"sandalwood" poems
Tell me about your lavender eyes and your vanilla hair.
Tell me about you sandalwood smile and coal black stare.
How does the rain wash away your hatred for other so easily?
But the soft breeze in the summer fuels your fire?
Tell me about your wandering mind and your benevolent heart.
Tell me about your gypsy spirit and harnessed passion.
How does the ocean calm sadness so easily?
But the autumn smell makes you cry in the night?
Can you tell me why it's so easy to fall for you but so hard to make you stay?
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 8:28 PM UTC
Outside,
the snow is serenely falling
its illuminated resplendence
vying with that of the full moon
suspended in the silent night sky.
Inside,
it is just as silent
the only sounds the occasional spark and crackle
of the logs in the fireplace.
And two hearts harmoniously beating.
Wisps of smoke coyly rise from the sandalwood incense
gracefully whirling in the air like dervishes,
the room redolent with the fragrance of serenity
As I repose on the couch,
your head upon my lap,
you hold one hand against your rhythmically beating heart;
while with the other
I absently play with your hair.
There are no thoughts,
only heart thinking.
There is no speech,
only heart speaking.
There are no words,
only heart spilling.
~
You slowly rise from my lap and look through my eyes
and into my soul.
When I come to speak,
you gently place a loving finger against my lips,
whispering
“shhh“
Time revolves all around us,
yet within us — stillness;
the silence palpable.
Our souls become one
with the other,
with the tranquility of the night,
with the gently falling snow.
Our breathing falls in sync to a rhythm known only to the cosmos.
At the end of our inhales,
there you are.
there I am.
And then you speak..
three words..
Three words that contain the universe within them:
“This is bliss“
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
I am the eclectic witch
There are no gods to tell me how to live
But the wind howls my fate
Where the rain falls I will dance
Because I prefer sandalwood to perfume
I am the eclectic witch I have no coven
Only the flora and fauna
And the tip of a blade
Where grass grows I will prance
Because I prefer metaphysics to religion
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 1:52 AM UTC
Born to the night in the cry of wolves,
We are….inked lovers spilling secrets, under velvet skies,
Shrouding the night in silver spools;
The season of silver silence, hangs upon shades of silken soul,
This midnight offering, a white entice;
My hair shimmers brightly, a wet fleece of gold, of shadow and starlight,
And shimmering hues, emerald and sapphire breathe kindred embers into the bellows of passion;
Challenging the flame that burns; entwined....
Whispered intrigue lays in the crescent of moon,
In an eminent blaze of sweetest surrender
Unborn whispers lie entwined with heated petals, silken;
We shiver....I shiver,
I am warm arms embraced;
Your lips hard yet soft against my side,
The feel of flesh warmed to a rising flame...
The long moon steps into midnight;
My ******* full of your hands as candles, pour hard against the ebon fall,
Luscious to the hush of soft smiles
Steeled eloquence flows in ribbon ripples;
Winter sown, blood quilled, in midnights cast;
Cloaked in beautiful, shadow's bed a bouquet of lacy foxglove...
Eyes closed and deep of breath,
Moistness seeps the sugared flower, and longing surges deep;
Shudder me wicked, drench me quick;
The wildness swirls inside as he moves like a shadow over my heart
His tongue eager to swim the gushing urge;
Touching, slick-slide, the soothe of smooth fingers slip past softness;
Lips cross, moist to moan me quick, sliding to quivers.
Thigh's whispering and heart pounding ,
Soft, the wind blows, tapping walls, fingers dancing
And shadow sways to moonlight...
Velvet-soft, the sweet of tongue's mesh,
Fire burning,
The tips of breast's aroused by the touch of a slow hand lover;
Your tongue gently rolls, wet and burning hot,
Hungrily, it feeds diving deep, and sandalwood spires upon the malachite air,
And burning murmurs the silent song, pleasures
Your flame to touch me hot, softly hard,
Against the darting quivering rose, stokes sweet, the flame of conjure....
I weep as you strain to slay this huntress of indolent submission;
Descending into darkness, I squirm upon your touch, lifting my altar upon your hunger,
Eyes lost to ecstasy, the flow quickens from abyssal moans;
Overflowing with need, release bound by gold shattered stars
Suckling whispered thoughts;
With us, for us, in us, in dreams, in thoughts, in love
....And in....time my love..................
