Long Ashtrays Poems
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Three Score and Fifteen Years Ago
By Franklin Price
11/14/2020
Three score and fifteen years ago
I was born upon this earth
Joined a family of eight,
Was the ninth, for what it's worth
Four sisters and two brothers
A mother, father there for me
I was to be the last of them
That nevermore would be
Was brought home to my siblings
Who were shown I was a boy
They were told it was not Christmas
That I was not a little toy
Spread of ages, ten long years
Stuart Taylor to begin
Then, Nancy Ruth and Shirley Lou
Stopping then, would be a sin
Earl Joseph, Laura Gertrude
Were the next ones in the game
Judith Carol just before me
Franklin Arthur is my name
Brought home to Merritt Island
Yes, the one of lunar lore
Was then a growing citrus place
Barely had a country store
We had no city water
No AC then, you know
No TV there for watching
Listened to the radio
Milk brought by the milkman
Port Canaveral had no cruise
Truman was the president
The local paper brought the news
Many years have gone by
Helped shoot man to the moon
My father and my mother gone
Some siblings, way to soon
Nancy Ruth and Laura Gertrude
And myself are still around
They're now octogenarians
Five more years and I'll be crowned
My life has been exceptional
The best wife for fifty years
In seven days it's fifty-one
Can still remember that from here
Left High School in sixty four
Sixty- eight in Vietnam
Sixty-nine sent man off to the moon
It's great to be the who I am
Married, November, sixty-nine
To my wife and daughter too
They were the rocks within my life
For the things that I would do
Involved with start up ventures
Traveled all around the globe
Collected hotel ashtrays
Lots of shampoo and a robe
Had my own small business
A little longer than a score
Rode on Harley cycles
Three hundred thousand miles and more
Rode all the lower forty-eight
Three provinces above
A thousand miles in Africa
All of these with my true love
So you see it's been a great life
And I'm only seven- five
I got up this fine morning
It's still great to be alive
Friends and family, who read this
And know of these things I say
Know you helped to make it great
As I traveled on the way
Here's a toast to all of us
And the passed days since our birth
I'm sending love to all of you
For all that may be worth
Some places you don’t write about. You survive them.
Frost on the telly, piss on the stairs,
Smells like bleach, burnt foil, and prayers.
Boiler’s gone. Sockets dead.
Someone’s screaming. Someone bled.
Tinfoil wings fill every bin,
Ashtrays stacked with yesterday’s sin.
Fridge blows air. The kitchen’s grave—
Nothing left, and none to save.
Upstairs she rocks a silent kid,
Eyes like glass, ribs half-hid.
Skin all wire, voice all gone—
“He screams less when I use alone.”
Three doors down, a bloke named Rick
Dealt ten bags to fund his fix.
Found his brother stiff and blue—
Took his coat, then shot up too.
They found her curled behind the bins,
Legs like rope, cuts on her shins.
Said she slipped.
Said it was rain.
But silence screams
when soaked in shame.
Kid got stabbed by the corner shop—
Twelve years old, still learning to chop.
Mum lit candles. No one came.
Council rinsed, but the stain remained.
Still—
still—
Through all the filth and smashed-out glass,
a streak of sun begins to pass.
It cuts across the piss and pain,
slides through blinds, through cracked windowpane.
It brushes past the silent kid,
Eyes like glass, ribs half-hid.
No cries now, just the ticking room—
Still rocked gently in her gloom.
It lingers at Rick’s old front door,
His coat long gone, his name no more.
His ghost still trapped where the rot runs deep—
No peace, no fix, no final sleep.
It finds the girl still by the bins,
Track marks raw on paper skin.
She doesn’t move, just lets it burn—
“Smoke still holds me. Wait your turn.”
The sun don’t ask what you’ve done wrong.
It just turns up. Don’t stay too long.
Don’t save the good. Don’t curse the bad.
It lights the wreckage, leaves you mad.
And while it’s here, we breathe. We fight.
We crawl one inch. We steal some light.
A thread of gold. A breath. A flame.
On streets they curse but still proclaim.
So write it raw. Don’t make it sweet.
Don’t bleach the blood. Don’t clean the street.
We ain’t saints. We ain’t pure.
But we’re still here.
And we endure.
This is the sound of neglected Britain—
forgotten, boarded, pissed-on, driven.
A country that don’t fix, just shame.
And sun that shines on piss and pain.
How small we were sitting in the backseat of that mammoth car. We were dwarfed on the giant sofa-like bench waiting like a great amusement ride about to start. While we waited we explored our new surroundings. The lining inside the cavernous car was short-hair and smooth and as we ran our small hands across the surface, it felt like a young boy’s scalp after his first summer haircut. It was grey, the color of an elephant toy that had been won by our uncle last year at the fourth of july carnival. We explored the shiny chrome ashtrays. You could see your reflection in them like a mirror and we wondered if the owner used them to shave in the mornings as his chauffeur drove him to work. They were spring-loaded and snapped viciously at our little fingers. They smelled of foul ash and stale gum. There were large cranks with polished brown knobs, handles that controlled the windows. Turning them took all our strength like cranking the hand pump for water in the kitchen at Grandmas house on the farm. There were baby windows beside the big ones and they closed with little widget clips, swiveling inward so you could control the direction and amount of air that rushed in when the car was in motion. Too small to see outside, we sat dwarfed in the backseat watching the tops of trees go by and playing with a doll and a green plastic soldier. The doll was homemade from an old sock. The soldier, alone, separated from an army of plastic soldiers that came in a bag we could not afford. He was found, as most toys were, in the gutter or on the schoolyard, abandoned by the more affluent children. Small, simple toys that would not be missed from a rich kids over-stuffed closet. We knew we had to be quiet, for to make noise would be to draw attention that would come in the form of punishment. A slap on the bare thigh of a young boy in shorts or a young girl in a dress would leave a red welt for hours. The ride always seemed so very long that soon our patience would give out and a bump in the road would trigger a tidal wave of emotions; a push escalating to a shove, a pinch and then a shout. The crested wave would end in a crashing roar with a parents’ curse, a stinging slap, and a whimpering cry. Only puddles remaining, tide pools composed of wet pants and tears.
