Best Menthol Poems
How far can you fall and get back up
How high can you jump
And keep your feet in the sand
To touch grace and fall from within
Next to you I was out of my skin
I missed you yesterday and you leave tomorrow
A life spent in the shadows of lushly tint
Smoke your waves
Exhale the freshness of your menthol scent
Home is what you call shelters that need no defense
I’ll send
You’ll say goodbye
I’ll send again
You won’t reply
If love
Is the appreciation of another’s existence
Then goodbye
Is the anticipation of seeing you again
You and I, we’ll cruise the shores
Together we’ll settle with the wind
The joy of a small hut, a lovers den
You’ll send
I’ll wonder why
You’ll send again
I will not reply
"our songs for sale"
Her name was Ethel....(yes, like the gasoline)
She smelled of menthol...(much like Vick's Vaseline)
A long time neighbor, from down the lane
She was married twice...(or was it thrice?)...
A widowed lady, we knew her well
A bit disgruntled, and a bit dismantled
A bit unusual.....a bit disturbed
and most the time, seemed quite perturbed!!
And as a kid....of her, I feared!
So scared of her that when she came .....Holy Moly, off I'd run!
And hide away..........'til she was gone!
She was a mix of ice.....a tad of nice....
But my mother trusted her sage advice
She had a cure for most everything....some seemed rather sensible
Some quite extreme!!!
The worst indeed..............(Please excuse my dilemma!)
She believed in the (OMG!!) THE ENEMA!!
(Well....now you can see .....just why I hid!!)
And castor oil..............gahhhhhh.......how disgusting!!
Should only be used when parts are rusting!!!!!!
And an old rag wrapped and rubbed on your wart
Then into a hole.....dug out by the fort....
Yep!! Now, why would a dishrag buried in the yard
Could have such power to rid.................................A WART??
Ridiculous notions....all of her potions......but...
Golly, Gee Whiz! , I'll have to say...
That I've been wart free.........since buried rag days!!
Oh, Miss Ethel..............perhaps you were weird....
but you would fix a mother's fears...
Could you still fix-up all my own....
all of my fears....after all these years?
Just NO MORE ENEMAS!!! Please Miss Ethel.....
Oh !! my dear !!
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Football, volleyball, baseball, softball,
Racquetball, handball, basketball, hardball. . . .
There're lots of sports in the world you play with a ball,
And you can't play any of them if you're an oddball.
If you want to be good at any such sport,
You've certainly got to give it your all.
No such sport is as easy as playing with a snowball.
Choose one of those sports and pay all your attention to it.
If you don't devote your energy to it,
You'll surely fall into a downfall.
Before your practice, you shouldn't take a highball
Or any other kind of alcohol.
If you do, you may get into a pitfall.
During a game, there're numerous dangers to forestall.
If you don't take enough care, you may rush into a sidewall.
Or you may even get your head crushed against a stonewall.
Be on guard not to catch cold during a snowfall.
If you make any such blunder, you'll end up being a goofball.
After your practice, take a good rest, which is a real cure-all.
Whenever you feel dry in your nose, use a spray of aerosol.
If your girlfriend is with you, ask her to put on a camisole.
If she's a beautiful girl from Nepal,
Have her use a brilliant orange parasol,
Whose design reminds you of a refreshing waterfall.
If you feel uncomfortable kissing her,
Try some toothpaste with xylitol,
Perhaps with a little bit of menthol.
That may remind you of your ex-lover
Who spoke beautiful Provençal.
When you think you've eaten too much,
Start watching your level of cholesterol.
If you don't, you may be no better than a neanderthal.
If you do, your life will get back to a pastorale.
Well, I think that by now I've told you all.
(June 28, 2015)
I wake up in the morning,
with my joints all stiff and sore.
I reach for that magic tool,
I keep in the dresser drawer.
At first it starts to tingle,
I feel like a little kid.
Suddenly the heat kicks in,
now I feel like I once did.
Oh Biofreeze,
When I roll you on my skin.
your healing power begins,
and your warmth starts to sink in,
I’m ready for the world again.
