Best Ashtrays Poems
Marquees are bright with neon lights, where crowds line up for movie night
Holding hands, we're in 'The Strand'. The velvet carpet guides us in
Popcorn smokes, .. we're drinking cokes,... and cracking jokes with Bing and Hope
Lamour's along with more sarongs,... , her luscious lips, and cigarettes,
She fills ashtrays with smoking tips, and tosses guys like poker chips
'Movietone' intrudes with news, and soon we're in somber mood
Third-Reich goosesteps march again, ... an evil presence in the wind...
Cary Grant , (a news reporter), loves his girl, and his typewriter
"His Girl Friday", plot is witty, sometimes crazy. But Cary loves this ditzy lady....
William Powell and Mryna Loy..., Asta barks, and finds a toy, ...a ploy? a clue?,....
...an earring gold. The mystery is clearly solved.-- A crimson sun, is rising cold!
Movietone in black and white,... graphic scenes, where soldiers die
Another night, suspense on chart. 'Correspondent' , Joel McCrea.
Saves Lorraine, and claims the Day. BUY WAR BONDs !! They'll pave the way
Bogart, Bergman bring to light, a valiant flght , within their grasp
Airline ticket, in her hand, they must part, and do what's right, no questions asked
----
It's movie night, but you aren't here, a troopship took you far from here
Allied troops are moving tanks. I wait for you..God give me strength
I'm in the Strand, within the dark, there's no one here to hold my hand
I'm all alone...........I heard the news....................You left it all in Anzio
_____________________________________
For Contest Chopped III Sponsored by Craig Cornish
11/23/14
I smoked a pack of Marlboros
Every day, left butts smoldering
In dirty, smelly ashtrays
The nicotine addiction compelled
Me to quit… yet, I did not
I smoked until there was only
Short, spasmic breaths
Left in my black lungs
And oxygen had to be taken aside
So I could light up
I drank a fifth of vodka
Every day, left empty glasses
In a sink that hesitated
To risk the flood of last drops
Being washed away with Dawn
And the tears that poured
Down cheeks who knew
I was an alcoholic who couldn’t
Quench my thirst with anything
That didn’t say 90 proof
I swallowed a Percocet every time
The pain that pierced my heart
With regrets, remorse, remembrances
Started to edge between me
And the familiar feeling of numbness
That comes from taking a pill
Every time the feeling that rises inside
Feels like you have been slapped
With the truth, the facts, the reality
Coming alive without that 10 mg capsule
The addiction flowed through me in waves
Caressing the beach of my thoughts
Like a sea laps at the sandy shore with
The familiar touch of hope for the sun
Who will light up, with rays, hues of gold
Whispering through the morning
Embracing the pastel shells and mysterious
Swells of ocean water, pushing against the beach
Like a gentle hand will push against my habits
With the knowledge that this dependence is vile
I clasp hands with the truth when I take a breath
And look up at the heavens with a broken heart
Who listens to the words that come alive inside
When the heavenly Father looks down at me
The child who is drifting on waves of sin and shame
And, in a still small voice speaks…
Even the richest, most blessed nation can pray
For redemption.. just have faith,
God bless the USA and AAA
In this hour
they called it the French lace minutes
the sound of autumn leaves falling
unbearable to the ear
I slip out in the
echoing space
between now
and then
it's an insect like feeling
that buzzes around
too fast
to be recognized
then a coat slides to the ground
heels are clapping hands with wooden floor
ashtrays are laid to rest
and on a bus ticket my pen is scribbling
you are here
you are here
you are here
© Gry W Christensen
There is no poetry without you
Softly flows the sunset colors
painted on tired skies with fire
Igniting a wafting cloud in orchid tints,
the fresh scent of pine lingering within its escape
Drowsy horizons boast their claim
along seaside waverings in salted mist
Romance swims on shorelines engulfed
with all of the pageantry a white cap stanza can bring
And I whistle as I walk along,
taking in this wonder that has followed me home
Resting on a porch swing, feet off the ground
as morning glories sleep beyond white painted balustrades
Satin fingers intertwine with mine,
milk pudding lips bring their flavor to me
Luscious frosting in a whipped frenzy
coating my mouth in sugary mass
I point to the sky, the stars they beckon,
heart shaped constellations for two
Twinkling in your twilight eyes
as I reach for my pen and pad
Only to realize that this indeed is my imagination,
lounging on a worn out sofa, tattered cushions,
empty beer cans acting like so many ashtrays
leaving wet rings on a table, but who cares
There was a time when poetry flowed
from these nicotine stained fingers
in paisley emotions and violet scentings
climbing the arbor of love
But since you left,
leaving behind the shadows which claim my eyes
my ink is dry and my paper tossed, tiny balls in random patterns
on a floor that begs carpeting, but only bares soiled footprints
As I struggle to my feet, to the front window
desperately waiting for the grass to grow and butterflies…
I stab the wooden sill with my pen, I need it no more, for…
there is no poetry without you…and never will be again
The reason I feel this poem is trophy worthy is it is exactly how I was feeling at the time I wrote it, it came from a very deep place in my heart. It covers the wonderful happiness I felt and the sad loneliness that came afterward which for a time did take the pen out of my hands.
