"sarsaparilla" poems
There’s a place, where licorice vines have climbed,
Deep in the night, that only children can find;
Where leaves of waxed paper on trees are hung,
And what grows on the branches is sweet to the tongue.
Garlands of butterscotch, chocolate, and mint,
In their bright wrappers, sparkle, and glint;
Bubbling springs of sarsaparilla, through the valley are poured,
Washing sugar beaches with reeds of sour chord.
Swedish fish swim in soda geysers with bliss,
While fizzing pop-rocks spurt, spittle, and hiss.
Sunset clouds of cotton candy sweep past in the sky;
Trees sway in the delicious breeze that smells like apple pie.
Skies will rain down skittles, when there is a storm,
Pelting molasses window panes in a giant swarm;
Sour gummi worms are dug up, free to take,
In the grainy, nutmeg layers of the coffee cake.
Carmel creams, Mary Janes, Black Jacks, and Almond Joys,
Coconutties, Jawbreakers, Carmel Rolos and Long Boys--
All these grow, in lines straight as peppermint sticks,
Planted in brown sugar, on fields of cinnamon toothpicks;
But when the sun lets out its first ray,
The entire land just melts away
And children don’t remember where they’ve been,
That whole night asleep, but they wake with a grin;
And through the whole day, their dreams will entice,
Until they visit again, the Land of Sugar and Spice.
8/9/11
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
High on a hill our grandparent’s home stood,
Its majesty in stone cast a haunted look,
Light glimmered from a paraffin lamp,
Whilst outside it snowed on the geese,
As they ran to their shelter,
And the cows mooed on the fields above,
And the goats cried in the barn.
Mother pumped water from the well,
We ran around collecting eggs,
Granddad showed me how to milk a goat.
In the evenings we gathered in the kitchen,
The fire roared in the range,
Granddad sat in his big chair,
He burned anything just to keep warm,
We thought it very strange.
Mother worked at the big white sink,
Knitted squares hung from a line,
We made tiny plasticine dolls,
They slept in plasticine beds,
We drank Dandelion and Burdock,
Ginger pop and Sarsaparilla,
It came in enormous stone bottles,
Dad got it every week from a man at the door.
Most of the rooms were huge, bleak and bare,
A room we called the playroom,
Was carpeted with goat skins,
There were jars of melted metal,
Who knows why?
We were told it was grandma’s jewelry,
Melted to stop the Germans getting it in the war,
In the long hall there was a dressing up chest,
We loved to look inside.
The bathroom was a scary place,
There was a lion head toilet and a bath with lions feet,
At night we went upstairs with a candle for light,
We cuddled together to keep warm,
One night we saw fairies at the window.
Our aunty had a gramophone,
Records all scattered around,
We had to be careful where we trod,
She loved Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby,
We didn’t understand.
Our uncle slept on the top floor,
In a huge brass bed,
One day I took him a cup of tea,
We were not normally allowed up there,
He fixed broken cars they were all everywhere.
He played late in the barn with his girlfriend.
My grandmother slept downstairs,
She always was very ill,
Wrapped in bed in a pink bed shawl,
We got her water from the spring,
To cure her, but she died.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 3:20 PM UTC
Broncos bucked up
Rattled rangeless restless
For 24 days now
Cowboys gone awry
Drunk in their sheets.
Shooting out windows
Instead of black hats.
Divining honor in
Hoop skirts.
Belching sarsaparilla
Soaked six shooters.
Go West young man?
No.
Sorry.
Invest young man.
Get blessed young man.
Get dressed young man.
Distressed ghost towns
Remain inflections
Calico ribboned echoes
of
Freedom's hyena laugh &
Liberty's lonesome howl.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 11:53 PM UTC
Chana had a bike
and I had a scooter
she moaned a lot
and I did not
she wore clothes
her mother said
she had to wear
I wore
what was left to wear
from the day before
she loved sweets
and ice lollies
I loved licorice sticks
and sarsaparilla
she hated vegetables
and meat pies
I hated liver
and fish with eyes
she said
why don't you
go play elsewhere
and leave
my brother to me?
go ask your brother
I said
and then we'll see
he said not her but me
so Chana went off
in a huff
riding her bike
like a bat
from Hell
Chana
was my best friend's
sister not
(thank God) my girl.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
Lydia's mother
opened the door
of the flat
after I had knocked
and gave me
a stern stare
is Lydia coming out?
