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Best Cigarette Poems | Poetry

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Old man

Silently he sat in darkness, flinching at the sight of light.
Which created a glow reflecting on his balding head.
His cold glare did not help my nerves, 
so I simply stood there observing his silence.

His philosopher beard's tendrils seem to crawl forever,
some hidden behind his buckled knuckle hands.
Wizened victims of one too many a fist fight.
When you looked closer, they exposed branded tattoos, 
a timeless reminder from his perturbed past.

He was a man whose ship had never sailed, 
maybe too afraid to sink within uncharted waters.
Yet this pilgrim had walked many a path for several decades.
Burning many bridges along the way, until his feet became weary.
To many, he was an 'old dog' that should have been put down
a long time ago - yet he had never requested to live this long.
He didn't seem like a religious man, but he eagerly anticipated death.

An emphatic glance into his lackadaisical drowsy eyes,
revealed hidden sorrows built up through the generations.
Every wrinkle on his sullen face seemed to be an emblem of pain.
He looked tired, worn down by life and defeated by humanity.
A fighter who had fought and fallen many times, 
but always returned to the ring. Begging to be punished.

His body had now become slender and emaciated, 
it seemed a strong gust could blow it away.
It was evident he enjoyed to pretend, but I knew his game.
Especially when his idle facial impressions struggled with 
the sound of bones creaking in sluggish movement.

He started to whistle a tune, it was familiar, 
but I couldn't put a name to it.
As he rubbed his eyes, his cheeks crumpled.
A wry smile, crippled by decaying teeth appeared,
as his lethargic lips spoke with a burdened tone.

“Life is like a coin. You can spend it any way you wish, but you only spend it once.  Someone once said that boy! But, let me tell you, no matter how many times you toss that coin, it will never land on the same side."

A sardonic expression appeared on his face. 
But, I could see he had a story to tell, 
but his tongue seemed to refuse to dance 
with the desires of his heart.
Silence was still my guide though, 
but unsure if it was due to tact or fear.
I wanted to know about the wounds engraved on his heart,
and the agony ingrained in his soul.

Following a deep sigh, he began to speak, but now in a subtle tone.

I can't tell you about smiles, 
but I sure can tell you about tears, boy.
They called me a coward, because I didn't go to war,
but I've been a prisoner of war all my life. 
And I've had more blood on my hands,
than any 'son of a gun,' solider, boy.
Its always been me against the world, 
to save myself I lived a life of manipulation,
but I never meant to hurt a soul,
unless they deserved it and too many did.

After a slight pause, his tone sounded more intense.

"I was born on a night when the heavens cried.
I've asked GOD, why did the angels hide when I arrived. 
Instead he sent the grim reaper to take my mother.
I didn't even have a chance to feel her skin.
I've never been able to call anyone mother."

He was now staring at me, I could see the rage in his eyes,
so intimidating, I turned my head towards the floor. 
His tone now fierce, I could feel his wrath.

"Life is full of second hand emotions, broken dreams,
forgotten promises and bleeding hearts!! Regretful memories,
of haunting ghosts, whose spirit voices torment my mind!!
And you want to hear something nostalgic, boy?
Try being beaten every day, for just existing!!
Try being seen as the cause of death!!

And then they wonder why..."

He wipes away intrinsic tears,
trembling, he lights up a cigarette.

"we done here boy"

and then the silence returned...

Walking away in somewhat of a daze,
instinctively I remembered the song;

 Old man look at me now....
Love lost, such a cost,
Give me things
that don't get lost.
Like a coin that won't get tossed
Rolling home to you.

Silent One
1 November 2017

Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2017

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Pretty Poet

Where Have All The Pretty Poets Gone? 

A real poet are you, charismatic over everything you serve
Showcasing, a rainbow that folds the perfect world wide perspective
I'm talking about flawless literature at its best no typos, no muss
Just a page full of boredom and rust
Thank you for having Lunesta all up in my head
It's like reading a poetry lesson, from the extras of The Walking Dead
An image frozen cold, waiting for inspiration to hit like Al Capone
I'm bored of your flora flamboyant language rocking me like stones
A psychedelic trip, into the odyssey of a blind man's tale
A home where I am pushed to open a dictionary & thesaurus with braille
Wondering what you just said, --Hakuna Matata, what a wonderful day! 
The best rocket pen poet in the USA Today, 
Launching words like no tomorrow, a fool of wordplay and sorrow
A godlike guinea-pig genius, delegating poetry politician style
Perhaps, one day you will become a famous writer
Burning books, like a cigarette lighter
Until then, enjoy pushing your pen as if it was cocaine, 
Snorting up and cutting up the food chain in vain
Patronizing and ignoring those, for better or worse
A solo cup stuck up another cup, -won't even look my way
Correct me if you will, it's no big deal
Just don't forget to give me the same respect I offer you

