Winds of honest scented
insistence glided my wings
through life’s many dramas.
Raw breezes fragrantly
touched my unsure skin
with soothing perfumes
promising my faith was
not errantly consumed.
I thought, go until I had it,
not go until the path quit
without signs I had tried.
I imagined a target
future sat for my eventual,
precisely aimed, bullseye.
That’s a notion I did covet,
even leaned it towards perfect.
Seems serene will never arrive.
If wind’s cologne were bottled,
a sachet of peace would waft
through life to sooth each phase.
Stark emptiness fills my perfume bottle,
The vacuum in my vacuity,
Negligence swills it beyond the dottle,
To leave my mind bare of acuity.
For many days its void of content speaks,
But its endurance keeps my freshness plump,
Compliments make its vast emptiness squeaks,
Yet it exhales resentment from its pump.
My shirts already miss its friendliness,
Noses beg to sniff its unique sweetness,
Stale air asks to reclaim lost cleanliness,
Its presence ensures far-reaching neatness.
Importance is etched upon your label,
How I so much miss your fresh aroma,
Your sweet tale cannot be told as fable,
The freshness you bring can't end in coma.
She kept her scent in the refrigerator
off and on upon the rack of Chenin Blanc,
or, in the door, with grey poupon and sour milk
where it, perforce, would topple upon the floor
when opened with any gentle, manly force.
At times, it would be lost among the yellow
golden citrus within the crisper drawer
or, it lurked, disguised behind an OJ carton
pretending to be a jar of marmalade:
so way, way beyond the ken of him to find.
And yet, with her, a flick of the door, a spritz
of Jasmine, gardenia, basil, orange, peach,
which pursued the flowing silken scarves she wore.
“Come, let’s go, we have a party to attend.”
She’d say, “What are you staring at, my sweetie?”
Just an empty perfume bottle, by the milk.
My empty perfume bottles
each one a brilliant masterpiece
Mouth blown and hand treated
Ornate colorful glass
or sparkling crystal
Exotic fairy tale beauties
luxurious and decorative objects
When the sun shines, spots of light
dance in the room with a wide range of red,
orange, yellow, green, blue and purple
Collecting perfume bottles
has become a fascinating hobby
Some date back to the ancient Egyptians,
Romans and Greeks
on 18th and 19th centuries
Always on the hunt for antique
perfume bottles
Sniffing the corks
Even though they are empty
they still have some scent
There’s something at the bottom of This bottle.
I know it.
Not quite sure what it is yet,
But there’s something down there;
There has to be.
Is it a solution?
God no.
Is it a sense of satisfaction?
Most definitely not.
But the process of finding
Whatever it is
Sometimes gives me
A temporary sense of peace.
Sometimes.
Most times though…
Let’s not focus on that.
Focus on the warm and fuzzy feeling
I get from my search.
If it feels this good now,
It has to feel that much better
When I find whatever’s down there.
I don’t know what’s down there,
But I’ll drown trying to find it.
The Perfume Bottle Sponsor – Craig Cornish – 9-11-25
In 1948 Nina Ricca released a new fragrance – L’Air du Temp. The first spicy floral fragrance. The bottle was designed by Lalique. It was the first perfume based on spice and floral scents. L’Air du Temps means present time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Perfume Bottle
In the quiet of silenced cannons,
And odor of reviled salutes now impotent,
Midst plaster dust and stained souls
Of shattered windows
A flacon rises from worn torn ashes
Caressing the breath of a woman
In present time
As two doves intertwine
Above crystal swirls of sunshine
Reborn in signature scents of treaties.
Flawless guardian
For the newborn bouquet of hope,
Beneath wings of peace,
As a silhouette of scent
Overpowers the stench of gunpower
And ministers to children’s cries for bread
In a kiss from immortality
Accents of new notes for princess and pauper –
Spicy and floral –
Released like doves of peace.
Tucked away in one of the dusty corners
of my my deceased mother’s old curio cabinets
sits a somewhat peculiar perfume bottle
among a small collection of other vials
devoid of the fragrances they so long ago retained.
This particular bottle that my gaze has rested on
has the shape of a woman’s lower leg.
What catches the eye
is the golden high heel it rests upon.
Tiny beads of glittery green
adorn its vamp and finishing edge.
I think of my dear mother
dressed for a night out on the town
in her mid-calf sparkly satin gown,
gliding smoothly on heels of gold which enhanced
the elegance of her long, slender legs.
As she paused at the door,
she’d kiss us on the cheek,
departing in a trail
of Chantilly.
