"sachet" poems
I come face-to-face with my Shadow
hungry
devouring
depraved.
The lupine
before a full hunter moon
bristles.
Hot saliva
falls
from hurtful pointed rows
in pearls.
This
in Goodge Street Station's
Underground
where a poster
promotes
The Hunger
a page-turner
The Clown in Soho:
3 Chocolate Martinis
4 lagers
1 gram of *******
300 press-ups
7 mile run and
1 sachet of Kamagra
… the night begins …
I howl with delight
- that’s me -
cracks open
a smile
yellow eddies swirl
in thrawl
to that shadow beast o’ mine.
This monstrous
I
can never satiated be --
a beast to straight jacket under the influence of the waning and waxing moon
and on the night of the carmine moon
release
My phone rings
(Excuse me, while I take this).
‘Hello, am I speaking to Ashley?’
‘Depends on who’s asking,’
I respond
licking my lips.
‘You Ashley Chapman?’
I like this kind o’ game.
‘Like I said,
who’s asking?’
Frustrated he repeats, ‘Confirm your name.’
I yawn and tell him as savagely as I can:
'No!'
Wolves
know 'no'
to the pack.
But as in Beauty and the Beast
(the Cocteau 1946 version, of course)
beneath that thick molting hair pelt
beasts have culture
and feelings, too
(a lion's heart?)
and mostly
(occasionally not)
given
space
food
The Den
a willing mate (or two)
we’re okay
affectionate dogs.
For when all is well with my shadow
-- no problem
in peace
in chains
'til the looped moon!
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 1:38 PM UTC
...and there’s no one there to hear it,
does it make a sound?
________________________
My poetry performed—
before a crowd of johnny-jump-ups
Their faces toward me in unison—
they listen
Intense, motionless energy
Velvet applause of purple and
Yellow yelling!
Encore
of performing in the perfume
with a troop of lilacs
They will remember me
While I— await their return to May
through billowing miles
of drowsing sachet
breathing euphorias
between the lingerie of clouds
What happens after ecstasy?
Grieving in life’s presence?
Loss of mind to self-possession?
_________________
...and when my sense of smell gives out
I will hold on for a while
to the walker of hearing
trying not to stumble past
the song of thrush
beyond me in the blurring leaves
once so clearly—
crinkled, shiny, and infant green….
_____________
As a child I held on to nothing
for dear life
I could cup a storm in my hands!
Could run with the rhythm of a horse!
I could fly in my mind’s eye
if the ferns I used were only wings!
If I pretended hard enough
I could eat my own home-baked mud pies!
If only I could be—
more than a fledgling of eight
so earthbound, clumsy
_____________
But while the lilacs were out of town
thunder met the flash
and gutted summer!
I ran for dear life!
from the amazing distance of its echoes
pelted by its gentle gift
Snagged by growing things—
the clinging prattle
of their momentous tendrils....
______________
Lovers run off the path
past water lilies
along the swollen veins to the river
toward a grave and pounding heart
The Ancient Flood was jealous....
Now when the wind softens
and rain is tossed
last, and only from the leaves
may their encore be cupped in the hands
of some passer-by
Remembering—
that either because of a trifling wind
or the weight of time...
a tree fell here
clubbing the river’s bank senseless
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
I went to find your place in the woods today
but as I rounded the bench near the
fray of trees I couldn’t find the fallen log
where we sat for so long that i became the cold lichen too,
colored like an overexposed photo
pale and unmoving, drawn to and
at the mercy of the elements. I was overexposed as well,
not just because i chose to wear only a sweater in the
waning days of autumn but
because I drew out these spider silk memories for you
to see, me, as only my sheets and bathroom floor see.
Part of me expected to find you among the trees,
looking for a new mossy place to
watch the walkers and the swans from,
thinking as you smoke away thoughts of
a current past given up fast to the ether.
before the sun sets, you’ll be with those memories,
lost to the ever presence of an unrelenting time.
I suppose the cold will keep you inside for a while
until the womb of your flat can keep you no longer,
and drives you out, back into your space in nature.
and when you find it,
you’ll see your fallen perch has finally hit the ground.
I found my own perch, looking for yours
and watched the smallest of birds hop
between the edges where the water meets the damp land and
I suppose one day you’ll again sit among the faded leaves
watching as your smoke, breath and body heat make
fleeting picture clouds for you to read.
so I rest here with a sachet of tobacco, some rolling papers and
tumbling thoughts to ease the strain.
and while i sit supposing, you suffer in barbarous silence.