Heaviness painfully throbbed your beating heart,
as the world could not understand it
and could never see it.
With your slurred words
and tired, dilated eyes,
I smiled, knowing you were not from here,
watching you drenched in sweat,
dripping down from your neck
in the midst of this muggy
unforsaken place.
And as the last song of thunderous sounds from trumpets played
while golden horns slowly waved in and out of the dark,
screaming to a high climax then falling low
and lower as if it was a rhythm of a train in the rain,
slowing making its stop,
many along the walls stood whispering to others
while gazing back and forth in your direction
as those at their tables whispered amongst cigarette smoke,
using their empty glasses as ashtrays.
And miserably, you walked towards me across the room with courage, and I already knew, just like the others, life had already broken you.
And I waited on the other side with a smile until you arrived,
as you stumbled, drunkenly aroused— into my web.
Then your eyes followed my hips outside the front door.
We walked further away from the departing crowd.
And further away.
Then further away
into darkness,
then
you heard the sound of car doors mysteriously opening.
Footsteps crept closer, and you searched and strained your eyes to see what was waiting.
And when you saw them, you were suddenly
transfixed
You cautiously called my name to get an understanding.
And there was a sound of a closing door,
and I had vanished away.
Desperate scrambling sparked, with a quick touch of a blade to your neck.
Movements pushed and pulled against each other.
And a sound of fumbling,
finally ending with a loud screech—
silence.
Heavy footsteps quickly ran away, and time had stood still.
Then you limped back to your car with an empty wallet
and a frown of dried tears—
A fake phone number folded in your pocket.
You were drenched in the darkest of dark,
and I was in my element,
watching and waiting in my car for my share
of the money we earned.
JG Finch
When you have a desire
for something,
You have an intense craving
that just won’t quit.
For some people
it’s called a Nicotine Fit.
Desperate people will check
the ashtrays
Before they ask…
Can I get a cigarette?
They crave and enjoy the pleasure,
that first satisfying drag.
Moving their arm in that wonderful
back & forth motion.
Those of you who crave,
already know it’s no joke,
You want that morning fix.
Most of you know
what I mean…
You’re addicted and need
that daily cup of caffeine.
We all play the game,
It’s a cup of Coffee
by another name.
Java has that smooth taste
You don’t want to waste,
to start your day,
You desire and enjoy that
first satisfying sip,
keeping you in stride,
And some bring cigarettes along
for the ride.
As Java goes down your throat.
Some grab the car keys
and others grab the TV remote.
Now, one of the sweeter things in life,
Like when a man takes a wife.
A craving that has both
Men and women
going out of their way.
For something chocolate
to make their day.
Some say it taste like sex,
And if it does,
then I’ve been eating
the wrong chocolate.
Now on their exciting
European honeymoon,
Traveling by Train.
33 countries one rail pass.
Something they both crave,
To see each other,
As they see the world.
And then there are cravings
that ladies have had,
it’s not that bad.
They delightfully suffer
when life is about to
make them a mother.
When a little one is on their way.
Being pregnant comes with a
wish for a short and painless delivery day.
But before that day,
Cravings are cravings,
Like liver and onions with cheese
and red grapes.
Like Crab legs you can’t seem
to get enough of.
Like Apple sauce with ketchup,
Cucumbers with Pepper and vinegar.
Like Argo cornstarch
Strait out of the box with a spoon.
Like Green grapes and Nectarines.
Tacos and nachos,
need I say more,
People have cravings
of all kinds…
What’s yours?
The scent of Eagles
Shortly after hate-filled
Cantations
Drive you vertically insane
Nearly touching utopia
Engulfed in flames
Your editor suggested options
Including uncovering cemetery
Ashtrays enrobed in trace-water
Marble
Unforgiving
Even joyful I concede
Your mouth dripping fresh-picked
Strawberries
While antediluvian rainbows
March towards certain death
Or nirvana
You
Said
As phases of the
Moon
Dictate
6/20/15
© james marshall goff
Where I live, you have to ask for one.