Until then my pretty poetic friend, I kneel before no one 

By: ME

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2014

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Crack like fissures

  To The Brink For The Ink    Crack Like Fissures 

Another page scarred with ink.   Upon her page, I see red ink
branded by the thoughts I think.   Tattooed thoughts, that make me think
My mind imprisoned, feel the burn,   Within intricate patterns, my heart it learns
         past the point of no return.     As I slip off her ledge, my spirit churns
Faces bob like buoys in an ocean,   For her mind, it is an ocean             
I'm sea sick to societies motion.   I'm lost upon, her wave like motion
Clutter intoxicates my brain,     Intoxication, it fills my brain
filling me with failure and pain.   Strange impressions, as I view her pain
Forcing sleep deprivation muse,    bubbling from my mind, feelings break loose
cigarette, pot and coffee abuse.       I'm transported back, to my own abuse
Five A.M. and the pressure is strong   Crack like fissures, emotions strong
to make these words move along.     I feel I've known her all along
My audience awaits but I'm still     She grants me audience, within places still
writing rhymes against my will.   Her rhymes resonate, until I bow to her will
Blocked by need I'm suffocated,  lungs filled fully, never suffocated
my joy becomes what I've hated.   She is one transcended, never filled with hatred
I can't escape the vines I've grown,  a climbing flower, I've see how she's grown 
         notebook prison, I cry alone.  With her notebook open, she's never alone       
            All this angst and misery,   She transcends angst and misery
all for the love of writing poetry.    Within her glowing landscape of poetry

                    Casarah Nance     Richard Lamoureux    
           September 14, 2015    September 14, 2015

             Dedicated to the Artistry of Casarah nance

Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015

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you are, i am

open your doors
close all the windows
sleeping's such a bore
suffocate it with pillows

psh, i'm not hellbent
shut your mouth
it's called character development
WOOPS. broke routine again
and the poem's gone south.

made myself out to be the bad guy
so they wouldn't feel as sad when i die
so many
so many damn times you told me
all those uplifting words regarding my significance
did i ever stop to listen?
now look at all this tension

i am the patient
you're the asylum
this heart rate is hesitant
unless you revive them

i'm the addiction and
you are the needle 
i'm the mutilation 
you're the scars that will heal

i am the stash 
and you're the supplier
i am the match and
you are the fire

you are the truth
and i am the dare
you are the daydream
i'm the nightmare

i am the cigarette
you are the lighter
i am the pirouette
you're the choreographer 

we all are so sad
we've both lost our thrill
that's just too bad but
we both know the drill

made myself out to be the bad guy

so i wouldn't feel as sad when i die

Copyright © Agony Aiane | Year Posted 2016

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I heard I might find a poet here Part 3

"May I?" she asked motioning to my dog-eared notepad as a child might
asking for a cookie expecting to be told it would spoil her dinner
I took another swallow, my hand instinctively moved to the book 
to protect it or keep her from disappointment, maybe both

"It’s just a love poem, no big deal," I replied as she inched closer
Her perfume more intoxicating than anything Angelo had on that dusty shelf
I felt weak as my mind went to another time 
where this sort of thing actually happened

An old movie, fancy gowns, pinstriped suits and fedoras, a swing band playing for a crowded dance floor, champagne, diamonds and gold cigarette cases
"Hey doll, can I buy you a drink?" I felt a tap on my arm as I snapped 
out my ill-timed dream to see an inebriated guy hitting on her 

She looked at me, eyes pleading though I sensed she could handle herself 
"She’s with me." I blurted as again that stardust smile returned to her face 
"No offensh pal, jush don’t see a goddesh round here too often." he slurred
"Well she’s my goddess, now beat it." I barked in my best Sam Spade impersonation, feeling quite proud of myself   

She raised her glass again as I touched it with my bottle, we both took a sip 
"Thank you," she sighed reaching across me, laying her smooth hand atop mine still resting on the booklet 
"So you’re a love poet?" she said in a voice that could have turned winter to a summer day at the beach 
I chuckled, "I've been called that but not sure I’d go that far." Her fingers gently caressed mine

"Are you going to let me see or do I need to get you drunk first?" she laughed now using a finger to trace seductive figure eights on the back of my hand  
My mind whispered, give her the book but my ego moaned, just enjoy her touch a little longer... my mind won
She excitedly took it like I had just handed over the keys to a new Jaguar

I watched as mahogany eyes perused my words,

Warm me this evening
neath satin affection
Find in my lips
every need and desire

Touch me with wings
soft as midnight sonatas
Floating on dreams
filled with all you require

Dancing to melodies
sprinkled with stardust
Under a shimmering
hypnotic glare

Lie in my arms until
sunrise is calling
Here on this night that we
both long to share

Oh my, she sighed melting faster than soft butter on hot toast
“That is the most beautiful poem I've ever read, "I hope you don’t mind"
She leaned in and kissed me, her moist lips drenching mine, then said
"I’ve never kissed a love poet before"

Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2016

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101  POETS

I want to thank 101 poets, when words have no limit.
All 101 spots full of flowing imagery and spirit.
Nathan Dilts my #1~writing for him was so much fun.
Nikko's, words are like a shot at roulette~smoking writes like a cigarette.
Writes of fashion from Michael J.~Compares nothing to the writes of Chris A.
Linda our Sweetheart poet~the opposite of Sidney the Mad poet.
John Loving iii, your voice and heart are nice~Through God your words are like advice.
Gert Knop, Dr. Ram, and Robb A. Kopp, the inspiration is none stop.
Andrea D.~her poetry can sure teach me
Sara K., Doris C., Karen O' Leary, Carol B., Deborah G., their all okay with me.
What if I left out Billy K., and Royal T.~how rude would that be.
Harry H., Frank H., Robert L.H., Daver A., and Ravindra K. K.,again how young are they.
A special hi 2 Mattew A., Wilma N., Gerard J. K, Sharon Rubel, and Marycile Beer.
Anthony N., Amy Sulivan, and Anthony B.,~three poets who's poetry are a hit  with me.
Ryan E., Dakarai C., Jayne E., and Juan P.G. thanks for always remembering me.
Lynette C. where the H3!! are you~ don't U know we miss U.
Ruben O., John R., Thivia S., Tahera Manna, Katherine S, and Felishia Murphy~hello!
Heather Hill, Joe Maverick, Joy Wellington, Chuck Keys~smile and say cheese.
Audonus T, James P., Cecil H., Diane C., Celene C., Nicole S.B, and Susan Palli.
Kimberly H. Constance, Kevin S., Shelo Morbid~ write poetry that makes you think and hurt.
Delilah V. Jani-K. V., Debra Eckstein, very suave along with Grace E. Song Lee.
Michael G, Anderson T, Taha Effendi, Margeret Bailey, Mia Nuranti~ yes even you Francine.
HI! Sandra Stefanowich, Catie Lindsey, Emily K., Emilia R., and Carrie R.. 
James(JIMBO) ,Valentino J., Kelechi E., Randall S., Yasmin K., and Nette O.,hello!
Linda Milgate, David B., Jamecia B., Kris W., David Smalling, & Sylvia C., hi to all of tee.
a.k.a Lil Princess J, The Rockstarr's Princess this line is all 4 you.
Connie M. W., Daniel C., Daniel L., Sasha M., Kay'Sha T., and Raskin B.
Peter K., Bulinya M., Scarlett W., Ralph T., Larry B.,  Sharon T., & Sarah H.
Teresa S.,  Sydney P., Earle B., Ryland M., and John Freemen
Mike Butler, Rinki N., Joyce J., Robert A.D, Milton T., Pyhllis B.,~are all sweet 
Guy-A.D., Zera M., Hintendra M., and Don J.
Every poet on the soup inspires me in every kind of way.
Might as well add my #1 Nathan D., all over again.
Don't think I forgot about Skat,~ We're like Siamese cat.
To all my poet friends who love paper and pen.
101, profiling friends. 

LOL*** P.D. 

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010

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Leaves of the Dead

Leaves of the Dead

Les feuilles mortes 

They fall like dead soldiers
Dreams knifed in the dead of night
It is as yesterday
Once more
Where love was kissing my cheek
Where hopes had dreams
One could see the blossom of loves desires

Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates

Ah now I am holding a cane
I have all but forgotten yesterday
I have no lovers
My friends have all but gone
To their designated places in the ground
Piano keys in soft lit lounges
I remember the vodka stingers and sultry singers 
Telling me life was jolie oh so jolie
If only there was love…

Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates

At 3am, with burnt cigarette butts
If only there was love
When the metro finds it’s unwitting end
Reality and cubes make ugly paintings
There are only drunks
Dreamers and bums
Thief’s picking pockets of your final instructions

Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates

If you can sober up and face the poverty
Of your empty aspirations of hope
Come to the bois de Vincennes
Where Kings and Queens danced and dined
What better place
To splay the butter
So that the knife slides smooth
Whilst the sun fades kissing the seine
Autumn leaves will fall
Dead again

Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

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Chopped III - Humor

i narrate me own story in a fake english accent. the bloody typewriter is 
broken, it can't capitalize. i'm out of coins for the heater. i can see me own 
breath. it must be really bad . it's summer here in london. i'm a tough guy who 
carries a gun. don't mean i don't want to look good. i freshen up my lipstick,
light up a cigarette and offer one to my secretary. she is hot really hot.
like i said it's summer. she don't wear lipstick it wouldn't help. in the 
encyclopedia under the word butch is her picture. 

i put out my cig in an ashtray overflowin. i'd tell her to empty it but she scares me. 
she only wears one gold earring. who does that? i'm workin on a case, already 
drank half the beers. by the way i'm a dick a private dick. the name is rock,
rock hard. there's a knock at the door. this could be bad she has two fourty fives, 
she's also got a gun. 

she's holding an airline ticket. no reason. she says she just likes it. 
whatever! maybe it has to do with some kind of contest. 
she says we're going for a ride. we are driving when she gets a flat.

i pump she pumps then we get out  of the car and fix the flat. never liked 
cars, horses are more convenient. less breakdowns. she takes us to a 
party everyone is jumpin for joy, so joy gets up and leaves. bet you wish 
this was going somewhere. it's not. like i said i'm a dick.

