompous i promise you,
Plato misquoted Socrates talking about
looking funny at men who sought brothel comforts
(the norm in Amsterdam, no guilt, no tabloid spice,
o.k. o.k. Leo Getz style, 'it's like going to the gym,
she was South American, plump, she had a little nergo
boy fetch beers for her clients, she kept the window
open so passersbys could hear her moan after laughing
at my addressing her genitalia with may i taste the fleshy
floral patterns?
ah ****, didn't work, you get to write
about *** and it just ends up a string of cliché
like philosophy and the maxim - prostitutes and the
Gemini lips, try kissing both at the same time);
i'd be funny-looking at the other route of philosophers,
mainly through the army, i'm all lazy eye cross-eyed with
those *******... (i do "pending" interludes since
with drunk finger playing the keyboard i tend to
delete by accident about 1 poem for each 10, heartbreaking
experience) - lost the drift, i must be in Birmingham:
no river... no flow. standard model always included
rivers for people congregating, in the countryside
a church would be enough, but for urbanity a river...
this phenomenon of canal cities like Venice is
truly staggering, call it the Maldives of the west,
the Maldives of Europe, 100 years from now
it will probably be more than a Glastonbury fashion
statement of donning farmer John's galoshes.
i've lost the plot... fun-*******-tastic!
oh yeah, the pancakes... well after falling in love
with organic experiments i learnt to love cuisine,
well d'uh cooking, my flatmate just cooked risotto
after risotto until i started pulling rice grains from my nose...
esters and perfumes, the smelly ****, like pickled cabbage,
the grand joke of british asians...
yeah sauerkraut and chicken escalopes are the grand
joke, although try shoving asian spices under your
armpits and you'll be walking the catwalk of Versace for
sure (hey man, stick has two ends!)...
it's an escalope and that's hardly the profanity of
a chicken Kiev, also called a schnitzel... but not schabowy...
you know there's this great aesthetic joke concerning
polish graffiti about the orthography of ****** / phallus
in poland? yep, the variations: huj, hój, chuj, chój...
technically they all sound the same,
they're found next to the anarchists' A and swastikas
on communist apartments.
she wanted so so much, i was at the end of the third year,
and there she is, moving out of her student accommodation
to live with me in my private flat (rented)...
i mean, great... but i'm about to sit my final exams
to get a piece of paper telling others i'm qualified...
what a ******* mess: i know a 3rd of examinable material
i was studying i'll fail, physical chemistry is not my
strong point, organic i can ace, inorganic i can do well on...
but she's there, full-on intense teen... it's a juggling
act that requires a clown, rather than a man,
i'm not saying i'm perfect, but there's too much idealism
in her that requires a hefty stash of pecunia bratus
(money trees)... ah i wish, but had i wished it
i would be writing such uninhibited poems...
up-to-speed... on today's menu!
that's the culinary abhorrence of poetry, remembering
ingredients in recipes rather than rhymes,
for example Thai green curry, and the ***** curry,
the former with spoonful of green Thai sauce to replace
the use of lemongrass, and lime leaves,
actually the limes we replaced with lemons,
the Thai sauce was added, the garlic & ginger paste used,
onions, mangetout added last to add a crispness on the bite,
new potatoes avoided, half a jar of Thai green curry paste,
Thai fish sauce, not salty enough soya sauce was added
(both light and dark), coconut milk of course, caster sugar,
chicken (well, d'uh), basil... yes... basil! lemon zest
and rice, chilli powder!
the second curry involved: cumin seeds, fennel seeds,
a cinnamon stick, garam masala, chilli powder,
turmeric, chopped tomatoes, sugar, chicken stock,
chopped coriander... all in all this is a culinary attack
of poetry, it's not clearly an ancient revenge,
but when i was younger i was instructed to memorise
a poem, aged circa 7... the poem in question was
school bell, i didn't get why we had to memorise it,
it wasn't anything spectacular, i protested,
gave an oath in swear words against my classmates,
got told off... culinary principles invoke the need
to memorise recipes rather than poems,
curbing the influence of fast-food outlets...
i rather remember the ingredient lists of dishes than poems...
indeed i did make these dishes today,
but only because i switched the radio off
and inserted bought art into the device:
Tom Petty's and the Heartbreaker's greatest hits
and !!!'s (chk chk chk's) myth takes album.
Stephan Aug 2016

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
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
for the birds

And as she flies
Above the trees she thinks
to herself
It will be like this
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?
a curious writer here.
Aaditya Feb 2019
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.
courtney Sep 2015
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

(C) 17/9/15
Courtney L
Aashi Verma Mar 29
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.
Brainstem leakage following:
'Towers of Infinity'
Could you really care for me?
Or is it just something I misread?