I asked
she looked hard
at me
where?
to the herbalist
get some sarsaparilla
I said
sarsaparilla?
she said
yes it's good for you
they say
makes blood
I said
she looked
at my scuffed shoes
and blue jeans
and the gun and holster
hanging
from the snake head
elastic belt
around my waist
I suppose she can
her mother said
LYDIA
she bellowed
windows rattled
a dog
across the Square
barked
the milkman's horse
lifted its head
from the nosebag
Lydia came to the door
and poked her head
out from under
her mother's arm
Benedict here
wants to take you
to get a sarsaparilla
Lydia looked at you
her eyes narrowing
then widening
ok
she said
can I go?
she asked
course if I say so
as long
as you are wrapped warmer
than you are now
her mother said
Lydia rushed back inside
and her mother
took a long drag
of a cigarette
her yellowing fingers
in a V shape
what's your father
do for a living?
she asked
the smoke carrying
her words to me
he's a metal worker
I said
he makes things
from metal
she stared at me
a few loose hairs
had escaped
the flowery scarf
about her head
I think
he frequents ******
she said
I see
I said
unsure
what she was saying
she inhaled
on the cigarette again
her eyes
gazing beyond me
keep Lydia out
a fair while
she said
pushing out smoke
I want to rest
my eyes a while
ok
I said
she went indoors
and I waited for Lydia
sniffing in the smoke
hanging about
the doorstep
the dog barked again
the horse ate
from the nosebag
the milkman whistled
a few notes
from some tune
I sniffed the smoke again
hoping Lydia
would be out
wrapped warm soon.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 7:17 AM UTC
There once was a man whose last name was the name of an animal
and the animal was a symbol of everything the man believed in
and it just so happened that the animal was also a symbol of
many a man's beliefs
and so it was that the man worked very hard
and became very wealthy so that in his great success
he wanted everyone to know his name
and see it on display
so he commissioned a statue by the finest sculptor in the world
to create a huge sculpture of a particular animal
that had the same name as his last name
a sculpture of crystal with many facets
for which he paid dearly
and when he put it on display in the foyer of his beautiful mansion
where everyone could see it
they loved it
and in so loving the sculpture they were loving the man
and all those that saw the sculpture were bent to covet the sculpture
and wished to be successful like the man who had commissioned it
so they came in droves to see it
and left with fantasies of their own
about creating art resembling their names
but mostly their names were too normal
like Smith or Jones or Sarsaparilla
(and although Sarsaparilla isn't normal
it hardly deserves a sculpture)
then one day an unspeakable horror
put an end to the covetous visitors
you see it was on that day everything changed
when his children were playing in the foyer
running and laughing like children do
they were happy children
happy because they had it all
and never wanted for anything
when one boy pushed the other and
the sculpture came crashing down upon the smallest boy
sitting on his trike
and crushed the boy to death
and the great man with the name of the important animal
wept
and cursed the day
that he had wished for more
and had so foolishly believed that more was the answer
because now if he could
he would give it all back
if only he could hold the boy one more time
his tiny son crushed by the commissioned crystal sculpture of the animal
resembling his name that was accidentally knocked over by those who
had everything and wanted for nothing because their father had worked
so hard in order for them to have it all
but worse than all of that
and worse than anything else
was that his great name once a symbol of freedom and strength
would forevermore be a symbol of pain and sorrow
and there's nothing worse than having everything you believe in
thrown upside down in the form of ultimate mockery
the realization that the pain will never go away
or be forgotten
a pain that is forever
a nail driven through his heart every time he signs his name
Signed _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
John R. Eagle
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
***covered with sarsaparilla and sage
you untie the laces
just as the mountains crumbled
streaks of lightning shape your face
opportunity knocks for you
upon estuaries
the mystic spoke
through me
was this the space
her ***** bouncing
and you're already ready to give up
the movers need better timing
simplicity is welcomed
our fate created by our own ignorance
in the lashing out of anger
strangers dance
making maps through the sand
poor men weep in silence
for their longing is asleep
interlocking aspects
upon the drastic sea
i collect pens
connecting signals
i am standing
jumbled in a pool of muddy sheets
what a tragedy
is this love
his mission was to listen to her
i say wait a second
how dare you judge me
who can be your enemy
in a world where all is one
release this lonely song
your world is learning how to dance
goddess, yes its painful to retain all these words
in the eye of ecstasy
you once shone like an emerald
and now i only wish the best for you***
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 7:06 PM UTC
You once told me sarsaparilla
was your favorite word.
I always thought it was a novel choice,
but I suppose I see the appeal of a word
with such delicious lightness.
And a crisp, definite end.
The word does not wander or linger,
but it simply concludes.
A final 'a'.
So many syllables for
a moderate number of letters, really.
They do not stumble over each other
but rather bubble softly,
bumping each other softly,
nonthreatening and soft.