But the one thing I’ve learned from being force fed
everyone else''s woes and crumbling glories:
its hard to sew a wound
under seven layers of skin.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
Winter’s releasing us from its perpetually gray and gloomy grip.
Who can study in their room, on a beautiful spring afternoon?
Azaleas assail ya, with champagne petals of bubblegum fuchsias,
they blush in near neon reflection, with a mathematical, fractal perfection.
Courtyards that were once dark and uninviting, frosty scenes,
sport impromptu manicured carpets, of flawless, vibrant greens.
Dogwoods explode, abruptly overnight, with cherry blossom whites
they blush like brides on parade, they sachet, swaying flag-like bouquets.
Ordinary maples become emerald queens by unfurling avocado, hunter and chartreuse leaves,
accented with vibrant electric limes and honeydews, as if to say, ‘We too can please.’
New life stretches, almost yawning, in the seemingly reborn sun, insects hum as they cultivate,
birds flit excitedly, as if to say, ‘Why’re you inside? Come out and play - why do you even hesitate?’
I know there’s something in spring that’s irresistible, pheromonal, hormonal, surfeit and emotional.
Is it the solar zenith angle or the sun’s declination that produces these delightful inclinations?
.
.
Songs for this:
Funky Galileo by Sure sure
You get what you give by New Radicals
New World Coming by Cass Elliot
Apr 18, 2024
Apr 18, 2024 at 3:09 PM UTC
I felt a rumor softly touch the air I breathe
Mingling in my exhale
Such a sweet sachet of fleeting mystery
Lost in motives, of ivory veils
Unassuming pleas of poignant measure
Quivered in each breath
Purifying with a gravitational pleasure
Unparalleled, in its depth
Melodious testimony rang within the rising
Of my lyrical express
Sang in tune, along a harmonious horizon
A masterpiece, no less
The rumors touched me with no hearsay
I had inhaled the truth
Found within the mysteries sweet sachet
Motives, of ivory veils of youth
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 6:17 PM UTC
#ElNido
I found no water dripping from my hairtips
As I had that face-to-face look to my fave jeans.
Lost as when I did the transferring of feet,
I thought that departure was quite a break of heart.
The open window has sent me a bright invitation,
Sun's glaring but I never saw her fine reflection.
I felt the Air strolls through my skin
The taste of the floral serum enveloped by the sachet.
I had poured myself with the aquifer's liquor,
The remembrance of the search was over my psyche.
I could still feel the pain that excites my upper muscles
As I tried pushing and pulling to break the ground level.
Cuddling the old reversible jeans, he says I'm Free to Go,
I crowned my soul with an inner bliss and whispered to the Air.
My eyes were shut for a moment, but I was an alliance with them -
Of them whose not emptied yet ** revitalizes my potential**.
One boasts that the Light was completed,
The other has kept me envy his softening skills.
I never thought that there's still hope for dull flying-tips
But they simply say, "It's not the end of bad hair days."
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 1:40 AM UTC
Why do i always have to be told
Though indirectly,
but told,
so ******* sarcastically,
with those irritating grins and giggles
'' you know what? you should take part in the beauty contest "
When all i know is that
they have a good reason to
make me feel so on cloud nine for a minute
and down crashing on the ground
with a thud,when i sooner or later
will realise,
no, I've got scars, I've got marks, I've got bruises,
I've got frizzy hair,I've got a skinny bodytype
I've got ordinary clothes, I've got no good pair of heals,like you do.
I dont have the talents to put
makeup on..
duh.
You know it all too well.
i know it,too.
Still,you wanto say it on my face,so that it hits me harder
the time I see myself in the mirror wearing clothes
i feel will make me look alright,just alright.
and then i enter the classroom
seeing all of you guys to be staring at me,
saying,''pooh,you look awesome''
I know why,i know it.
And then as more chicks start to enter,
All I'd want would be to tear my outfit from the middle
throw it away,
rub off that kohl I tried to roughly apply
to kinda accentuate my tiny Asian eyes.
Because all of you guys
look so **** perfect.
so gorgeous.
so rich.
so what we say CLASSY
so IT.
When'll I be enough?
am i always gonna wear those nerdy glasses,
slick back my bangs from my forehead
that hides my scars ..
wear the oversized, boring sweaters,
and pants and shoes,and with books by my side .
Am i never going to be like y'all?
that others want to be like.
who look upto them.
when someone'll be like, ''i wanna be like her"
Can i never be that 'her' ?
can i never get a compliment?