Contest: Chopped III
Sponsor: craig cornish

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014

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Where Freedom Finds the Fire

You'll find it in the crimson eyes
of a throwaway photo somehow frozen in time.
When the past painted us like demons
with secret fury.
And you'll find it in the smell of a burning memory
like melting microfilm becoming enraged

(gifted with the freedom to deny
first appearances)

You'll find it in the cedar smoke
of Tyndale's earthen cage
roasting in a bale of hay for crimes unknown.
Where the fire of his message burned mighty
through a thousand hungry hearts that day

(where ancient ink once again
took a detour into youthful veins)

You'll find it in the velvet ash
of a (just one more) cigarette
being flippantly flicked into December sky
for reasons unknown.
Where yellowed fingernails bear witness
of freedom to live and freedom to die,

leaving not an inch of space to analyze;
for the fickle flames - much like life -
waits for no one.

You'll find it in the platinum tendrils
of a Colt 45, that so quickly took a life,
in the burning heat of an eternal second.
Where curled fingers and steady stare
makes it painfully aware
freedom is a pitiful beauty, ugly as sin,
and as right as rain

(ask the victims of Hiroshima --- they'll tell the same)

You'll find it in the vermilion sky
blazing brighter than passion pure;
stopping the world gears, of rat-race routine,
and turning a thousand rusty necks Heavenward

Where minds silently unhinge      (for a moment)
And fear itself begins to cringe      (for a moment)

When faced with childlike wonder
blind eyes will see.
A rejuvenating spark
this freedom can be.

And you'll find it the explosion of ecstasy
like a rose blooming in tenacious time-lapse.
You'll find it in the Cherokee midnight dance,
being warmed by the tongues of freedom personified.

Where Common Sense no longer applies,
for when freedom found his heart's desire,
you know it was a compromise.

Losing his mind, and losing his life,
in the process of a martyrdom
for all things beautiful and all things temporary,
in its earthly essence

... where freedom finds the fire,
you can't tell the difference.

Written March 23rd, 2016
For the Where The Freedom Finds the Fire Contest Hosted by Justin Bordner

Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016

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Genie in a Gin Bottle

Her lips caress another cigarette
A fading belle looking for love
The smoke veils a creature of habit
Chasing a young girls dream

But this Genie found the palace doors locked 
Her youth distilled into a bottle of gin
Diluted by these streets of sin

Now her makeup hides the bottles content
Silk fingernails deluding the smokers hand
Her wig of blonde hiding the soul beneath
The ladder in her stockings,
Torn like her Hollywood dreams

Her perfume sickly sweet,
Masking the odor from yesterday’s gin
The ashtray is full,
Cheap lipstick covers the tab ends
Her vigil to find happiness

But he never comes.
Only a stream of chancer’s 
Wanting to spin lady luck one more time
Fuelled by the promise of paradise
A vacation from life
And a brag for Jack Daniels

Under neon lights
A Beautiful girl content in her gin bottle
Her saviour from this cruel world
An inner voice plays in her mind
“I could have been a movie star”
A role she can play all too well

But morning light never lies
Her beauty, has fled, left on the pillow
Like some Monet’s impression.
Regret lays sprawled out
Like yesterday’s salad,
Thrown out with the rubbish
For the slugs of corruption to eat
Her aging face revealing every rejection
Every turned down script, every broken dream
A lifetime of heart break.
But she still plays her part well
Play it again Sam
And another cigarette,

The same mistake, the same men,
From all the gin bars in the world
She had to choose this one
Another lottery ticket to litter her despair.
No winning numbers here

Her silent acceptance speech,
Laid bare in her blood shot eyes of regret
A mouthwash of gin
And the genie of love returns to her bottle
Her legs bruised and varicose,
Testament to waitress by day and genie by night.

He closes the door
His only thought to get away, not his finest hour
Jack Daniels his moral escape goat
Nosey neighbour’s his jury
They bare witness to his walk of shame

She opens the curtains,
And sees him fade into the faceless crowd
Alone again, a full ashtray and an empty gin bottle
Symbols of last night’s play
The mirror torments her image,
As she drinks coffee through smoke stained teeth

A wave of her head, a smile
And a daydream
Tonight, her prince will save her
This is her delusion, her reason to live

But time is running out
For she is part of life’s crap game.
The dice rolls once more
Will it be happiness? or loneliness?
But in the end, deep down she knows
The house always wins in tinsel town.

Copyright © steven cooke | Year Posted 2011

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I heard I might find a poet here

I was just sitting there writing when I saw her stroll in,  
I wasn’t alone, all eyes followed those curves sashaying 
as if she owned the place and maybe she did. . . 
if a heart can skip a beat, mine did a somersault.

Obviously cut from a finer cloth
than these eight dollar trousers ever found in their pockets,
the fit much better too, a warm hug on a cold December day
lingering in the moment

She sat down at the crescent shaped bar, 
ordered a martini, neat, pulled a crisp twenty from her clutch
and brushed a few stray brunette hairs from her face,
the mirror behind the bar happily reflecting her beauty

Raising the drink to her ruby red lips
I found myself wishing I were that glass,
smeared in her favorite shade, kissed by a sighing sip,
caressed by porcelain fingers wiping sweat from a glistening neck

A jewel in this dingy joint, shimmering in the dusty haze,
breathing some class into this oblong shadow
that had seen better days, but none like this, like her. 
She was out of place like fine wine in a shot glass . . . but didn’t seem to care

She lifted a cigarette to her mouth, I was quick with a match,
watching as tobacco embers flared and smoke rose upward, swirling about freeform.
Putting her lips together she blew out the flame
with a whisper of breath that made me weak in the knees, “Thank you.”  

