Cigar Poems - Poems about Cigar

A cigar is appreciated simply, By observing how it is burned. From where it starts till it ends, The fire erases its way forward. As the smoke favors consume, It's like life how the story goes From birth to its maturity show. Going forward written as will, Like history unfold its all done, Read every pages up to the end. Retold its content to every...

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Smoke Another Cigar Under pressure Blue smoke, flair Dwelling on yesterday Dreadful memories Drink away your sorrows Ashes burning, secrets Recluse in the dark A dim light over shadows Abandoned self-worth Just growing old An unforgiving road Breathe in cigar smoke Let out the guilt Self indulge Rugged skin turns into leather Plant another tombstone...

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The man sits on a bench and smokes A not-allowed cigar, His big brown dog stretched at his feet; Most mornings – there they are. I’ve never seen him crack a smile Or even have his say With other people or his dog, So strangers stay away. He looks imposing, sending vibes To simply let him be And all obey his message, That’s, of course, including...

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Nearly on the mountain's summit. To plant his "I did it!" flag, Only to be flushed down By fate's rumbling avalanche. Nevertheless, keep your pity; ...

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The wind smokes the scent The scent of the flowers Spreading it even more Slowly, the wind blows away Leaving behind, just the smoke Though it will come back, to finish the unfinished cigar It will come back soon Spreading the flowery smoke...

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I am not complaining. Not that you would hear me Even if I did. But; My father hates me. I am not a story teller, And I am no poet. You can be sure of what I tell you. Passionately, My father hates me. One winter night he burned my blanket With the stub of his cigar. He was not remorseful. Because, My father hates...

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You can’t teach poetry pro forma it’s the effort of a fool You can’t gain sagacity from a book or by the golden rule You can’t be what you haven’t lived the safety net misleads You can’t bleed with another’s blood transfused each phrase deceives The dance floor or the balcony true seekers get to choose And write those words their pain has forged —that dilettantes...

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I may not be happy with the way things are, I may express dissatisfaction In my local bar, But I refuse to burn down my street in extreme reaction to some civil distraction-- seems to me somewhat bizarre. I must take care of business in my own neighborhood, Being no part of any fringe faction. Give me a rocker and a cigar And let me live in...

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Rosco Adagio, aka for the Cross Promotional event that was secretly planned to get rid of reporter hype and fakenews. Dance floor records was named the place for the secet meetings. Due to the lack of cooperation between several minor league promotions: meaning their unwillingness to unite and promote matches together to up there numbers and gain more media attention, several larger promotions started...

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No cigar— a narrowly missed success, in this poem happily missed. COLD BUT NO CIGAR Rainy today, cold enough for warm pajamas. Yellow nest of autumnal loveliness. Picturesque before starkness fills the pane. Incisors of another season, threatening to pinch me with impending Winter— not so fast, dying my hair green! 10/29/2021...

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The aroma of a cigar in the morning and that same evening Stevie Van Zandt on the cover of a book…what do these two things have in common…let’s take a closer look. That morning on our walk as we neared the water…something quite bizarre…mixed with the distinctive smells of the ocean…was the aroma of a cigar. Immediately...

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With a nice cigar I blow a perfect smoke ring, And the ring holds briefly. I consider that focus of energy-- The snapping of my jaw. The ring succumbs to the evening: Hard-edged blue smoke Burns off the hot stick end ...

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This Friday night was as-black-as-coal, he ignites a blackberry-colored cigar, His belly is filled with fried chicken, Hennessy, and caviar. This is, without-a-doubt, undeniable… The intoxication is accredited, and honest-to-goodness notarized, The spirit hypnotizes critical-thinking, the caterpillar forgets the past as a butterfly. This is, without-a-doubt, undeniable… Each step is measured, closer to the building filled with aria and gloss, The alluring...

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The Cigar Store Indian Written: by Tom Wright May 2004 No painted war-horse Is found tied outside, He now stands abandoned In a cigar store; His cheeks testify of Match marks bearing witness, Of our past prejudices, That prevailed in our core; Prejudices inflict wounds Which sutures cannot close Tom ...

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Someone smells like smoke. I can barely stand to sit here. Clenching my teeth, I have a headache, everywhere near. A friendly smoker has sat next to me, oh, dear. I jump up, because her smell is killing me, so clear. I am an asthmatic, and I cannot breathe next to a smoker, I think. In the nicest...

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