Cosine theta angles turn
On degrees of blackest ice
Send us slipping from the roads
As destiny retracts it's choices

Bounding off some restless wrath
Dungeons counting prisoners
Radioactive as it gets
Lest we tore the page again

Delicious as her blankets read
Must consume you - taste at least
Pheromones transcend all logic
Flocking hormonal death

Roundabout of quelling night
Even as you pray for freedom
Tossed about as shackles shatter
Shiving cedar shined and dapper

Corsage grieves despite the reaper
Dare the girl to dive
She wore black - patterns & angels
"Won't drink Moonshine anymore".

Nether rig nail nexus glowing
Cotton clouds - they flow cohesive
Sheltering the rising ether
Diffusion by tubed enclosure

Hellenic hallmark happen to be
Pretty sure you are the problem
Wincing at the thought of these
No more talk of ghosts in machines

Until someone calls you back
Don't expect to be untethered
"Let's do high class drugs tonight".
Please don't tell our forbearer

Happenstance contests good cheer
Conservation so banal
Incredulously ***** slap teachers
School is out for summer, baby

Convoluting loveless bonds
Beasts like centre stage, "do you?"
Emblem sketched with elken bone
Ivory tensor breaks the line

Unkempt powder paves the walls
Of sadness, loneliness and boredom
Holly roller dealership
Sell cactus milk for teenage angst

Occam’s razor has its requisites
Daunting as our inferno
Destabilizes past conventions
Bite off more than you can know

Shatter crystal within granite
This is not enough for her
She had plans to gouge their eyes out
Settles for the rush instead

Water rises past our ankles
Creatures tracking though the snow
Lemongrass with quail and onion
So much poison in the bowl

Consuming you with my delusions
Eyes purple rounded like saucers
Dinner plates-collapse on the hard tile
Longing has devoured my insides

Hell-bent shifting see sewing saw
"Close the triangle - close the triangle".
Tapestry stitched to her naval
Sucrose stored in fat cells for winter

She reached out with broken fingers
Desperation in the air
Likened to the winds of summer
Breath of night captures her hair
xei Oct 2014
temere -
they speak lightly,
their dulcet voices competing against the
melodious harmonies of soothing ballads –
parallel speeches,
repeated utterances of

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.
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.
It's great to take common local idioms and stretch them.a bit.
Creep Jan 2015
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.
To no one really. Just thought of this so I penned it out. And also I was craving food mainly stuff wrapped in something (grape leaves :3) so this came out. Yup.

The curse of curves
By cute is what we aim for

Only exception
By paramore
cynthia Jul 2015
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
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

mira Jul 4
The shadows I carry
       smell like lemongrass.
They melt in the rain,
gray ghosts on gray mass.

I hold them close
roll in their hills and valleys,
       on summer nights they watch
and the clouds move slowly past.
Spinning silver , silken sweaters with -
my catawba brethren , foresting oakwood estates
beside red fox companions , in witness of white-tail herds ,
compelling frigid streams of yellow perch and shellcracker , lemongrass sun hued byways engulfed in dewdrop prisms reign atop pattern encrusted red clay earth
In memory of morning , of the caterwauling Alabama easterlies ,
of vagabond waterbirds that sail frost laden , bucolic scenery
Copyright October 7 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
c quirino May 2014
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”
Chelsea Strawder Feb 2015
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,

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
coyote Nov 2014
lavender and
november and
an empty

i'll take
any shape
you ask me to,
just as long
as it takes me
closer to you.
Wade Redfearn Dec 2017
Perfect, white, and uniform
the snow that fell
the morning it fell on.
That isn’t accurate. It fell overnight.
It just belonged to the morning.

Blades of grass and shrubs reached up
and hauled it snug over their flanks -
covering themselves, not being covered.
Made the most of a single inch: a bare quilt
so when you woke in the morning
the even sky, with no sun, equal gray
shrugged blamelessly -
it wasn’t me! -
and the frost settling
on shorn lawns and dying ones
was nobody’s fault,
was even imaginary,
would be gone soon.

I drove through it listening
to the sound of wheels slipping,
the exhaust freezing out of the air
to fall again in glassy flakes behind.
Everything crunched like a tumbleweed
and white is not a Texas colour
but I remember snow is water - it soon reverts,
and sluices down curbs, ***** gray.

From this and other colours I made your youth,
put wallpaper never seen into your house,
like faces in a dream, and listened.

I was a smudge of teal lipstick on the mirror.
I was the steam behind the shower curtain,
the draft in the attic. I had no colour
and you looked right through me.
I remember by description only, but still I remember.
It all runs together, these strong colours,
like a fainting plaid, out of size.

I know the hot furrow in the clavicles of women,
but not of men. I dive into the known hollow, breathe the leavings
of the unknown. If you hold me firmly, perhaps,
I will know what it is like to be held firmly.

Curry simmers on the stove.
Lemongrass creeps along the floor, snakes beneath the doorjamb.
Behind it is frost, knocking, dragging its heels: heavy with winter.
Just ask me if you plan on any funny business.

— The End —