I’m a humble poet, a rambling rhymester, a free verse fanatic, a Haiku sycophant. I love other poets and their scribbles and I worship at the altar of Charles 
Bukowski. For the month of April I celebrate National Poetry month with some of my own scribbles.
Fragrance of Life © Trisha Sugarek
Cool rain drums on blistering
asphalt, the scent streams into
the nostrils–hot, grassy smell of
summer, freshly cut-smoky
cedar lingers on the air
Fresh popcorn drenched in
butter, I sit in the dark, musty
movie house. Childhood
memories of Tom Mix dashing
across the screen
A breath, deep of rain-damp wool,
heady peat of whiskey
neat. Old butt-imprinted leather
and the dusty, pulpy smell of a
well thumbed book as the page
is turned
The mule drawn plough turns the
rich, boggy earth beneath an
autumn sky. With luck and some
rain the larder is full at harvest
time
Wrapped in strong arms, nose
pressed to warm skin smelling of
soap and outdoors. Drinking the
heat in with the smell of the
man, your man
Sweet puppy breath. Pure
doggy conviction that you will
love him as much as he loves
you
Candles and incense in the
great cathedral… the heart fills
with faith, hope, and
expectation
Soft curls, sweet skin, the babe
squirms closer… powdery
newness, innocence, and trust
Briny, sharp tang of the northern
sea. Balmy, yielding, essence
under the Southern Cross
Green aftertaste, fishy decay
and salty fresh scent of the
clean-swept beach
Sultry air twines itself through the
Quarter, crushed sugar, wet
pavement, yeasty bouquet of
hot beignet. Warm beer,
praline sweet, heady grape
Old river water slugs along
Stifling, coppery smell of blood
be it the battle field, hospital,
crime scene, butcher shop, or
birthing room…
Cloys in the nostrils sticks in the
back of the throat like old
mucus,
Icy sweetness of winter air,
frigid sting of snow to come…
sharp pine tantalizes the senses,
as harsh breath smokes the air
Steaming manure in fresh straw,
roasted peanuts, pink spun
sugary sweet…
the pungent animals stalk the
cage. Sawdust under old
canvas glows like old gold in a
shaft of sun light.
The Big Top!
Childhood rushes back
The smell of her on your
mustache… you don’t want to
wash your face… lose the
intoxicating scent of her love
New trees struggle to rise above
a sea of old petroleum.
Pine sol lies still on the cold tiles,
stale baloney on old bread.
Rancid tired clothes reek of
cheap cologne
The truck belches halitosis
Move on down the highway
Sharp fall gusts through the
quaking aspen,
pitchy sap barks in the
crackling fire,
snowy air assaults the senses
The loon sings, warming and
plucking at the heart.
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MY BLOG features INTERVIEWS with best-selling AUTHORS! February: Rick Lenz, March: Patrick Canning, April: Poet, Joe Albanese and May: Boo Walker
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