My neck, shoulders, back, and thumbs,
I smear it on one and all.
Don’t care if I start to smell,
like a bottle of menthol.
One thing I must caution you,
this part you must understand.
Before you go take a whizz,
just make sure you wash your hands.
I
School bag, blue shirt, hair parted on the right,
Dal-rice, clock ticking away in delight;
Cycles stop, wagons with seasonal crop,
Get to her class before the gates shut tight.
II
The obsession froths beyond the eavesdrop,
Secrecy brews a moral of Aesop;
Friends don't yet know, the fear that the eyes show,
Grows the need to shout it from the rooftop.
III
Geography is boring, the maps tow
Useless details such as where's Kosovo;
It's all pretense, the absorption intense,
But her attention sets the world aglow.
IV
The wistful heart struggles to make some sense
And accept pain at misery's expense;
Then her comment, and the motives ferment,
The surging tide sweeps over the heart's fence.
V
Evening is drunk with sunlight, the day's spent,
Menthol erases the cigarette scent;
She fades from sight, the mundanities write,
A long ride back under the clouds' intent.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Date: 24 / 10 / 2016
One of the reasons I used present tense is, for me this is a memory trapped in time, like a photograph. A day in life from simpler time.
Often after the fallen snow is swept, glory
Is found when the treading surface is clear.
A light dusting is a breeze to remove. For heavy slush I trade
My broom for a shovel. It is foolhardy to pretend
That things with bristles can glide
Between and expand the substrate/snow interface.
Between the air and my skin there is no interface
Even my coon skin cap only provides small glory
Reminding me that menthol shaving cream enhances the glide
Of my razor and the sting of the cold air, but also makes clear
My ambition to clear the snow away and not pretend
To scatter dandruff from the icy landscape. It seems I must trade
My alter ego of a cosmetologist for that of a cosmologist. Such a trade
Will enable me to outgrow this climate. Then my interface
Communication skills will improve so I won’t use silence to pretend
I am a solid, deep thinking woodsman and I can just enjoy the glory
Of making small talk about the weather, thus allowing me to clear
My conscience about past regrets and glide
Through interpersonal interactions moment by moment. Ah! To glide
Like snow from the blade of a shovel, I wouldn’t trade
That social grace for 10,000 driveways clear
Of snow or ice or volcanic ash. Interface--
That common boundary, the transition from disgrace to glory
As I become a cosmologist and no longer pretend
That people are stupid zoo animals and hopefully not pretend
That I am a stupid zoo animal. Seasons of the year glide
Together and glide apart. Midwinter ice in all its glory
Is dangerous and fun. Will you trade
Your cramp-ons for ice skates? The seasonal interface
From spring to summer is never clear.
The same is true for the other seasons, let’s be clear
About that. I have stressed this before and will again; to pretend
Is to deny. Everything solitary has an interface
With something else and therefore is not solitary. To glide
Is to not experience friction. At some point you may want to trade
Slip for grip. Never bask in glory
Unearned. The web interface has clear
Flaws, don’t be ignorant. Glory may never pretend
To glide toward despair, but neither of those would I be willing to trade.
I like El Paso...the heat, the dust, the heat,
I like the cars and the hats the cops wear,
cowboys in a rusty B movie,
but most of all I like the people, the
janitors and doctors and newsreaders,
who don't care if they're American,
Mexican or both...
and the bars are cool, so cool... some
smell of menthol and others like a clean
latrine,
but that's OK..it's alright and I don't judge,
and the girls are single and friendly and they
like you 'cos your'e tall and white, with dollars
and tooled brown boots
but most of all I like the warm wind that blows
in sweet guitar music and shimmering light
from across the big bridge, tussleing the hair
of the janitors and doctors and newsreaders,
who don't know if they're American, Mexican, or both.
Puff ...
The smoke coming from the chimney stack
is not the kind of smoke you like
Puff ...
The smoke coming from the chimney stack
is gonna second hand you a heart attack
She's a two pack-a-day woman,
she smoke two packs of cigarettes a day
X-rays say her lungs look like a dirty ashtray;
but she keeps on smoking anyway,
she keeps on puffing away
Puff ...