As if just to make sure
the others are still there.
Comforted by what they find
they sink back into their place in line.
Sar-sa-pa-ril-a
The lazy sprawl of a word
that understands the importance
of understatement
and subtle complexity.
The silent letters
promising to keep our secrets safe
locked in with a whisper
only a word like this can offer.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
You walked with Janice
to Baldwin’s the Herbalist
at the corner of Elephant
and Walworth Road
she wore her blue patterned dress
and red beret
and white socks
and red sandals
and in her small purse
she had money
her gran gave her
to buy sarsaparilla
in a half pint glass
and you
in your cowboy shirt
and jeans and plimsolls
with your holster
and six shooter
in the belt
around your waist
and clutching money
your mother’d given you
for doing a few chores
Gran would never let me
go on my own
Janice said
but when I said
you were going
Gran said all right
but no sweets
they rot your teeth
I like the liquorice sticks
you can buy there
you said
they make your teeth white
or so my mum said
Janice looked at your gun
in the holster
and said
you can protect me
from outlaws with your gun
sure
you replied
she smelt of lavender
and toothpaste from tins
and she moved nearer to you
and her arm touched yours
as you walked along
here we are
she said
and opened the door of Baldwin’s
and you both went in
and went to the counter
and asked the man
for two half pints
of sarsaparilla
and when he poured them
and you each paid him
you stood by the window
with your glasses
and sipped
and looked
at the passing traffic
and people
you feeling like Wyatt Earp
in the saloon
and Janice looking out
as if she feared
outlaws would be coming
pretty soon.
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
Helen climbed
the concrete stairs
to Benny's flat
where his mother answered
and Helen said
is Benny home?
no he's out Helen
his mother said
out where?
Helen said
he went out
with his six-shooter
and cowboy hat
so he's maybe
on a bomb site
try the one
up Meadow Row
he's often there
his mother said
Helen nodded
and said thank you
and walked down the stairs
and across the Square
and down the slope
across Rockingham Street
and up along Meadow Row
she'd not brought
her doll Battered Betty
as her brother
had torn off an arm in play
and it needed mending
when she came
to the greengrocer shop
on Arch Street
she walked along
to view the bomb site
and putting a hand
over her eyebrows
to block out the morning sun
she gazed at the huge bomb site
anxiously(she didn't like
bomb sites alone)
she saw him over
by the railway bridge
firing his six-shooter
at an imaginary enemy
she called out to him
and walked across
the rough ground
of the bomb site
towards him
he stopped firing
and put his six-shooter
away in an holster
with a twirl of fingers
been looking for you
she said
your mum said
you might be here
Benny pushed back
his cowboy hat
to the back of his head
his quiff of hair
standing up
had a gunfight planned here
so had to leave early
he said
gunfight
she said
with who?
she looked around
at invisible enemies
Frank and Jessie James
he said
and their gang of course
she looked in the direction
he pointed and nodded
need any help from me?
she said
looking at Benny
through her thick lens spectacles
no I shot them both
and the gang fled
he said
did you get shot?
she asked
only in the arm
he said
pointing at his left arm
she looked at his 7 year old arm
but didn't see
a wound or blood
but pretended
looks bad
she said
maybe I should put
an handkerchief around it
ok if you like
he said
she fiddled in her skirt pocket
and brought out
a small girl's handkerchief
and tied it around his arm
and tied a knot
is that better?
she said
yes it is
he said
didn't want to bleed to death
no
she said
and they walked off
across the bomb site
let's go to Baldwin's
the herbalist shop
and get some sarsaparilla
to make more blood
he said
and she looked at his arm
and saw imaginary blood all red.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 1:57 AM UTC
i.
i'm choleric and that's nothing new
ii.
wrapped in a quilt, i toil and sully our sarsaparilla love
iii.
in the frosty morning
an ancient beast rears its head
iv.
it implodes quietly at the bottom of the mekong
v.