A perfume bottle I'll never forget
Stays in my heart, where its forever etched
It was my eldest sister's first romance
That Christmas to me was heaven enhanced.
We watched as each present became unwrapped
All us sisters hearts were truly enrapt
Each item had a heavenly perfume
The fragrance simply made our young hearts boom.
I found it the best thing I'd ever seen
Lovely as an enchanting movie scene
First thing I bought with my first pay packet
Beauteous perfume, just had to have it.
Our mom let us spend our first wage, so sweet
After that we had to pay for our keep
I'll never forget that scent, didn't cost much
Was start of a love with a magic touch.
The perfume bottle
is not just something to hold
Rather, it's a container that offers dreams
that linger as a trace captured in the mind
from the wondrous femininity that a woman has
drawing in her intended lover
like a flower with a bee
sharing her nectar scent from a well of aroma
meant to tantalize the senses into a bouquet of desire
that will burn into memory as a reminder of time spent
with the illusion of love sought
Whenever its scent drifts through the air
causing a pause and reflection
Words echoed that should never have been spoken.
Fiery accusations leaving hearts broken.
Twirled anger erupted, stabbing as if by a sword.
Vile innuendo from both of them, poured.
Shattered crystal, the statue she threw.
He barely recognised her, behaving like a shrew.
He glared in disbelief at the ugly scene.
Gone now, the adored devotion that once had been.
All culminating in a crescendo of bitter screams.
Her heart pounding, she envisaged her forlorn dreams.
The mirror depicts a virtual war zone.
His departure left her fragile and all alone.
She kicked the crumpled dress, realised her leg was sore.
The smashed perfume bottle still spilling across the floor.
The perfume bottle, Baccarat,
for the fragrance of hyacinth and myrrh.
The message it delivers; "Forget me not."
He'd searched for an antique flacon,
one exquisitely of elegant crystal.
Gift presented and ribbon untied.
At first glimpse of it, she smiled
as sunlight glinted from its prisms.
She opened the vial.
The scent as not overwhelmingly sweet,
as a velvet petaled rose.
But one that could never impose
on the natural aroma of her essence.
A dab on each wrist, he could not resist.
A perfume bottle to house the redolence,
chosen for the one he adored.
A keepsake she would treasure
the measure of their love ~
unperceivable.
My fiancés' stone, ten years- she lost her life
Wish that she can hear me, yet well I know
And yet, in time, she would have been my wife
I grant I couldn't bear to watch her go
Do I think I shall e'er forget her scent
The vastness of my love, has yet, fused thine
And still, the ring I bought her, was ne'er meant
For this, a life of sadness, belongs- to mine
Served thy soul, unwelcoming-sordid boon
Rose odors- from her perfume bottle, still
Keeping my memories of her in tune
Glimpses of her smiles flash, ere- she fell ill
Kept inside my armoires' safe, ten long years
Her perfume bottle, overflows- with tears
Ornate and half-full; the emptiness full of her scent.
Gentle wrists above soft hands,
with perfume’s disappearing sands.
Captured see-through embody;
an immovable body.
The dust gently swept away,
whilst ebb and flow of tears sway.
Purple urn does not consume;
she sleeps sans warm floral bloom.
Ornate and half-full; the emptiness full of her scent.
Blithe lift and douse of precious moments before ascent,
to pulse points of my mother;
romantic kiss of father.
The ring on her hand a splash;
Diamond spills heart throbbing ash.
Still, the soul ne’er sweetened better;
Scent was not a Dear John letter.
La Vie Est Belle Rose, does dare
to linger, last, propel, and share.
Blithe lift and douse of precious moments, before ascent.
a Curtal Sonnet
Her Evening in Paris was dainty blue,
safe in a place forbidden to young ones
too new to understand passionate love
between a man and a woman that grew
and burst in a blaze that rivaled the sun's,
then putting to shame the stars up above.
The years passed by as they are wont to do,
but her scent lingers in the mourning dove,
and still warms the hearts of her stalwart sons
and of the grandchildren who barely knew
her blue scent of love.
One score minus two, on my own,
a strange invitation to dine,
green behind the ears, all unknown,
Mrs. Johnson, how can I decline?
Why this interest she has shown?
In her world, wasn't I misplaced?
Rough and crude, just barely grown,
amidst her femininity and taste.
Among her furnishings and photographs,
my pulse raced. I thought, "this is it".
I've not heard this new way she laughs.
It feels sinful and illicit.
I felt her fragrant, silky touch,
while before me falling down
(as painted fingernails clutch)
her flowing hair and gown.
I can't forget the dim lit room,
dressing table, bottle of perfume.
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