Can i never hold the crown?
or that sachet ?
or the flowers?
or the teddies?
or the hamper?
NO?
i must rather abide with my
unlucky,
hopeless,
shady,
dusky, good-for-nothing
weird life?
Can i never make something out of it,
with my appearance appreciated?
even from people who matter,
from people who live with me
under the same roof?
can ,for once and for all,
i be made feel
enough............
?
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
She wore a silk yellow chiffon Cancan flare dress
With yellow ribbons in her hair
From the look of her brittle fingernails
And the way she held the hem of her mother’s skirt
I knew that she was a nervous one; with her watery eyes
Her mother kept up that old familiar fake smile
The nervous one keep repeating
“There a big fly under my dress;
I often wonder why the visitors
Never attends our churches
But would come calling on the neighbors in the afternoon
A stack of leaflets in one hand and a black sachet case in the other
I always thought of them as a demanding group of worshipers
My grandparents seem discontent
With their teaching; so to ease the charade
It came off like Bible bashing
My nana would offer them a glass of lemonade
While my grandfather debate the lectures
They call themselves Jehovah Witness
"Hogwash said Grandpa"
A Jehovah's Witness must walk the walk,
not just talk the talk.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
Snared heart kept, imprisoned could be potential dying day,
Lips regaled in ischaemia, blue blood,flows.....cold,
Face scarlet,temperatures up, pyrexia rules, as she tries too cool,
Mouthing strange babble,
She's talking in tongues,
Beaded mask sparkling, droplets trickle,
Tachycardic, heart beats, trying not to escape this life desperately, Heart trying not to explode!
the forties....roaring!
She breathes, so fast... the forties....roaring!
It's tragic,like everything's trying to meet demand with supply........!
Inadequately,
Currently on remand, waiting for her sentence to be be passed,
Docs and nurses they rally, running with obs,
All taking their roles, while doing their jobs,
Mews activated, doc visits he's, anxious,
Iv antibiotics he orders,
In plastic sachet, hanging up high, hereby, lies the awaited decision, if she'll have the will to live, or will she die...
Hope not!
It's not in an instant, but, recovery apparent, as breathing slows below twelve,
Heart beat, it settles,
Her kidneys show function,
Her temperature chills slowly, 36.5, she's still alive,
Thank God,
She got off the train at sepsis junction!
Copyright Livvi Kent (RGN) 11 /04/2013
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC
~
i found a broken drawer
by the side of the road;
discarded in haste
was it left by you?
did the drawer have a brother?
or perhaps a sister too?
what did it fit inside,
what was it meant to hold?
a little boy’s toys
or a girl’s shiny shoes,
a box full of crayons
or an artists tools,
a father’s colorful ties
or a mother’s sachet,
did it hold the silken threads
of her childhood ballet?
did it hold a sister’s hopes
or a brother’s pride,
a woman's negligee
for a very special night?
did it even hold a key,
and was it to her lover’s heart;
or maybe like the broken drawer
those too were shattered dreams?
maybe we are all
just discarded drawers!
the trinkets we hold,
things we need to let go;
the words we can’t forget,
the whispers that grow old.
we paint by numbers,
we color with words,
a canvas full of thoughts,
tumbles out from our heads;
words we’d like to recall,
lines we’d like to forget,
the words never said,
ones we later regret;
perhaps at the time
to us did not occur,
one day we’d hope to be forgiven
for offending with our words!
don’t let me feel useless
without the rest of the frame;
don’t cast me aside
or leave me in the rain.
take this broken old drawer
some nails and some glue,
help me find the answers;
i know i fit when i’m with you.
slide me in a work bench,
i can hold the tools;
slip me in a bureau,
i will not feel used.
place me in a vanity,
or kitchen cabinet,
in a chest so full of hope,
dreams not come true... just yet.
just don’t leave me here
where I've been thrown,
where i’ll grow cold and die.
i’m not designed to be alone,
left here on the side;
what good can come within my frame
if i’m not made a part,
for a drawer without a purpose
is a man without a heart.
i found a broken drawer
by the side of the road;
discarded in haste
was it left by you?
~
*postscript.
truly...
i found a broken drawer
by the side of the road;
discarded in haste
was it left by you?
my wife breathes life into old wood furniture. with each bureau, hope chest or buffet brought into her workshop i wonder what it held... because everything and everyone has a story to tell. what would these old pieces tell us if they could speak? and what do they tell us about ourselves?*
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 8:40 PM UTC
Imagine that here in front of me I have a sachet of salt, a spoon and a bowl of water, I then mix the salt into the water and let it dissolve; after some time I try and remove a spoonful of water from the bowl, a spoonful of water that does not taste salty. I cannot [using the tools that he gave himself at the start]. That is the nature of Brahman, the teacher explained, existing both in and as everything.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
I hear you cry, it makes me look down and to the right. I sigh.