And there may not be one
but you know how it used to be and
now you don't, so much.
Lighten up anyway, 'cause hey
and hay didn't used to be so
far away from those
incredible cafe ashtrays.
Once upon a time
in a not-so-distant land
floors of stores pretended to be
ashtrays.
Now we grind all sortsa
other stuff in our stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CAFE MUSING by Nancy Jones
That devilish smile
Can be permanent
On my pretty face
but all i hear is blabla
wa?
That mean-like look
Across that forehead
Plastered with no force
But do i care?
**SWISH**SWISH**Hair
Booze smells bad
Smoking.. I hate ashtrays
Chocolates are fatty carbs
Fake gold makes my eyes frown
Stop looking like a clown
I want you out my door
Boy,do i want you out that door
Nobody calls me a female dog
but me!(SHOUTS)
Now go slam the door on your way out
**Havent choose a category or title,for the JOB contest-You have to guess my idle Job*.*
After Job contest judged ill write it down;) So come back in a month or a few weeks **
Please don't kiss Grandma
With your wrinkled worn out skin
Your breath like stinking ashtrays
With an undertone of gin.
I really love you Grandma,
But when it's time to leave
You always try to kiss me
And it really makes me heave
several formica red tables
glass shakers of pepper and salt
big plastic tomatoes I wanted to squeeze
and shaped bottles of sarson’s own malt.
netting on all of the windows
scratch marks from chairs on the floor
ashtrays with notches to rest cigarettes
and 'open' and 'closed' on the door.
menus upright in a v-shape
the 'royals' adorning the wall
food through the fog of benson & hedges
with no one complaining at all.
my past was a foreign country
before chains, regulations and brunch
places I knew from those misty-eyed times
are no more and have all 'gone for lunch'.
I pick up the dirty ashtrays of my anger.
My grief is a cloth diaper;
With it, I clean the table of my heart.
Ah! Four walls, one ceiling, one floor,
a window, two doors, one restroom
no bed, tons of roaches, one chair
no ashtrays, no TV, no radio
one leaking shower faucet
one clogged sink
one triple sofa
one fridge
one fan
Ah!
zero flip flops
one fire extinguisher
one bookcase, two forks
two glasses, three pencils
three termites, four knives
four magazines, five socks
five strange boxes, six pears
six rat traps, seven thermometers
seven years living here, eight hours to go
(a love poem for my son)
Dreams spill out of sleep
sift across the hardwood floor
covers the window
in colors of May
slamming me back towards childhood
or perhaps just to the ashtray.
One forged with labor
in elementary school ceramics;
patient fingers size up,
roll the earthen clay,
pinch it to perfection,
this unusable object
is made with skill,
crafted uniquely for my father.
A tribute greater than mountain carved faces
monuments of life’s reward.
Baseball camps, tee-ball games,
selfless Sunday morning catch,
sitting in question
understanding Auguste Rodin,
your etched piece of history
proclaimed in this ashtray.
The long afternoons,
bedtime stories,
day dreams of musketeers
tree-forts and bandaged knees,
wisdom contained in a receding hair-line
without the restriction of bookends.
This is your medal
placed with vigilance
impatient in time
yes, a five pound ashtray.
Reflections of your accomplishments
schematics of fatherhood, fired
painted with magnificence
useless to anyone but you.
Standing at the door, a lone sentry
hands outstretched boastfully,
here is your prize
an ashtray!
The reception of kings, grins of rum soaked pirates,
you calmly seat me down with the tale of tradition,
rite of passage
generation to generation,
the tribulation of the ash tray
passed from father to son.
Thirty-something
as I lay in bed
the warm morning symphony
shines bright upon my medal
like a polished chrome hood ornament,
I too have taken my place
among the tradition of the ashtrays.
A quiet café, perfect for my Paris musings
never been there, but read the books, seen the movies.
Two tables sans ashtrays, anyway the café is empty,
I order espresso, bitter coffee, sweet milk froth steaming.
You enter, and sit at your table, separate but not too far away
nervous smiles, green eyes glance at blue, watching me watching you;
my face flushes, breath quickens, do you feel it too?
Your tongue flits from lush lips to laps the cream from your cappuccino
Your white teeth smile, you lean back and light
your cigarette, no filter, dark French tobacco.
Cursing my past addiction, I know it can never be.
quickly finish my coffee, leave my sum
rise and return to my cubicle,
knowing our paths will never cross again.