The smoke coming from her chimney stack
is not the kind of smoke you like
Puff ...
The smoke coming from her chimney stack
is gonna second hand you a heart attack
She chain smokes like a choo-choo train;
she has nicotine-itis on the brain,
her black tar lips blow circle smoke rings
Cigarette smoke so thick, it make your eyes sting ...
but she keeps on puff, puff, puffing
Puff ...
The smoke coming from her chimney stack
is not the kind of smoke you like
Puff ...
The smoke coming from her chimney stack
is gonna second hand you a heart attack
She puffs and puffs like a chimney stack,
she loves to daily suck back two packs
Even though she's always out of breath,
she's gotten comfortable with cheating death
Today, there's only one cigarette in the last pack left;
time to go shopping, and be a carton whore
And when she comes back from the grocery store,
she's gonna binge smoke and place a few more
dynamite cancer sticks on the menthol tracks:
Trainwreck's gonna happen when her lungs collapse
Puff ... life snuffed
spectacles crackle...
tortured song of the grackle
menthol can’t tackle
here i sit,
having made a bet
that i could poem
off the shelf;
about what(?)
anything(?)
yes (help myself)
just had a cigarette
(comes to mind)
and in some alloted time
(while i be-sotted with menthol)
i'll write all;
phrase and blurb,
noun and verb,
penned to please
quick as a breeze
the question is should
my words be understood
if there-in be a dis-ease;
punctuation(?)
versus
intonation(?)
(a 'seeming' naught to please)
however, there is hope
within the scope
of script of readers feast,
hints and clues
from which to choose
(the most being the least)
to be smote
by.....another smoke
i'll have to run out of words, or,
by writing of the absurd
for the sake of it,
the shake of it,
turds
got to step out
for a minute
have a bout
with a finite
one less to live
one left to light
Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry."
— Mary Oliver
Poetry is a life-cherishing force
Nourishing my mind and inmost soul
It's a therapeutic menthol caressing my pores
Every moment I read, my happiness roll
Each time I share my joy is an utmost pool
Poetry is a life-cherishing source
My unlimited reservoir of inspiration
Storage of wisdom for life-going-coarse
Quenching thirst of knowledge, no starvation
For life’s beauty... more on satisfaction, adoration
Poetry is my life-cherishing force
Restoring my strength, driving my power
Midst enervation from a long-day-course
Found enough refreshment on my diversion hour
Painting my life and thoughts flowing like a river
Nov. 23, 2022 9.25pm
Poetry is a life-cherishing force Contest
Contest Judged: 12/1/2022 9:51:00 AM
Sponsored by: Sotto Poet
Place; 3 (up to 4 multi-w)
Falls trees turning leaves
Blanket the bare autum ground
Skies of grayish mist
A prelude of snowey days
We awate the menthol spring...
Tanka,sorta...
Warlords love the crack cackling sound ...
faint vapors smelled worldwide,
when twine toking on the choking peace pipe
Lying lips huffing and puffing,
blowing smoke out the barrel rear end
Frontal sphincter holes
open and close ...
Pre-negotiated spoils fanning the wind
Rub two cancer sticks together,
to start a third global forest fire blazing
Twin Smoky Bear false witnesses,
like Pilate and Herod —
Duo hardcore sworn enemies
becoming so Maryjane best bud friends
Truth is a menthol breakdown,
a Kool summer breeze on a hot, Camel caravan night
Warning of mirage oasis whisperings
filling the Death Valley desert air with nuclear fright
Warlords love doing the iron lung Scorpion crawl,
passing the slim peace pipe inside of the toilet stall
Flushing nicotine hope down the porcelain drain;
huffing and puffing,
with covetous tar face delight
Singing with ember glee in the Inferno dire reign
Smoking jacket pleasure
fills talky polluted atmosphere
with syrupy cough pain
Paranoia beyond measure,
empties womb palpitating fear:
Tick tick puffer insane
Warlords love the milk poppy urn sound,
silent nods heard worldwide ...
when dumping vow ashes from the peace pipe
Truth is a menthol breakdown,
a Marlboro spring breeze on a cold, Salem witch night
Warning of hibernating pyre whisperings
filling the Negev autumn air with nuclear winter fright
Warlords love the crack cackling sound ...
vaporized air felt worldwide,
when chain toking on the cranium choking peace pipe
Lying lips huffing and puffing,
blowing idol smoke out the gunny shark rear end
Sphincter jaw Pinocchio nose
open and close ...
