"whiffs" poems
I will randomly get whiffs of scents
that remind me of moments spent with you.
The smell of the lake in the city at your dads that first summer.
That scent that stuck to our clothing from burning cedar in the barn we called home.
A whiff of cologne that you would wear only because I loved it so.
I hope I never have to smell those again.
Painful nostalgia.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 9:50 PM UTC
( Filipino orTagalog version)
di sumasapit ang pagtulog
sa isang kaluluwang
sabik at di mapakali
isang pusong ubod tiyaga
ngayo'y balisang tumitibok
sa kabila ng malumanay
na pag patak ng ulan...
sa kaunting salitang nagbibigay kasiyahan
parang simoy ng hangin, may mga dalang palamuti
mga matatamis na pangako ng
maluwalhating bukas,
lumutang sa kapaligiran
at binago ang malamlam na
lagay ng kalooban.
ang mga darating na araw
ay muling yayabong.
isang kaluluwang hapong hapo
di-inaasaha'y, napangiti
sa unang pagkakataon
mga matatamis na tunog ng mahihinang
halakhak ay paulit-ulit na tumaginting
sa kalaliman ng gabi.
itong di maampat-ampat na pananabik
aking panalangin ay
tuluyan nang pumayapa
dito sa dilim, ako'y nakahimlay
habang ang mga pangarap ng pag-asa
ay alak na lumalasing sa aking pag-iisip.
kasabay ng pagdatal ng madaling-araw,
nabubuhay na lalo ang mga bagong isipin
na lalong nagpapasigla sa aking utak...
mulat na mulat ang aking mga mata
di na sasapit pa ang antok
di na sasapit pa ang pagtulog...
::::::::::
(ENGLISH VERSION)
SLEEP DOESN'T COME...
Sleep doesn’t come
To an eager, restless soul.
A heart so patient
now beats anxiously,
Even with the gentle rhythm
Of raindrops tapping.
With just a few satisfying words
Sprinkled with whiffs of hope,
So magical,
A promise of a glorious tomorrow
Floated in the air
And altered the somber mood.
The coming days are to flourish
Once more.
Unexpectedly,
A soul gone weary
Smiled for the first time.
The sweet sound of soft laughter
Unheard in the still of the night.
This insatiable needing
I pray, to be quelled soon..
Here in the dark, I lay awake,
As visions of hope inebriate my mind.
With dawn comes new ideas,
Stimulating my brain even more..
.......my eyes are wide open........
.......sleep wouldn’t come at all……
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
I concede that the evening is bright,
That the dawn does not exist,
That leaves were meant to be brown to be beautiful,
That the sky will always stay blue.
The hurricane that came to be music,
Windy days that fanned flames.
Can you catch my sighs and I'll keep your whispers,
So nostalgic is your croon.
I taste the skins with whiffs of pepper and plum,
Where my senses rise leaving me lost amongst the stars,
Giving a glimpse of the eternity of the galaxy,
Will your lips feel this way?
Like the sights of autumn foliage in portraits,
I only wonder about your touch,
Muster memories, scenes and scenes,
Until you're mine not just in dreams.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Caribbean blue sail's a galaxy
rivers gushing, mumbling for an eternity
reflections of Love forms to thee
Suddenly silence adumbrate
aesthete, A lustful tint of Peruvian trees
petrichor whiffs of earth's virginity
A syzygy that I can't apprehend
but, can fully appreciate its denouement
rebirth of once I fell in love been
Listen to its sotto voce ruffling
preterlabent streams, resplendent hymns
humming grasses cues to sing
Upon the mountain tops hidden
rocks of geos sighting a treasure within
only to discover lore’s of forbidden
Cascading trees whispered a cold
a journey I never knew how to go as told
trap between floras along the road
Propinquity of my eyes closing thin
soul reserved for death, till breath hops in
trodden a land ****** for me to begin
A minstrel with hands like marbles
strung a fiddle of tessellated symphonies
open wonders the eyes never seen
A bouquet of amaranth revealed
the longing heart found someone of new
sighs my feelings and away I strew
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 3:22 AM UTC
Touch the stream of her essence & let your hands flow through the river.
As the air guides your desires you feed off the heartbeat, of her emotions.
Frequencies sending waves of her scent,
whiffs of the undying,
undoing of her beauty taking you to heights unknown.
You drifting to the edge of this garden of vibrant possibilities,
continue to control the animalistic side of you to possess,
& claim the body of the innocent,
inviting woman,
of your clan.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 12:56 AM UTC
Have we all become mere automata
guided by the ring of pings and notifs?
The spray of lather from a sea of data
carrying with it wrung celebrity whiffs
have stung us with a certain aphasia...
The written thought was a lifetime ago
long abandoned by the times and all--
where once there was soundness to follow
nonsense amassed like a rising cymbal
whose crash sent reason to the gallows.