I stared, forgetting the spent match I held between my fingers,
tongue tied or mesmerized, take your pick, both answers are correct.
“You’re welcome”, I stuttered like a school boy in braces, “new around here?”
“Kind of”, her voice as chiffon is soft, “I heard I might find a poet here . . . ”

To be continued . . . 

Please check out parts 2 and 3 if you get a chance. 

Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2016

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The Red Rose of the Moulin Rouge

I awaken; the darkened skies my alarm clock
I reek of whiskey, scotch and pastis
Tumbling out of bed, I reach for a cigarette
The dusk harkens as I rise to ply my trade

I am embodied inside a one room flat
The nightlife and the ladies both coming to life
Out the window I see the windmill so famous in red 
Ladies with offers, men with drinks, the recipe for lust

I am the mime of the Moulin Rouge
I ready myself with my white painted face
Tonight another performance or so it seems
I shall juggle my knifes, with my many sad faces

Up up up in the air, one, two, three
Knifes in a whirlwind of iconic display
Around and around like the Moulin Rouge
I perform, toss and catch to applause

My sad face bows in graceful acknowledgement 
As they toss their lose coins my way
If they see fit to fill my container of misery
I make for them my spectacular encore

I take a knife, a long black sharp blade
Tossed 12 feet in the air, dancing its way back down
As it slices the stem of a red rose in my hand
I now hand a pretty girl a cut rose

The ladies of the evening smile
They see I too traded romance for coin
How sad it is, this Moulin Rouge of dreams
Eleven more roses, and I shall earn my keep

Or so the ladies in red believe
I, on the other hand, will be changing the last act
I am tired of rent and being rented and rented cloth
I shall perform the ultimate act finale ce soir

Selecting the sharpest set of long fine knifes
Lighting them with orange flame, the juggling act begins
My audience enthralled, once again
Wondering maybe does he ever miss?

I never miss, I never shall, this is a certainty
The knifes a glow in fire, lighting the nighttime sky, 
Tossed high, I lie down fast, tossed a rose in the air
A Knife as usual cut the rose stem

One, two, three, the knifes enter my heart
The blood will warm the falling rose
As it gently falls upon my silent chest
I die with a smile, yes my final act a success
The rose so tender upon my breast

Breathless all, Gay Paris has died once more

I never miss
Yet, I miss you

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

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Jukebox Gigolo

Old Zack Adams sits a slouch’n so sloppy drunk on a bar-room stool,
Wear’n his cheap-threaded cowboy suit and a stained satin shirt.
All the while a peek’n and a leer’n at women like an old poor fool,
But think’n man tonight—Oh Boy, I’m really gonna hit the pay dirt!

Old Zack in this small Texas town is reputed to be quite a lecherous hoot,
As he raucously and recklessly rolls old worn quarters into the slot
Of the old bar-room Wurlitzer while snicker’n and smil’n to boot,
And plays his tearful and twangy jerk-water music while smil’n a lot!

Old Zack is this town’s “Jukebox Gigolo,” a real lover boy—Oh Boy!
He wears his patched cowboy hat and his scuffed silver-studded boots,
Meant to impress young girls and bar-fly floozies who have the Joy!
Of being with this bewildering, withered, weathered man and his boots.

Old Zack has a fad’n recollection of events and a silver mane of hair,
With a cigarette in his hand and cuss’n like a nasty little stable boy,
He downs whiskey shots and tequila seconds like no tomorrow on a dare,
While chas’n whiskey glass ice cubes and the tequila worm—being so coy.

Old Zack while a swigg’n down his whiskey mucho fast and direct,
He has now that blind courage to fight or to love—whichever is first, 
While the old Wurlitzer resonates a rueful hick song for a teary effect,
But Old Zack can’t move now for this song has him sobb’n the very worst.

Old Zack with his nicotine-whiskey breath and his pockmarked face,
Personifies the image of an ideal loser of a man—with problems all,
While fight’n, scream’n, and punch’n others to gain some precious space,
He’s a showcas’n his reservoir of manly prowess—with problems all.

Old Zack was young once and not so wild, withered, weathered like now,
And he thought he was a really smart dude—all right moves and all,
But was really a man act’n far above his funny fake smart brow, 
And now a cry’n on his bar-room stool and act’n like a fool before a fall.

Old Zack Adams—alcoholic as he truly is and sly and slick as a Texas fox,
Is not really so good with his women friends nowadays—for his real talent
Is in roll’n those old worn quarters pieces one-by-one into the old Jukebox,
Sing’n—“I’m the Jukebox Gigolo”—“a Drunk and a Delight,” that’s real talent!