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 5:31 PM UTC
Thrown away carrom men
Hunting for the queen
Grey white turqoise marbles
a spinning top on the table
an electric motor a gadget then
bifid nibbed fountain pen
Cassette wheels and a chip of steel
ran faster than ritzy hotwheels
tazos and trumps spurred triumphant jumps
peacock clay in redolent sandalwood
I collected and carry in the treasure of childhood
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
With an azure drinking cup studded with lapis, wait for her
In the evening at the spring, among perfumed roses, wait for her
With the patience of a horse trained for mountains, wait for her
With the distinctive, aesthetic taste of a prince, wait for her
With seven pillows stuffed with light clouds, wait for her
With strands of womanly incense wafting, wait for her
With the manly scent of sandalwood on horseback, wait for her
Wait for her and do not rush.
If she arrives late, wait for her.
If she arrives early, wait for her.
Do not frighten the birds in her braided hair.
Wait for her to sit in a garden at the peak of its flowering.
Wait for her so that she may breathe this air, so strange to her heart.
Wait for her to lift her garment from her calf, cloud by cloud.
And wait for her.
Take her to the balcony to watch the moon drowning in milk.
Wait for her and offer her water before wine.
Do not glance at the twin partridges sleeping on her chest.
Wait and gently touch her hand as she sets a cup on marble.
As if you are carrying the dew for her, wait.
Speak to her as a flute would to a frightened violin string,
as if you knew what tomorrow would bring.
Wait, and polish the night for her ring by ring.
Wait for her until Night speaks to you thus:
There is no one alive but the two of you.
So take her gently to the death you so desire,
and wait.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
I want a poet
between my thighs,
wicked tongue wrapped
in verse,
drive and provoke,
serenade
this dancing knot
of prose hidden here,
a hungry mound
saturated beneath a soft
cocoon of sweltering flesh,
suspended in expectation
inspired to spill forth
steaming compositions
sticky on his epic lips,
grinning.
And he’ll rise then
breathing a new stanza
onto my fragrant neck
“Sandalwood,” he’ll whisper
as he fills me with a new
refrain
emphatically taunts
my music
to sing down onto
his tightened fuse,
running rivulets spiraling
along his determined thighs,
crying out into his
listening ear,
a requiem so potent it
drips off the page
and becomes some reality.
Dec 28, 2009
Dec 28, 2009 at 7:57 PM UTC
*She is essence of la bella donna,
herein lies the paradigm mid
***** pearls & nightshade's poison,
exhales echoes of dark crescent moons &
sandalwood's perfumed incense
burning sentience of duality's seasonings
'tween contradiction 'neath her own breath,
born to gypsy souls 'twixt a solar eclipse
she worried naught what society thought,
her poetry was incalculably beyond measure
neither less than or more than incurable,
rendered nuances as a badge of significant honor
gaily whirling beyond distinctive contrasts,
'neath importance of individuality's calling
amidst her own unique indulgent nature,
dazzling sensuality's intrinsic whimsy*
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
but finality in all series of things
seriousness, or was it
lackadaisical thought offspring
blooms walls of drooping eye?
air-tight space, its coalition
with inward breaking penumbra
of shadow,
i write a poem so as not a poem
but an antagonism of sorts
to the end that does not smell of sandalwood but
the fixation of the word
as scent plays with memory,
a fragrance of spring in all that is winter
casting
a shadow upon me, you,
if not all.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
it was like waking up to all white fume
or a long washline — masturbatory, feeling something stiff like a hand gliding
over a monsoon of emotions, the affect
jazz and the crunch of fragrance
forever like sandalwood;
on my way to Dumandan, i conjure an inward miasma of thrill, unfurled yesterday, today, or was it before when our eyes were fixated on the passing of things in myriad ways without any relevance to what has died, say wilted,
like a flower going away in closing seasons,
children in hurtling speeds at twilight,
gates welcoming a resounding sound of
rusting hinges,
slow rise of night, its vertical climb,
shadows collapsing on the Hibiscus
and the Poinsettia from the Cordillera,
dreary men taking out ******* throwing
them into metalloid beasts, verdigris
painted, grisly caravan of steel and
worthless scraps —
past neighborhoods thinking about
the simmer of onion and the hustle of
the feral over rooftops, clinking wine bottles undulating full to empty — both
unaware of acumen and only dizzying
ourselves mirroring each other eye
to eye and bridging this unclose-enough
a gap in between,
because you need it,
and i want it, or simply in reverse,
a sidewinding thought through dunes
of afterthought.