The news of the day presents a delectable entree
of a hodgepodge of this, that, and nothing much.
Wherefore we find our tongues compelled to say
something about the aftertaste or to prejudge
as if we were connoisseurs--it must've hid faraway.
Are we perhaps amusing ourselves to death?
I am by no means a Luddite to such a degree,
but I believe we have bombarded and blessed
ourselves a little too much to see...
only time will tell us reason's final breath.
Sep 19, 2023
Sep 19, 2023 at 10:38 PM UTC
I never knew his real name and my youthful imagination named him uncle funky the peanut man as bagged peanuts burnt were hopefully sold from a makeshift stand now on this June 2013 morning my mind slowly opens the door of youthful memory and I see soiled pants turned over shoes old hat crooked atop long gray hair brown hands waiting for a dollar exchange as funk clings to the untended skin like fleas on a homeless dog whiffs released randomly would stagger a prime boxer the times changed with the town sweeping uncle funky away with yesterday and the past of bygone days and I wonder and it is"t a very pleasant wonder whatever happened to uncle funky?
ut to be sold hopefully from a makeshift stand now on this june 2013 morning my mind opens the door of youthful memory and I see clearly soiled pants and shirt old hat atop of unseen hair brown hands waiting for a dollar exchange as funk clings to the unbathed skin like fleas on a homeless dog whiff released would stagger a prime boxer the times changed with the town sweeping uncle funky away with yesterday and the past of bygone days but I wonder and it isn"t a very pleasant wonder whatever happened to uncle funky the peanut man?
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
Whiffs of spliffs
Hand rolled, prime
Cliffs and dime
bags, fuego
green to black
and more green, beach
mouth full of peanut butter
super blunt
sundays
Whales and rolling
papers make fun
daze, I'm gone.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 3:40 AM UTC
Awake still...sipping coffee this
unholy hour...i wonder how buried
moments can easily gatecrash into
my sober flow of thoughts, flipping
like pages of a book, blown by a
strong wind...i could smell dried rose
petals pressed between the pages.
i could also smell mottled pages
holding mottled memories...they
should have crumbled, be forgot,
but, bravely, they flash back, clear
as the rustling of bamboo leaves
right outside my window.....ahh,
the devil never sleeps...he creates
a stir at the unholiest of hours,
drops it like a bomb, disturbing
my calm universe;
suddenly, it's 4:00 am
i blink a few times to dismiss what
should be forgot.....then, suddenly,
it's 5:00 am.....more coffee.
the eyes watching bubbles from
curling, crisping bacon, strayed,
far from the skillet, but, focused
back, before the pieces got burned.
6:00 am now...breakfast time
for online class attendees.
in my universe, mornings are a
mix of sniffs...of coffee, fried eggs,
fried bacon, sausages, fragrant
gardenia blooms...not to forget
whiffs of good and bad memories.
::::::::::::::::::
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::
:
Good morning everyone!
sally b
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
July 13, 2021
Sep 6, 2021
Sep 6, 2021 at 1:14 AM UTC
The blustery east wind
gathers the fragrant
Warm Springs
high desert
mountain sage,
cascading
downhill
through
Dry Creek pass
surging downward
from above
the Hood River valley,
with breath of sky's bouquet
of billowing
aromatic avalanche,
gushing
of heaven's zephyr
The poignant
sudden starkness
of fiery autumn leaves
letting go
whirling ― falling
helter skelter,
pushed urgently
flying westbound,
beckoned franticly
by
distant whispered
ocean bellows
blowin' in the winds
of change ―
Adrift across
Parkdale
mountain meadows,
Coyote bent,
paw trodden
ripe sweet grasses,
pungent with
waft of mountain sage
and fermenting apples fallen ―
the waxing silence
of the marvelous moon
echoes just beyond
the Lost Lake of the Woods,
its golden orange crescent
dances on clear lake ripples,
high perched
sky reflection lapping
the moon kissed shoreline
― alone ―
The Sliver of the Moon,
skinny lithe
unripened youth
arching
as unsated
summer love ―
sage memories
waxing and waning,
whiffs of honeyed Jasmine
writhing witherings,
coalescent
time drifts onward ―
unstoppable changes
never turning around
looking back
to see
their fading reflection
recurring ―
august rivers 2017
*note to self:
September 15, 16 east wind
Breathing Waft of lingering Mountain Sage
another Autumn soon comes*
... and I'm getting older too
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 12:33 PM UTC
I wonder if you stitched yourself into my skin
when I wasn't looking because I am still catching whiffs
of your scent as if it sat right beside me
with a glimmering smile and kind words to say.
But I'm exhausted and worn out
like that faded red t-shirt you stopped wearing,
and I can't help but think if it's because my scent still lingered
when I first fit my arms through on that fall afternoon.