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (October 7, 2014)
(Rhymed Quatrain)

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014

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It's over

You have no idea how much you'll be missed
We've seen each other every day for years
Though you've touched my lips, we never once kissed

Picking me up when I was brought to tears
Calming my nerves before something new
Bringing strength to get over my fears

It seems so scary, not sure what I'll do
Good times and bad, exciting or lame
You were always there to help me get through

Life without you just won't be the same
But it had to end, something I've always known
It's finally time to put out that flame
Our love I can no longer condone
This relationship which I now regret
I need to learn to get by on my own

All that you have done I'll never forget
As I butt you out, my last cigarette

Written for TERZA RIMA about anything you like - poetry contest

Copyright © Jae Luath | Year Posted 2014

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Slipping into my silver-gray SUV
Nicknamed  " Sly Buster Cruiser”
I speed off down the rocky, off-highway road.
Twisting and reeling like my wired mind,
windows down, sunroof open,
(Annie Lennox groveling on the CD player),
reckless noon rays on my chin,
wind on ticklish, naked nape ...
Damn, who cares? I am 19 again?

Shuffling into the 7-Eleven Store
beside the Shell gas station 
(With a free wind shield clean-up),
I draw out some bucks for a Philip Morris pack
and a two bottles of  beer, plus a Dorito
( the barbecue flavor , please)…
Ain’t a drinker; a smoker on occasion,
but I feel like being reckless and 
slightly rebellious ;
I lock the door prepping up for an untamed  ride.

Grabbing a spray of cologne mist
and red-violet lipstick from  the tote,
my irises roll from the lane to the side mirror,
as I slowly dunk the beer, icy and bubbly
zooming away with hands laughing on the wheels.

Nobody knows me in this place; my ribs shout silently:
This is just all for me; just now, I’ll be.
This is just between me and the edge of a free road.
This is about my navel breathing fire and ice,
It’s about touching danger fast without reason or fuzz
Because later, all this smooth craziness will soon pass.

Back to the same home trail, I rip the cigarette sticks,
slide  the unused bottle in my bag
before wiping the red on lips with the Dorito foil…