because you have to walk my side
of the Earth and I have to meet you
somewhere halfway where we can both
lounge at each other's steady presence
while the flyblown dry air ravishes
the piquant morning, all-telling what
this distance meant from its
peak up to the very last
traceable steps where i found you
and you found me, trilling in the neighborhood like how void
stills itself into all the mood of the Earth:
all moony and
fretting in the disquiet.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 2:38 PM UTC
Last year with a heavy heart...
We moved in to this new house..
Human emotions are so confusing..
I am in a country far away from my own,
I don't connect here though,
Still when it comes to moving
First old temporary house seems more mine than the other new one..
Strange..
When we came here,
The house was full of trees..
But strange things happened...
Each day my daughter came back with tiny red beads with no holes in it...
They were perfect red beads
Triangle in shape, slight elevated in the middle..
Each time she came with one my curiosity grew many fold...
After few months. . We got the surprise of our life..
The trees with tiny leaves had brown dried beans..
The fully dried beans had split open and stuck out from it
Were the same red 'beads'.... Today was found they were 'RED BEANS'..
After searching the web.. And settle the curiosity
After breaking each dried beans from the tree..
After storing each red bean..
I found out they are beans of RED SANDALWOOD..
The strange fact too..
In The old times..
Due to uniqueness and perfection of shape
Jewellers used it to measure gold!!
In my quest I found
The seeds are valuable even today..!!
But for me and my daughter it was a treasure of our new house
Memories building for a 'new temporary house'
To make it a loving old house,
The new house which was call "forest"
For it's various insects, bees, & multipedes.. Both brown and albino,
We finally forgot our old house..
We started loving our new house..
Almost after a year we moved in..
We love it equally if not more..
Sparkle In Wisdom'
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 5:20 PM UTC
I can do this too, when I'm not au naturel
And trying to beat all of your @sses with how well
I make the gentleman, how excellently I am the imp,
How swell I step, dancing, aside, how terribly I simp -
Sometimes catch me getting back and giving the barman a chance -
I heeded their call; I washed off the day, and stepped into a trance
Of raspberry, rose and sandalwood; I donned my blue and pink silk,
And my black boots, tights and blazer - She's got style; And in that ilk
I also painted my face, with blues, whites, pinks, blacks, golds
And it was late when I stepped out, and in the very holds
Of the night that a lady like I should find terrifying, but I walked
The quarter of an hour to the Silk Mill; talked
For something more like four or five,
Face sharp, hair artfully mad, alive
In every sense, aided by the fine cocktails in this student setting
I could enchant all in four languages, and I did, forgetting
For a bit that another one of my faces I believe to be repugnant:
Because it begs for attention; and my current, commanded it
Because I came expecting nothing, and asking nothing,
And I quite frankly didn't give a d@mn about much of anything,
But if I wasn't very much a part of the room, and very much she
Whom every boy needed to speak to, and would ideally keep the company
Of, if that wasn't I
Then every lie's a truth, and every truth, a lie.
Mar 20, 2022
Mar 20, 2022 at 11:15 AM UTC
She's an enchanting little Israelite,
A world of hidden dimples!--Dusky-eyed,
A starry-glancing daughter of the Bride,
With hair escaped from some Arabian Night,
Her lip is red, her cheek is golden-white,
Her nose a scimitar; and, set aside
The bamboo hat she ***** with so much pride,
Her dress a dream of daintiness and delight.
And when she passes with the dreadful boys
And romping girls, the cockneys loud and crude,
My thought, to the Minories tied yet moved to range
The Land o' the Sun, commingles with the noise
Of magian drums and scents of sandalwood
A touch Sidonian--modern--taking--strange!