this isn't language; it's pornographic license
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 4:01 AM UTC
*just as i am about to die
your voice
frees me from the shame
of love
of ******* to the dream
the dreamer awaits ironic twists of fate
upon the upper decks of the plane
respect this open drain
and twirl into her arms
drown in her charms
ride the ferry to the starry grave
paddle harder
insert the coins into eye sockets
your majesty
your beauty is beyond
so please forgive her
you can do it now
her messes are her own affair
your love is ever after
every moment
growing
becoming wise means hiding nothing
the secret songs suggesting
miles of lavender grown into the sky
from weedy eyebrows
upper lips
lower lips
chins, chests and *******
covered with sarsaparilla and sage
her mage, her magi
her magic was surreal
feather and down upon her gown grown in thymeʼs rage
thymeʼs orphans
ophelia
lemon verbena
underwear made from creamsicles and cotton
cashmere beauty blossoms
hop on this jumbled vehicle
busloads of people
teachers and dreamers
fresh eyed screamers
unbelievable pairs of pretty people
invincible
envision vision fleeting and fair
her throne, her bones, and her hair
formed into triangles forever
your sweater, your dresses, and your couches made of leather
into this page i wrote and wrote and gave my blood for nothing*
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 4:55 PM UTC
We were on the bomb site
off Meadow Row
Helen was re clothing
her doll Battered Betty
I was looking for small stones
for my catapult
over the way
by the coal wharf
coal men were loading up
the trucks
and horse drawn wagons
these clothes
have just about had it
she said
buttoning up
Betty's dress
at the back
Mum said she'd look for more
at the jumble sale
but Dad's not earning
as much at present
as he was off sick
she added
sitting Betty
in an upright position
Helen was wearing
a dull grey dress
and white ankle socks
her thick lens glasses
made her eyes appear
larger than a were
I’ll ask my mother
if she can knit some
she's good at knitting
I said
maybe if I show her
she will know the size
Helen said
I picked up a handful
of small stones
and put them
in my trouser pocket
hope you're not
going to fire them at birds?
she said
no tin cans or bottles
I said
sometimes I stand tins
on top of each other
then shoot them off
one by one if I can
a boy near where I live
shoots birds
with his catapult
she said
I shot at a rat
on our balcony
the other week
I said
missed it
but it took off afterwards
she picked up Betty
and said
where we going?
let's go to the herbalist
and get some sarsaparilla
I said
and a liquorice stick too?
she asked
sure we will
I said
showing her the 1/-
my mother gave me
for doing chores
so we walked off
the bomb site
and across the New Kent Road
and down by
the railway station
towards the herbalist shop
she with her doll
and me with my catapult
sticking out
of my back pocket
and a pocketful
of small stones
she with her brown hair
in plaits
and me with my hair
plastered with Brylcreem
me thinking of seeing
a new cowboy film
she with her own
dolls house dream.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
be
it a Texan star-beam
or Route 66
broken umbrellas
or sarsaparilla
sugarcane
or Korbel champagne
nylon stockings
& neon signs
driving you insane
drive-throughs
& diners
motels
&
Hell's Angels
on motorcycles
Lousiana swamps
San Francisco lights
Mississippi River
jazz men
cowboys
& hobos
Fred Astaire moments
Oh my America
I lost you forever out of sight
wings clipped
drugged-up
losing my voice
shouting for freedom
losing my love
yet America, I still sing of you
& your sidewalks
& Wizard of Oz
hurricanes
all that I've read of
in books
since when do you
not want
Mad dreamers
reconsider
give me back
my dreams
don't let them wither
please
let me breathe
in your freedom
please
let me in
I'm a Believer
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 7:47 PM UTC
You roll in like a vaquero to the Wild West:
water galloping the earth & black clouds
rippling: the foaming flank of a stallion.
Tip your hat & get to business: charge
the air with cactus-prickle shivers, slip
your Zeus fingers from holsters and lightning-
rod them to the sky. Rumble your spurs
& order me a sarsaparilla—lid-crack
carefully; an effervescent gale will brew.
Breathe slow at first: electric hum through bone-
white grass: bows as you ghost by—
clear your throat, lasso tight my attention
with guttural echoes pressed heavy on
my chest. Then rip open
the constellations with gunshot blows,
explode wide saloon doors & take
no prisoners. Oil-lacquer streets
& ride off blazing: leave the women
but take me, saddle-swing me high
in the catatonic static of a ghost town.
You’ll vanish like you came: I know
what they say about red skies
in morning. But I’m never awake
to watch you silhouette away.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
I've run out of sober
and am left
with inebriated
Sober, what art thou
I'm wondering
with Sarsaparilla
To a tee
I fit
some feeling
And it isn't
the one
you think
It's closer
to one
you drink
with sunshine
I am
slaking
Nov 3, 2021
Nov 3, 2021 at 9:13 PM UTC
Gun sight and cordite
hot dang,
boom bang
pistols at dawn, all
echoes from before
I was born.
In the Wild West untamed
well named,
staking claims
California
meeting dames,
sarsaparilla,
only one of them
will **** ya.
Gun sight and boot hill,
Tombstone
where they ****
bad men
and
preachers.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 7:27 AM UTC
A cutting of thumbs,
thin sliced across the back,
made by Benny's
small penknife
and thumbs pressed
against each to each,
blood mixed then
he dabbed Ingrid's
bleeding thumb until
it ceased and placed
a small plaster over,
then did his own.