“ Mommy, Mommy… where have you been?”
I smile as if my skin had chased a tornado…
Dumping the beer on the back porch, 
My hand is cleansed by some kind of holy water,
And  I start to hug my mischievous girl...
Then off I start to roll the plates on the sinking sink.

``````    `````

Celebrating My Faves Contest
For Andrea Dietrich--Faved by Sponsor
Reposted 4/24/2016

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2011

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Just One Pack

Just one pack a day she says she needs. Years later - hospitalized with cancer. . . Just one cigarette - she pleads Written 12/17/2015 by Andrea Dietrich for the SOMETHING WITH GREAT IMPACT!Poetry Contest of nette onclaud

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015

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A Cigarette Betrayed

I’m living in anticipation
With other cigarettes who are also growing impatient 
We’re waiting
To be the next chosen one 
Now, the door opens and we’re soaked by the light of the sun
Screams of “PICK ME!, PICK ME!”
She plucks me from the bunch; I’ve never felt so free 
Straight from the prison she sticks my butt in her mouth, which is odd
Now, she puts a flame in my face and sets me on fire, OH MY GOD!
But hold the phone, this feels great
I wish I could tell the fellas back in the pack their fate
She takes me out of her mouth and holds me with two fingers
She blows my smoke in the air where, for a couple seconds, it lingers
She taps my back, a feeling so good it might be a sin
Some embers of mine fall to the ground and disappear with the wind

After 5 minutes of pure bliss 
She once again pulls my butt off her lips
Smoke, as usual, flows into the daylight
I’m waiting for the taps and for the embers to take flight
But instead, she suddenly flicks me away without a sound
I fly through the air, drop, and crash on the ground 
No big deal, It was certainly an accident 
At least I’m still lit
Then as I look up I see the sole of her shoe driving down 
All I can do is stare and frown
She crushes me on the asphalt
Then smears me around; sprinkling the wound with salt
I disintegrate to ash
How could she just treat me like trash?
I thought that feeling would last forever
But I guess you decided, for no evident reason, it was time to sever 
I’ve been betrayed
Alone I wither and decay. 

Copyright © Kyle Carlson | Year Posted 2011

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Love is Blind 2

(This a new Version created using many editing suggestions from Linda:) 

I picked you up
like a “shiny” newly minted copper penny 
it was your kitten fur voice 
O how you would hate that...
the avocado texture of it
with which 
no matter what wild wicked hour I would call you

you would answer

You shimmered like sunlight
on the forest floor of my needles of neediness
glinted off the shiny chrome and twilight blinders of my 
“made to order” searcher’s soul
You were the perfect portent
with your torrents of torment
to wash clean my jet and emerald caves 

Or was it you who found me? 

a white gem 
silent, hidden behind my poetry 
sitting in a seat in that Inn
listening to the hues of blues
stenciling the deep red shards of my heart 
onto the unlined pages 
of a blank black journal

I wore cool light blue and soft sheet cotton
like a cloud-kissed sky
I was light as air and as deep as “a thousand leagues under the sea”
You became my heroic touchstone,
my one true thing sapphire-sparked rock of glory

I hung you around my neck
oxen yoked myself  with the weight of you
I hung myself 
faithfully -to “my cross to bear” 

your endless denial of our love.

You were lithe…thin as a straw… tall as a poplar
white as ash and grey as coal 
except for the orange hot fire in the center ring
....of your cigarette

I mistook it for the flames of our unearthly love

It was just the firmament of your eternal coolness reflecting back 
the stars of my own piercing need

Yoked by my own wanton weave … I drove on blindly 
mind spider webbed 
the ghost of your emotion-less carcass draped around my neck 
“Leave no man behind”

I know you laughed and told them
that it was just a fire pit left in a cave  
by the Queens of the Stone Age -Some loud, angry band you loved 
Less real to you 
by far more ethereal and ever lost in time to me
than the new found “writing on the wall”

Copyright © Ingrid Showalter Swift | Year Posted 2016

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How Do You Make a Sick Heart Well?

Broken last night, 
 I woke up 
 Precious problem, 
 picking up 
 every part. 
I want to fix it.  
I've tried to mend  
by shooting it into my vein, 
getting in and going, 
by another lover, 
carving the love into my skin, 
by sleeping away 
the black out.
Useless things are poison to the temple.
It’s either one cigarette after another, 
or lots of chocolate, 
the sad tale goes on and on. 
But the fragile heart is broken. 

What do I do?
They tell me to, 
Rely on Thee  
It's hard for me 
I can't see, 
Although I know  
and have been very close  before. 
I was expelled from Hell, thank God. 
Entered into the sunlight. 

While the whole world  
Is in agony. 
I'm feeling happy, 
my heart feels healed,
but this is a deception.... 
it is still broken. 
Just like a peculiar disease, 
there's no cure.

Fill it, 
and deal with all its cuts and bruises...
but then all you have are scars. .
My medicine for the bleeding within...
Is to await love to call me, 
and say that everything is ok. Not to despise my needs...

Inside, there is a little girl screaming. 
And some times...there's an old lady whispering 
that she is utterly tired, and can't bare it anymore. 

Do you shut the door on your heart? 
I can't seem to do it. 
It's too powerful and pure, 
this instrument that passionately pounds within me. 
All its pain... 
I have no control. 

Do you have a broken heart? 
Do you have a heart at all?  

Copyright © Sky Lesco | Year Posted 2007

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Romance was not our Muse

Romance was not our muse, he types
Not writes his farewells before each morning -
A simple 'Till tomorrow' left by cooling sheets.

We started as lovers, before we were friends
Speaking in touches instead of thoughts
Every night he clouded our secrecy
With cigarette smoke, an ashtray beneath my bed, 
A counter of the days we were spent.

But a playful joke turned bittersweet, I slipped
My favourite glinting stud, a gift
In his pocket lining, finding instead a reminder
Of sin and silent lives, a ticket 
To home and back to reality.

In dawn’s light and an empty bed, I wrapped 
Bruised red lips around his fading cig, enjoying
The lingering taste of him and his ashy breath.

Romance was not our muse, I type
Not write my farewells before the morning -
A simple 'Good-bye' left by cooling sheets.

Copyright © Whirl Wind | Year Posted 2014

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Clique ... clique
Peer pressure is a gun
Low self-esteem wanting popularity,
gather together in small clusters
Grapes of wrath ... attack anybody 
who try to break the bind
Verbal popping every moving target
in the movie theater line 
Estrogen cries when the dust clears,
another reject cherry fell off the vine
Teachers can’t separate the sisterhood bond,
boyfriends ain’t nothing but pretty toys
Cat fights and tussles are only loud noise,