2.2k
Today is my sister's wedding
A full day for me to shine
In my peacock green dress
The new full skirt and blouse
With golden laces and pearls
Full of laughter and music
House being crowded with
Close relatives and guests
With three of my cousins
Was standing near a table with
A plate of rock candies and raisins
Bowl of sandalwood paste
Me, spraying the fragrant rose
Water on guests with a smile
Welcoming them to the function
Stage was ready with a para,
A traditional measuring instrument
Filled with paddy, unmilled rice
Decorated with a bouquet of
Beautiful coconut flowers
Lighted bell metal traditional
Lamp,the large nilavilakku
With its glowing light was a
Pleasant vision to the eyes
Can see you all in the front row
Can hear the laughter of girls
With the groom's arrival
Girls,with thaalam,antique
plates with a lamp, lemons
And garland of flowers
Welcoming the groom to the stage
Bride, in her maroon saree with
Golden laces,tied hair decorated
With a ball of jasmine flowers
And shining gold ornaments
Covered from head to toe
Being accompanied by two aunties
Making her sit near the groom
Gorgeous romantic pair were they
With a heart full smile of their day
Exchanged their garlands and
Were given a flower bouquet
Groom tying a knot,a chain with
Thali, which was a pendant
Showering flowers on the
Bride and groom as a blessing
One by one to the stage giving
Wishes and gifts to the couple
Wonderful snaps with my
Sister and new brother-law
Time for lunch on a plantain leaf
Steamed rice, varieties of curries,
Fried items and the special
Sweet payasam with pappadam
Bride and groom sharing their
Lunch with love and laughter
Leaving to her in-laws house
With her eyes filled and red
One by one leaving the hall
Except the dear and near ones
With an after war expression
Tired were they,my parents
But happy to get their daughter
Married to the right guy
It's time to rest and wait for
The albums and videos with anxiety
In seeing my new dress and smile !
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
i've spent months like moths between poems
sacrificing gods for endless answers
but always losing the light or dying on a too-hot bulb
unable to comprehend infinity as a spiritual fly-swatter
but i'm learning how to surrender to silence
diminish into campfires
wash in busted fire hydrants
meditate inside the figurative dumpster of solitude
perhaps forever this time
but my attraction to her is raw
like the sun today at 3pm
burning away my anxiety and shadows
not fueled by selfish lust or vanity
but by surprising vacuum
she is frightening in her beauty
her mind filled with incandescent chaos
her voice a softly spoken flute singing in a canyon
her hair a delightfully suffocating gas
her belly, her smell, everything from
her nostrils to her feet marching
through my tingling limbs
she was from the far end of the universe
a dream of the temporal lobe
polluted by the spike-and-wave blips of computer music
halos around mouths chewing ecstasy pills
her mystic lips curled and eyes lightly fluttering
over a simmering can of cherry coke
my hands an unsteady inch away from
her heated and heaving rib-cage
my lips whispering breaths onto her ivory throat
after a 4am romp donald duck explains
childhood memories from a buzzing television box
the smell of man-musk and sandalwood
spilled whisky and patchouli thicken the air of the room
as weak dawn light streams in through philodendron stalks and fingered leaves arrested by the wind
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 12:09 PM UTC
A frangipani candle,
Sandalwood perfume
The shimmer of the shadows,
That light up the room
A hard covered book
With a silver inscription,
Warm jasmine tea,
Baklava from the kitchen
Soft red lipstick
And a robe of white silk
Dark lash rimmed eyes,
A bath of rose petals, floating in milk
Sweet drifting music
From the balmy outside,
The chirping of cicadas
And the whisper of the tide
Gentle gold jewellery
Which can carry you away
A feather pillow on the wooden floor,
The start
To the end
Of the day
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
Revel in space, yet not darkled, still
the **** and span of things that breeds
airlessness; The trees are evenly cut,
and their overgrowth seems like a forethought.
Where I am from, we eat fish with
our bare hands and our furniture, from bodies
of sandalwood, crushed with the scent of
peregrines. The morning makes you conscious
of space, and altogether the height of trees
syncopates to a nauseating stillness. In the awning
hours, leaves punctuate the ground – the cicada
with its machinistic song prowls, spills like
water from a broken vase toppled by me
years younger, raw, agile, deftly windless,
wounded in love, lovingly wounded,
perhaps if there is a word for it, then let me
have my way, easily fraught with its meaning:
a casualty. Sometimes the timeworn folks
would light cigarettes underneath the canopy
of a mango tree to banish ants and send them back
to their queens – roosters in their wrinkled stations
croon in stasis, a song for the somnolent. I become
what the seasons evict. Constancy. Rearing weight
and gravity from nocturne. Tears are communal.