I miss the sparkle in your eye, your laugh and how it makes me high.
I have to make your tears go, but how? I know, a rainbow, now.
I'll tear the blue out of the sky to paint your ceiling with its dye.
I'll **** the orange from the sun. I'll throw it on your walls ***
I'll strip the green from a willow to splash all over your pillow.
I'll squeeze the poppies for their red and spray it on your bed.
I'll steal the violet from an orchid and spill it on your floor kid.
I'll scrape the yellow off a bee and sprinkle stars for you to see.
I'll ****** the silver from the moon 'n' pour it all over your room.
I've gotta rush and do this soon, I cannot stand to see your gloom.
So, I grab my bag and start to fill it, I run a mile in a minute.
I reach your home and yeah, your there, still sitting in that chair.
Before you can tell me to stay, I shout, “I'll make your day.”
I dip my hand into my sachet, only to see it come out grey.
And looking at my hand I understand, why it's all so bland.
My withdrawal clouded my reason, colours fade as in season.
It wasn't me who took the hue, it wasn't you. It was simply due.
Leaves will come back to the trees, the sun shall shine again with ease,
when the gale turns to breeze and when the waves leave the seas.
While trying to tie all iris in a bow. I forgot what you very well know.
Clouds come and colours go, washed by rain and covered by snow.
Sometimes we just feel low, we rest, we weep, but then we glow.
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 7:13 PM UTC
@--\\------
fragile
as a mist
over
the
placid
lake
of
slumber
mirror
of
moonlit
ponds
mauve
mysterious
midnight
murmuring
scented
secrets
to
the
sachet
skies
Sirius
spinning
subterfuge
luminous
loquacious
liquid
light
pours
roses of glass
out of organic
orafic
edifices
equinoxes
edifying
garish
gardens
burnt in
effigy
glass rose
thorns
broken
off
shattering
into
brilliantly
scintillating
sand
SoulSurvivor
(C) 1/29/2016
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 10:39 AM UTC
must have a crispy crust
sweet insides
must be apples
from Eden
Pumpkin pie
will be served
with homemade whipped
cream
I bake cakes and origami do
crochet and add sachet
to chicken
ignore when you choke upon
or disagree
beat off if
necessary
go on caring
about all I see,
the least leaf
or blade of grass
or one molecule
living
I put out
heartfelt thanks to
all Nature
puts upon my
meager table.
I bow
down.
I never
give up.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
~~
Sweet the scent of love
a’ flow from you to me
On crisp morning breezes
and warm afternoon winds
~~
Swirling aromas waft
in a bouquet of the heart
Filling me with the essence
of this beauty I find in only you
~~
Slowly inhaled affections,
soft of midnight wanderings,
neath starlit auras infused
on perfumed moonbeams
~~
Consuming my every breath,
this delicate sachet of you
floating from afar, lingering
to never let me go
~~
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC
She is a rose...
of course,
It is but natural
she was born
with those thorns...
but thorned or otherwise
she rises in splendour
beauteous in every colour...
her petals, oh so fragrant
When dried, they are more redolent
especially when kept in a sachet...
She brightens our days with
the many colors and tones of her poetry.
some may be sad outbursts,
reactions that could have been stirred
by daily circumstances...
others are gentle reflections,
it doesn't matter...
they are roses arranged in a vase,
or scattered
among a garden of flowers...
she showers us with a variety
of her chosen thoughts for the day...
it is always a mystery,
she keeps us in suspense!
Thorns are an accepted part of her body
even when she tries to spare her fingers,
she gets pricked, just the same,
she deals with the wound
as she would always do,
just as tests of life, like thorns,
are part and parcel of our daily lives...
she knows very well those roads to be taken
and those to be avoided...
On a stressful or gloomy day
when our spirits are clouded,
almost sagging towards the ground,
when under the weather
when restless or anxious, or
when needing solace,
the rose-y colors of her poetry
do their best to comfort us
some days they are red
other times, pinkish
other days they are yellow
or immaculately white,
peach-y, at times, seeming delicious
one may be tempted to have a bite...