a lot of ugly ducklings swimming in the pond
Clique ... clique
Squeeze off another round
Mile high dreams everybody in the group got,
but somebody is creeping ... talking behind their back
A poser is in the midst,
and the leader is gonna handle it
Put a cheesy lip rumor in the mouse trap,
throw a house party and hire a band
Thieving eyes which covets your man,
catch ‘em in the act, give ‘em a double tap
Clique ... clique
Peer pressure is a gun
that’s loaded with angst bullets
And everybody’s been shot by one
Lip blasting every moving target
in the stadium ticket line 
Testosterone cries when the dust clears,
another reject berry fell off the vine
Parents can’t separate the brotherhood bond,
girlfriends ain’t nothing but pretty toys
Fistfights and scraps are only loud noise,
a lot of ugly ducklings swimming in the pond
Clique ... clique
Squeeze off another round
Clique ... clique
Peer pressure is a smoking gun
Give your friend a cigarette,
urge them to try one
Clique ... clique
Peer pressure is a smoking gun
Give your friends the bottle of hooch,
urge them to try some
Clique ... clique
Peer pressure is a smoking gun
So hit the brakes hard,
you little Bonnie and Clydes
or your life will be in for
a shoot ‘em up, bang bang ride

Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2017

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Remember Me

Remember Me

Cold wet coastal today
I escaped
Sat myself behind a sanctuary
The rain beating rhythms
On window panes
Hot coffee and brandy
Warm inside The Athena Café

Radio spends its missed tuning
Hissing tinny tunes
Love songs
Of losing
Love songs of having
Love sings
Of wanting

Blank the grey sky 
Flattering  dreaming thoughts meander
On emotions wandering
Focus themselves
With photographic memories

I see
The smile
White satin dressed
Curls of auburn red
All I fell for
All I lived for
My Princess

Her crown tilted
The mischievous angels
Of her

I sigh

As my fingers remember
They once ran themselves
Through your hair
As my lips in accord
Re-taste the peach
Of kisses
I once knew
Sometime so long ago

I can hear your voice
Silent echo
A touch in my soul
Sentient it is
Hieroglyphic speaks
Reverberating something
Deep and known

My eyes replay moments
Of vague tactile loving
These trespasses 
And these memories wishing
Batter at some-where’s
Inside of me


Word forms swirl
In printed pages of you
And send messages of distance
So far from me
So far
From you

To a horizon which is
Part of me
Out into grey meridians
My heart travels
While my seconds record
The splitter and splatter
Of rain on the window pane
Looking back at me 
With your reflection

Another cigarette 
My coffee cold
And nothing but froth
The heat of my brandy
Matches the twists of floating smoke
Sends my thoughts out riding point
To the cavalry of clouds
With the banner of love

Rides wing-ed horses
With fire on their hooves
Lifts all this nescient knowing
Rushes headlong
To you

Tiny rippled pools
Drop on the sheen
Dark colours anew
Of rain fall continues
One more coffee
No more brandy
Time to leave slowly
And some how find an end
For this poetry

Find a way to Morse code my heart
Out into expansive skies
And wrap my arms
Around you

I remember the home
Of holding you

The rain has stopped

Copyright © colin mitchell williams | Year Posted 2009

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Stone-wall Dreaming

Along the stone-walled, dormant field
Where failing brambles flay the stone
He stopped awhile to touch his thoughts
And smoke a cigarette alone
Then surfaced like a summer spring
Images of yesterday
When youth was wrapped in cotton peace
And they so distant from the fray
There, he held the birth of them
Lost scents of hope and cradled dreams
A mirage sent to cull the waste
And tease that life's not as it seems
Fleeting thoughts, semi-conscious stares
Scanning years with longing sighs
Searching back, too far, too deep
Then coming round to realise
That memories will not suffice
To smooth the roughened edge of pain
For all who fly the sky of life
Shall kiss her sun and bear her rain

Copyright © Jonathan French | Year Posted 2017

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A Crooked House

We lived in a crooked house.
Built on a muddy mound of hope with the corpse of yesterday half buried beneath
Sad eyes and smiley faces. A gilded countenance to pair the four walled fiction – Painted thin; only just enough to cover our cracks. 
Widening like morning eyes; a mirrored reflection.
Dancing in a zigzag to the tune of the tremors. An ugly soundtrack coaxing ugly art.

Those damp walls. The cracks swallowing torrents from eyes in the sky
Wide eyed boys watching sliding droplets crashing into droplets. Swallowed like pride.
Doors jammed in water seeped jambes. Knotted and gnarled. A need for a greave
Trees weeping at what they witness from the outside looking in. Shedding leaves for tears.

Oft trampled floor boards creaking and crying in solidarity with those that walk its back
Whisper and scurry light-footed like mice in a hurry so easily scared by the wall breaching wind
Trying hard not to wake the monster sleeping downstairs - Breath held like tongues, voices low
Like the swing in the garden tied to the tired branch of the hunched tree. Seat sunk in mud. Ashamed.

A tip toe down the slippery stairs; in fear of drowning in the basement swimming pool. A watery hell
Festering in the bowels of this building ever since the burgeoning moat breached the ramparts of this faux castle.

Lopsided family photo frames hanging by a thread. Nailed to crumbling walls. A slipping semblance of home.
The rising cigarette smoke staining the walls like those words from the same pursed lips from the mind so hard to rid
A cloudy plume with no silver lining; an excuse for eyes to water; blurring those family portraits.

That poisoned smog escaping through the chimney. Blown out over spluttering trees aghast at what this house concealed.
The wind once blew from the west. The house had many faces then but when the east wind struck its walls, the face it pulled it stuck. Doubled over, bent and crooked.

The trees perished like dreams and time brought change
But this crooked house remained the same.

Copyright © Zed Zed | Year Posted 2017

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Education is the liberator from poverty

Education you 're the champion of the poor 
You're a roof under which people who love you shelter 
You open the eyes of the ignorant, so that their ignorance is no more 
You're a pot of those who loves to cook their brains into perfection 
So that their brains can be perfected to think like you 
So that they can learn to negotiate the hazards of life and fend for themselves 

Education, you provide shelter, clothes and transport to those who worship you 
You are the king of those who adores you 

Education, you are the conqueror 
You've conquered poverty 
Poverty says brother to you 
You sent poverty to an early rotten grave 
Poverty has gone to an early grave because of you
Run poverty run!
Your brother education is here! 

Darkness and light do not share cigarette 
As success and poverty 
Education, no one is like you 
Indeed you're  the Kilimanjaro Mountain 
You're like an elephant 

You're a well of wisdom and success 
Those who worship you will walk tall and proud of their success 

Copyright © Emerald Gem Tshabalala | Year Posted 2017