Except I know you've probably washed it
once, twice, maybe thrice for good luck
but unlike cotton,
your etched aroma isn't so easy to scrub out.
Trust me, I've tried.
gd
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 6:55 PM UTC
Faint smells of him
stain my clothes
& now & then
whiffs of his
cologne
catch me off guard
& suddenly
my mind aches
to smell him
in my bed
on my body
to engulf myself
in him
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
Maybe someone sits up there
Puffing a cigarette
Blowing out whiffs of dense air
Creating clouds of smoke
Strands of soul
Filling them with lives
Making them swindle
Dance and intermingle
Entangle
Dance together
For their short while
Filled with life
They dance
Hand in hand
In twos threes and as many as they can
And then drift apart
Fade out
Into the oblivion
Calling an end
To that while called life
While they danced
Like creatures conjured
Out of his puffs
That dance together in groups and in a pair
Before they scatter away
Like mist in the air
Maybe,
Maybe someone sits up there
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 1:26 PM UTC
*waiting for something to happen
gives a false sense of motionlessness
but that's all in the mind
waiting for someone to notice you
takes forever and that's sure and true
but again that's all in the mind
the moments that stretch endlessly
and those that pass all too quickly
are really no different
our frantic little dances in the world
must look to some god out there
like the ants we watch as they wander
and these forever moments of pain, suffering
or solid success unlimited in scope or duration
are mere dewdrops in the scheme of things
thus i ask in utter bewilderment
how we explain eternal damnation
in proportion to the whiffs our lives are*
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC
A rider's quest, ****** reverie
The colour of your soul invites me
The essence of you humbles me
The smoothness of your skin makes me melt
Your eyes glow and kindle my darkness
We sparkle, we shine as we undress
Dripping oils, Burning incense; ****** chemistry
Your body succumbs as I stroke your waist with my keen thumb
I wrestle you and you take whiffs at my neck
I collect your scent and
pinch on your ****** biting on your ilium sect
There are colourful and organic effects
This passion inspiring unprotected ***
STDs, *** a child to pure serendipity
Raw and coarse, hissing and grunting
Panting and rhythmic crying
Warmth all around
Bone to bone, close and bound
Music playing in the background
The day is bright and shining
The ocean of love deep and wide, let us dive in.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 5:48 AM UTC
If you’ve only ever smelled fir trees covered with freshly fallen snow-
then you haven’t smelled it.
It’s an acquired smell, for sure.
It comes just in between the whiffs of
mashed potatoes
mashed carrots
mashed peas
mashed turkey
hell, mashed ginger-ale for all I know. . .
Somewhere amongst that microwaved menagerie, masked with the smell of eau de toilette,
it lives, and smells sweeter the longer brown sugar bubbles on top of caramelizing yams.
If you can’t smell it, maybe you can find it.
Not many can, or do.
It hides in plain sight, though.
A lost and found box with accumulated cobwebs - everything still unclaimed.
A flyer for free puppies that no one ever took because they were “too much responsibility.”
Maybe there aren’t enough seekers in this game of empty rooms and blank guest books.
But keep looking, until bingo prize hand-me-downs after school plays look like Oscars.
You won’t see it until it makes you believe that plastic Mardis Gras beads are Tiffany-blue boxes.
It’s not so much in the nose, or the eyes as it is in the endurance.
Endure the voiceless Glenn Miller until his brass bellows become her voice -
whispering “I love you” to the effortless rhythm of “Moonlight Serenade.”
And imagine her,
swapping her orthopedics for black heels,
elegantly taking Pop’s hand as he helps her up from her wheelchair,
to join him for just one more dance.
Watch as they become the sepia-colored couple in every anniversary photo.
That black dress. Those fake pearls.
The crescendo of the band.
It’s hard to miss when it’s screaming at you.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
Noone's cumin' to get you babe
There's no destiny. no fate
You are what you make of yourself
There ae no judging heavenly forces
That's celestial crap
Bad things can happen
To you, all the time
There's no savior babe
No soulmate
That's fairytale crap
So be by yourself
Never leave your side,
And fall for nascent whiffs
They're not even real
Just an easy illusion
Real is what you are going to make
There's no destiny. no fate
Noone's cumin to get you babe.
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 9:26 PM UTC
I use to hope that you'd keep that
photo of me tacked by your bedside
but you took it down, (vengefully)
I know this because you tore out the portraits
of me from your sketchbook the first time around
so I hope you find bobby pins still within your clothes
catch whiffs of my old perfume on the streets and feel your
spine cinch softly, I hope a single earring rolls forward in the
desk drawer, but I really cannot hope these things anymore.
so i hope the earring stays lodged in the crack, that all stray bobby
pins find their way back and that my perfume is never worn, never worn
never worn. I hope that my perfume is never worn
around
you.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
The shy light flickers and flies,
One more leaf dies.