Don't know how or why...but we
must not question these miracles of God...
time comes for a rose to be dormant...
during these winter moments in her life
she lives, she exists in silence...but
underneath, her mind is so alive....
From deep inside, she writes,
she hears, she reads,
gathering pictures, words,
anything important in sight
wherever, whatever the source
her cloth-bound journal is always ready
to record her new-found discovery
all pages would soon be consumed...
a new one to take its place, is presumed.
Petals may fall or pinched one by one,
her stem, may be left to stand on the ground
but strength is like second skin to this rose
she has risen above past thorny episodes
surely, she will rise above future ones,
if they come...
these days, she is in some kind
of a wonderful state...
i pray she will always be that way.
she is a sturdy wall to lean on,
she is indomitable...
her stem may sway,
she may bend, but
she rarely snaps
she is a rose...and
will always be
a rose...
Her name is KELLY ROSE...
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A, Bayan
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 6:15 AM UTC
~~<♡>~~
*beauty in life's aspects
all within your hand
the rising sun
the setting moon
the gently shifting sand
the touch of horse's muzzle
eyes so brown and mild
the smell of brewing coffee
the laughter of a child
the feel of grandpa's callused hands
the grace of a ballet
the awesome dome of bluest sky
watching children play
life can be* SO *ugly
so many twists and turns
so caustic to the soul
as lye or acid, burns
take a moment of your day
to lie back and just reflect
on the goodness Grace has given you
in gratitude collect
all the blessings you have now
and those on mem'ry's shelves
place them fast over your ear
as though they were conch shells
listen to the ocean
listen to the waves
it is a song, it won't be long
before we're in our graves
yes... take those fond
remembrances
hold them to your face
they are to sway
like a sachet
lavender and lace*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 3/10/2017
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 11:01 PM UTC
Rip, rip, rip!
Red glazed paper
Cling, cling, cling!
The falling sugar
Whirr, whirr, whirr!
Grinding of the beans
Stir, stir, stir!
Till the surface gleams
Drip, drip, drip!
Dripping black ocean
Sip, sip, sip!
The bitter decoction
Sweetheart
Ain't it sweet enough
To believe there's someone we're made for
But it's never enough sugar
in that sachet
Why does love last as long as it's paid for?
Feb 14, 2020
Feb 14, 2020 at 1:41 PM UTC
In the end, you never came home.
I sat by the door with my arms turning
to dust aching for you to return.
You left the kettle on
and I drowned myself in it.
Chamomile, Earl Grey, Lemon, English
who cares what the sachet says
as long as it's hot and burning
my tongue because every little pain
is a pain I've to endure.
It takes my mind off you.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 2:42 PM UTC
~~~<@>~~~
rose petals
wither
the
birdsong
sonnets
of
the
English
gardens
~~~<@>~~~
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
Do You weep in the rain as I weep and groan my groans in the thunder?
Do You sigh a mournful sigh in the chilling breeze, aching as my heart aches?
Do I sense Your wrath in the lightening that rips the sky asunder,
As You feel the pain that pains so deeply in this my soul that breaks?
Like a sachet of myrrh between Your ******* my home is in Your heart;
I am still; I am quiet, without murmur as in You I have nothing to fear.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
Coffees were made to be instant
Like three-in-one in a sachet
But, baby, you are everything I need and want
With you I dream to hold my love's bouquet
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
Once again, we have returned.
Lunch in a side-street café,
window seat,
watching students
huddled together in duffel-coats
venture into this Christmas commotion.
George Michael’s voice emanates
from somewhere as a girl with golden
hoops in her ears
and fingernails the colour of lava
takes our order.
A stranger’s drained cup,
a torn open sachet of sauce
oozes wound-like,
then removed.
Two minutes pass.
A toasted baguette in a basket,
Coke pasting a fur on my teeth.
I could have had Earl Grey
or Breakfast tea or Camomile
but no.
I stick to what I know.
The blonde waitress
greets more people.
I do not know who she is.
And I have finished,
ready to be bruised
by the wind’s invisible fists.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
It has no business here!
That salty ochre, pallet-chorus,
Clear plastic red dotted sachet!
Your lust for condiments freaks me out,
Buddha-girl, eat your meal.
Time won't run out so quickly
Nor your intelligence nor your zeal.
Pursed lips slurp a bowl of noodles,
I think of your warm hands
And banks of rivers, and cigarette quivers
Ashes falling to black sand.
Happy as a clam in an oyster's shell
Life is one fell swoop.
Give me the keys, you doe-eyed girl,
For time is wonton soup.
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 5:39 PM UTC