They make us aware of the weight of the Earth.
Somewhere, a funebre stilts through the silence,
and the jangle of little pieces spells out fortuity,
men in huddles mending pain by the sleight of hand,
a toss of a card, spinning in its imaginary axis: fate,
feigned and fine-tuned to belief that it is controllable,
a variable, or a tabulation marred by frailty. From where
I am from, people stride through the streets naked,
soldering baskets filled with fruits gossamer from the
harvest, children suckling their mothers, the music of sweeping
metastasizes throughout the afternoon, and the same clouds
contort themselves to afford wry proposition: it is a day tender
with wonder, its allure overwrought, its sheen unremarkable.
The funebre leaves with a necessary abundance of absence.
All the leaves depart from their mothering boughs,
collapsing on the dreary back of the loam like penitence.
Like how once when you were young, you tinkered with
the fresh scab of your wound and felt the pain confine
itself there, a part of you, that has now healed, but is still
available for the world to break once again.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
i'm tracing your sensitivity,
your secrecy with my finger...
the folds of a flower that continually
spread new color.
your duplicitous flare.
the buzzing ghosts of bees,
dying mid-nectar.
your super intelligent eyes
following my mind till i lose it...
only to grow another one.
deeper than your walls, deeper
than your layers...to the chamber
of your repose.
burning sandalwood and a flood
of moon, settling down on
your bed.
as with the weight of strong hands
slowly working their way toward you.
you're choking back the tears, you feel
fully exposed.
you can't and won't gather yourself
for the oncoming ecstasy.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 12:35 PM UTC
Sara L Russell
(inspired by painting "She's Leaving Home" by Mike Kaluta)
High-rolling dunes; the landscape where I fly
With wingbeats of an eagle overhead
While to the east, the ocean's waves roll high
My astral body's light years from my bed.
My magic carpet's hung with golden bells
Festooned with lanterns, steeped in sandalwood;
Carries me higher; as the ocean swells
The sighing of the sea is understood.
A warm wind runs its whispers through my hair
The azure sky is darkening to grey
A stormy ozone crackles in the air
Like laughter, as the eagle soars away.
I cross dimensions, cheat the hand of fate,
As easily as opening a gate.
(To be continued...)
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 6:49 AM UTC
Introduction
I stroll through green fields and realise I am home.
I bump against soft sandalwood: a fence –
And hang my head and weep
For Ginsberg, Whitman, and all the other cats clawing for tender acceptance
Strolling through ashen fields in rainbow night
Tugging on tender trestles of old mother crop of hair south
Casting to sky thine eye as black and white lights
Of rainbow night do fizzle and pop and – Oops!
Great incomparable fusion atom generator on the fritz
Once more the Centre of Cosmos choking and clouded with splutter.
As thine eye doth dissolve and revolve and resolve and see, from vantage point on high:
O Hell! O Eternal abyss of Chiaro-night, I am surrounded!
Thy Holy field lies cut and sliced by old tree corpses – lined up in terrible order by tender hand imbued
Thou might turn and run and screech impaled or whisp inhaled by gasping trees, by dying trees, by dead trees who breathe.
And spat upon the lawn whence thou were born,
No matter the crop nor scenery.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
*It's a cloudy, sunny day.
The kind in between light
And dark, gently swaying
In grey. I'm here watching
Smoke dance with the wind,
On time with the tiny band
That plays just beyond my
Gentle understanding.*
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 3:15 PM UTC
say
where should i keep all those foot-prints
having no lineage
from whose paraffin-in-the-palms
has taken birth
so much monsoon rain-falls
why the seagulls of this earth
have not learnt
in a better way
the meaning of open windows
wearing the same costume
they can fly only
from the north-east thames
to the non-aryan autumn
in the woods of yellow moon-light
the feathers fall down
from the body of the villagers
they levitate as letter
like the leaves of coconut
before the windows of a hospital
it may happen then
in the fire of the cigarette
in-between the fingers
there is no more in waiting
any absent-mindedness
rather
after composing their letters properly
the mermaids in the deep-fridge
are waiting for their next print
by putting the fire of the dry straws
in the air the indifferent neighbour
saves the intellect of the red-sandalwood
thus if it is possible to catch there
the betrothal
in the oily pollens of the spring
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 7:54 AM UTC