Fungi ‘shroom spittle spores make the sky darken
Warlords love the crystal meth blurb sound,
LSD plan heard dark web worldwide ...
Life-Stopping Detonations
be brimstone smoke coming from a broken peace pipe
Have You Tried My Slushie? By
Briar Rabbit
I don’t know if it brings the boys to the
yard
I’d want some time to myself
I think..
I think of angel dust
while
liberty belles call my name
cement and concrete as I leave the shrink
i am bowed down some
staring at my shoes
as I walk to my stop
I take PM dawn pills
For Purples edge,
Irony, I know
It’s bubble and burble
And bubble and grape flavor in my mouth
Chewy fat chunk of life’s worth
Like Nicki sticks to a wad
I chew it
It’s imprinted
Yummy and pink bubbles
Imprinted on the wrapper
Wrapper
Rapper
I like smoking
Smoking
Puro
Cheap menthol lights
The Inhale and the burn of the
Humo
In my nose
On the top and to the sides of my lungs
Smoking
Puro
I’ve become a Whiz Kid @ this
And I learned to become
a cowboy kid cigarette
aficionado
I watch my toes
Shoe gaze
Blow some smoke
Through my mouth and my nose
And then I breathe
I am a
Smoke Tamer
It’s purple-blue, tinged grey
Curls in form only real Wizards
Can create – Dragons, Curly cues,
and ring after ring after ring
When I’ve had my high , I pinch my cherry
Roll it between my fingers and test the
edge
Of this proto-promethean glory
Index to thumb
My butt at ease
And my feet alive
I pet a bug
Or an ambitious spider
Cupping my hands I put her back
in the bush. Apologizing
after letting her explore my fingertips
my hands, my wrist, my arm
to my elbow and then I let her know, no
gently
I cry a little inside when i do, because
she’s
curious and seeking comfort in some
shade
like I do.
Our feelings I think are
mutual
I am still..
Sticking with Fabolous
My slushie named orange and blue
Half to three quarters gone
I’m sippin it and three a party in
My pants, no ********, a wow in my
Mouth, and a brain freeze.
The brain freeze gives me a *****
Seriously.
I’m serious.
I cross my legs, lift up my hood
Arrange two rings and a cross
Pick at the crud under
My nails, maybe I should
Pull down my shades
Arrange my pant legs
Again.
Slurp my slushie.
Brain freeze and I’m turned on
again
I blush and pull down my hood
I’m still sitting at the bus shelter
I light another one,
My smoking curls,
Curling
curly-curly
curly ques..
MY smoke curls
MY smoke curls
Jamie decides today will be the day
we take off to Kansas.
We've both dreamt of it,
driving off to flat lands
where we would be swept off,
cackling,
on our brooms to Oz.
I laugh,
an unfunny laugh.
Chipped and cracked,
it tumbles
across the phone line.
She laughs too,
an unfunny laugh,
and I stare at the phone
my eyes shaking,
clutching my life force
of Camel Jade cigarettes.
Dreaming suddenly of the Petroleum bridge
because it is so black today
and how I want to walk across
in my addled bare feet
like I did when we were seventeen
and find her
at end,
long hair sardonically twirled around her
pinky finger
in the tattered red
sun stained flannel,
and her purple converse
tennis shoes.
She remarks
that we wouldn't be able to reach off the
ground anyway,
as old and wide as we have gotten
and that
menthol cigarettes wouldn't
probably be popular with
midgets.
And I agree with her,
and laugh,
and cry,
and wonder
what silver cylindrical dreams use
when they move away
a slow sail down the Allegheny
a broken down old U-haul
or perhaps,
.........brooms and twisters
farther than Kansas, farther than Oz.