She looked at her
plastered thumb.
So we're blood-brother
and blood-sister now?
She said.
According to some
blood oath I read
somewhere we are,
he said.
She seemed pleased
and rubbed her thumb.
He put a plaster over
his thumb and looked at her.
What shall I say
if my dad asks about it?
She said.
Just say you cut it
while cutting an apple
or something ,
Benny said.
She looked uncertain.
He'll know I'm lying,
he always does,
he gawks at me
and says you're lying girl
and wallops me.
He wallops you anyway,
Benny said.
He walloped you
the other day for going
to church, how's that
make sense?
She looked at her thumb.
Her father did.
He smacked her head
the other day for looking
at him when he lost
his door key and said
she'd hidden it.
What now?
Benny said.
Don't know,
she said.
Could go out to
the herbalist shop
and get some
sarsaparilla that helps
make blood,
he said.
She looked at her thumb.
Will it be all right now?
She said.
Sure it'll be fine
after an hour,
your old man
won't even know,
Benny said.
Well? Shall be go
to the herbalist?
He said.
She looked at him,
guess so.
So they walked
from his bedroom
and he said to his mother,
who was doing washing
in a big tub,
we're just going
to the herbalist shop.
She wiped her brow
with the back of her hand.
What have you done
to your thumb?
Cut it by mistake,
he said.
Ingrid hid her thumb
behind her back.
O well be careful,
his mother said.
She looked at Benny
and then Ingrid.
You all right, Ingrid?
Yes, thank you,
Ingrid said,
smiling weakly.
So they walked out
the flat and down
the concrete stairway
and down into the Square.
Can someone marry
someone after
the blood thingy?
She asked as they walked
down the slope
towards Rockingham street.
He frowned.
I guess so,
he said,
gazing up Meadow Row
straight ahead.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
They stood inside
Baldwin's herbalist shop
looking around
at the various jars
and bottles
on the side
and shelves
going up high
Helen looked to see
if Benny's arm
had stopped
its imaginary bleeding
it had
so she removed
her girls' handkerchief
from his arm
it's stopped
she said
stopped bleeding
he looked
at his arm
where Jessie James
had shot him
in the gunfight
on Meadow Row
bomb site
so it has
he said
rubbing at
the pretend wound
how can I help you
youngsters?
the man said
at the counter
gazing at them
can we have
two glasses
of sarsaparilla
please
Helen said
to make some blood
as Benny here
was wounded
by Jessie James
in a gunfight off
Meadow Row
bomb site
or it could have been
Frank James
Benny said
I couldn't be sure
in the shoot out
the man nodded
and smiled
and went and got
two glasses
of sarsaparilla
and brought it to them
Benny paid the man
the coins from
his jeans' pocket
and they stood
by the window
and peered out
as they sipped the drinks
other people came in
and were served
some wanting other things
than sarsaparilla
what are you doing
afterwards?
Helen asked
might go to Jail Park
on the swings
he said
can I come too?
she said
of course
he said
if you want to
they sipped
their drinks
in silence
then she said
Betty's arm's broke
it came out
of the socket thingy
how'd that happen?
Benny said
she looked
at the other people
in the shop
my brother did it
swung Betty around
by her arm
and she hit a wall
and the arm
came out
she said
Benny looked at her
shall I try
to mend it?
he said
no Mum said
she'd do it
or get Dad
to do it
when he
comes home
from work
but she told
my brother off
for breaking
my doll's arm
Helen said seriously
Benny looked at her
standing there
in her thick lens spectacles
and her large eyes
gazing at him
and her white blouse
and red skirt
(slightly stained)
so they drank
their drinks
and left
but the other people
in the shop
talked together
and remained.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 2:34 AM UTC
Life was fuller then.
I remember the path we cleared,
it led all the way down to the creek,
through the laurels and ivy.
Those were precious times
we had under the cloak
of the chestnuts
and the swirling maples.
You could hear the running water
trickle over the granite steps
and catch glimpses
of the inquisitive fox
that thought it
was camouflaged
by the fallen timbers.
I cherished the nights,
full of cicada-sounds
and blanketed by the stars,
we sipped genuine sarsaparilla.
But somewhere along the way,
our dreams went south.
They became shattered
like the broken rocks
wearing splashes of lichen
& ancient mossy jackets.
I am still at a loss
when I hear the wood spirits
imitate your laugh.
That's the hardest part
of missing you,
the way you giggled.
The look of your icy blues
raging
with fire
has never been duplicated.
Your kiss was the rarest.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC