Famous Short Smoking Poems
Famous Short Smoking Poems. Short Smoking Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Smoking short poems
by
Charles Bukowski
once
we were young
at this
machine. . .
drinking
smoking
typing
it was a most
splendid
miraculous
time
still
is
only now
instead of
moving toward
time
it
moves toward
us
makes each word
drill
into the
paper
clear
fast
hard
feeding a
closing
space.
by
Elinor Wylie
This is the bricklayer; hear the thud
Of his heavy load dumped down on stone.
His lustrous bricks are brighter than blood,
His smoking mortar whiter than bone.
Set each sharp-edged, fire-bitten brick
Straight by the plumb-line's shivering length;
Make my marvelous wall so thick
Dead nor living may shake its strength.
Full as a crystal cup with drink
Is my cell with dreams, and quiet, and cool. . . .
Stop, old man! You must leave a chink;
How can I breathe? You can't, you fool!
by
John Wilmot
By all love's soft, yet mighty powers,
It is a thing unfit,
That men should **** in time of flowers,
Or when the smock's beshit.
Fair nasty nymph, be clean and kind,
And all my joys restore;
By using paper still behind,
And sponges for before.
My spotless flames can ne'er decay,
If after every close,
My smoking prick escape the fray,
Without a bloody nose.
If thou would have me true, be wise,
And take to cleanly sinning,
None but fresh lovers' pricks can rise,
At Phyllis in foul linen.
by
Regina Derieva
Sons of bitches
were born
with hearts of stone,
cherishing this stone
all their life.
Children of
sons of bitches
were born
with hearts of grenade,
in order to
blow to pieces
everything,
and to leave as a message for their descendants —
entrails
(still smoking entrails)
of sons of bitches.
by
Elinor Wylie
The icicles wreathing
On trees in festoon
Swing, swayed to our breathing:
They're made of the moon.
She's a pale, waxen taper;
And these seem to drip
Transparent as paper
From the flame of her tip.
Molten, smoking a little,
Into crystal they pass;
Falling, freezing, to brittle
And delicate glass.
Each a sharp-pointed flower,
Each a brief stalactite
Which hangs for an hour
In the blue cave of night.
by
Mother Goose
There was a fat man of Bombay,Who was smoking one sunshiny day; When a bird called a snipe Flew away with his pipe,Which vexed the fat man of Bombay
by
Carl Sandburg
I SAW Man, the man-hunter,
Hunting with a torch in one hand
And a kerosene can in the other,
Hunting with guns, ropes, shackles.
I listened
And the high cry rang,
The high cry of Man, the man-hunter:
We’ll get you yet, you sbxyzch!
I listened later.
The high cry rang:
Kill him! kill him! the sbxyzch!
In the morning the sun saw
Two butts of something, a smoking rump,
And a warning in charred wood:
Well, we got him,
the sbxyzch.