Damp debris, in we reside,
Hiding places that provide
Spontaneous frights
And hilarious sights!
Wafts and wisps,
Wasps and whiffs flirt with stubborn
Stationary stones.
We shall flit upon
The forest floor,
Our home for forever
And more.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 9:07 PM UTC
Five-pointed geometry lesson,
Abated in eternity,
Candles beating the shadows away,
Awaken.
Sweet desires sung into whiffs of hearing,
And, questions awaiting answers.
Then a familiar ear turned into a familiar voice,
I’m here, my dear, right here.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 9:38 PM UTC
*They say scent
is the closest thing to memory,
so it makes sense that I'm caving
under whiffs of the past,
trying to stand without breaking into*
p i e c e s.
*See,
you're fire—totally alive and
wrapped in spearmint.
But he's Korres, totally impressed,
sugar-coated with guava and
***** peach.*
gd
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
*DECEMBER DREAMS
December dreams spiral
thru the whiffs of smoke,
emanating from forest hidden Cherokee homes.
They pirouette the way notes
imagine Lester Young’s
tenor music to be;
the way Blue Jays flap
while protecting their territory.
~~~
The Eastern mountains,
snow covered and brown,
rise gently as I walk
yet provide glimmers of ancient valleys
carved out by receding ice.
There is the feel of human destiny
washing me as a breeze
sings thru wild peach trees;
And a breeze lifting sharp talon hawks
with its hunting melodies
carrying the owl's secrets
thru even more exotic landscapes.
~~~
Over looking the Talamaque River,
I rest on the brown
frozen earth becoming
lost in ancestor dreams.
I can see the blood flowing west.
I feel the tears soaking the ground
where Dogwood now grows.
And Grandfather speaks to me
with a warm sun in the ‘long ago tongue’:
“Redzone, it is good to
have these memories.
To remember the trees
the bear and the chic-a-dee.
One day, May will arrive with the morning crows
and Turtle will once again discuss
constellations with the Moon.
Our people, will no longer be forgetful
of who we are and how far we have to go."
~~~
December dreams spiral
thru whiffs of smoke
and Lester Young plays
with the flapping Blue Jays.
~~Aztec Warrior/redzone 12.15.01~~
(written after finishing a collection of poems
by Ron Welburn called “Coming Through Smoke
and the Dreaming”)*
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
Her thoughts so weary and bitter tasting
Forevermore to feel tired and wasted
Aging dreams and makeup nights
Feet so high she hits the lights
Falling for the guile of each street salesman
He opens his jacket; "Each is a haven,"
Claims of lightposts, illumination of the dark
She's falling asleep on a bench in the park
Urbanization of hardy measures
Have tempted her to indulgent pleasures
Whiskey whiffs of fallen kings
Street lights showing off the obscene
The days are gone of lasting serendipity
She's misplaced in what was once her own city
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 2:47 PM UTC
A window into the soul
Water rushing along a gutter
The awaking to raindrops
Hard upon ancient metal flashing.
Gurgles echo in the drainpipes
Droplets join with a chaotic torrent
That interweaves fingers
With the cobbles in the street.
A window into the soul?
But memories melt like softened snow
Down off a high fence of wrought iron
Caked with ice
Though the blacker the metal
The more warmed by the electric afternoon sun.
Crystals drip into syrupy tendrils
And dissolve the moments past.
A window into the soul
The melting left the cold cinders
Once hot and glowing
Now long extinguished.
Even the ash is long washed away.
They sit among stones,
Tendrils of weeds.
Can anyone identify and name them
Among the petrified earth?
A window into the soul
A drought across the landscape.
Whiffs and wisps of smoke on the wind
Crackling sounds of burning trees and grasses.
Waves of flame sweep over a landscape
And even forgotten charcoal
Glows red again.
Flames dance and animate
An inner fire, that only rested
But was never extinguished.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
coyote yelping helps;
the winds, too, distract him
from the now
the Comanche who
put the arrow in his back
lays beside him
gone before him;
that is condign comfort
to him
he cannot speak, nor move
his tongue, but he smells the
***** the creosote
he sees the clouds,
stingy white whiffs in a hot
summer sky
as good a day to die
as any he reckons, and
he feels no pain
again the yelping,
closer now -- are they talking
about him?
will they beat the buzzards
to his body? would they begin their
feast while his eyes are yet open?
he closes them; the flapping of
the wings does not arouse him--he
knows they are on the Comanche
beaks and talons at work
he lets himself drift, content the
vultures are choosing the dead
but they fly off; the coyote pack
approaches--the pads of their paws
patter on the hard caliche
he lets himself sleep
dreaming now of sweet green grass
and good water
and the coyotes begin their work:
the ***** and he now a solitary offering
for the ravenous dogs
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 3:21 AM UTC