Each step upon those attic stairs took me closer
to mesmerizing clouds of sandalwood and jasmine
that lingered in the musty air of a dark, foreboding room
that certainly held more than just my secrets.
Candles burned unevenly on wax-encrusted wicks.
The ashtrays placed strategically,
no need to empty one.
A picture frame and loose photos lay beneath the dust.
My altar held all of this and became a witness
to the destruction of my soul.
And, on those stairs, in between my room and the attic,
I swear, my honor slipped away.
The power of a soul to regenerate itself offers us
a second chance with which we're faced with
brand new choices in the same cold world.
And time gives us the luxury of being able to forget
and continue on carrying invisible scars that only
rarely get noticed, but do serve as a cruel reminder.
The front stoop was always good for thinking.
Reflecting on the static between the trees in the woods behind the house.
I never meant to cause such distemperedness.
A deranged condition, I couldn't see that I caused.
All the while, those ghosts fed off of me.
The turbulence got worse around a time of
white-covered rooftops and a high gas bill.
The psychotic shrieks of the cat in a corner of the bathroom
confirmed that it was evil I was facing.
And so I tipped the bottle and feigned a smile.
Because I knew I lost my honor long before that day.
A trip to the church, then a stop at the hospital
impacted the perceptions held by the eyes looking on.
Behold! What they see matches an idea of what should be
and suddenly they hand you your honor back.
All this time I've lived without honor and
according to them, I've earned it's return.
Lift the dark heavy storm clouds and
slide down the rainbow that awaits.
Their masks have smiles I emulate
and together we sit and wait.
The day has now come and those eyes are
once again, keen to what they see that shouldn't be.
A realization has not yet hit,
that the honor I was granted was based on the same
abhorrent dishonor that has come to light today.
Why should I be concerned with this honor,
when it's they who decide when to give it and take it away?
Now I find my own honor
completely outside of them everyday.
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
A room filled with sadness
Standing alone in a room filled with sadness
Photograph smiles in a frame on the shelf
Ashtrays are filled with a death wish still breathing
Lighting another in spite of myself
A hand full of pills and a glass of Jack Daniels
The tube shows a movie, Bogart and Bacall
Through heavy eyes, I am still thinking of you
Only the floor there to meet as I fall
When on the door comes a knock unexpected
Shattering plans that I must put on hold
Closing one eye as I look through the peep hole
A shadowy figure is there in the cold
Twisting the lock and then turning the handle
Chilled is the blast that runs into my face
There I find death with his sickle untarnished
Needless to say my sad heart starts to race
“What are you doing, you can’t be that stupid
It’s not your time for this world to depart
Just for some girl who has left you here crying
Wanting to die for a damn broken heart”
I stopped and I thought as I heard this thing speaking
Then shoved my finger inside of its chest
“I’ll do as I please you know not what you’re saying
It’s my time to go and I think it is best”
“God what a loser, oh wait, I meant Satan
Fine, suit your self, we’ve a place you can lie
Swallow those pills but I’ll take that Jack Daniels
I will get thirsty while watching you die”
I thought of us and what I would be leaving
How much it hurt you had found someone new
Then of my heart that was shattered in pieces
The sound of your voice when you shouted, “we’re through”
That you are happy with some other poet
How every scar of my life has now bled
Why would I want to give you satisfaction
Knowing you’d smile when you heard I was dead
Then like a bolt or a light bulb exploding
Came a decision as clear as a bell
I’ll stick around in this room filled with sadness
It’s got to be worse than that place he calls hell
This is one of two poems I have written for John Hamilton’s Lost Love poetry contest, but haven’t decided which I will enter. I will post the other in a little while. : )
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?
ROHRBACH CAFE
Intimacy.
A place
of shared warmth, an atmosphere of muted shadows and candlelight,
where
emotions, profoundly sincere,
softly glow,
flare,
then wane
until, fully consumed, they are dimmed
and gentled
by intrinsic breezes of serenity.
A cafe
of quiet murmers, hushed revelations
among tables close,
but afar,
where
evening lit trivialities in crystal glasses
are served,
savored,
and emptied,
only to be ordered again.
And with each new serving history is repeated
in casually spoken laments,
unchronicled
for want of an historian skilled
in seeing the future through past events.
Four chairs, caned and porous
(as truth is known to be)
surround each pedestaled table,
marbled
white with veins of black, ratifying
the Utopian lie of right and wrong
and obscuring the reality
of doubtful tones of hazy gray.
A small red rose
in a faded china vase
fragrantly masks the stalesmoke air
with wisps
of scented empathy and care,
a centerpiece
that freshens the soul with aromas of love,
and sweetens the heart's musty despair.
While ashtrays,
chipped and yellowed, are emptied
once in a while,
as smoldering issues are cleared
for new ones
to repeat themselves.
A subtle lamp,
veneered with dust and
dispassionately
suspended from the ceiling above,
dimly
outlines illuminated mysteries and cloaks in shadow
dark,
unharkened
actualities.
And music,
soft, reflective,
fills the room with flowing undertones
composed
to orchestrate separate and dischordant souls,
point,
counterpoint,
into a sentient, symphonic whole.
* * * * * * * * * * * * REFRAIN * * * * * * * * * *
Problems solved and griefs struck down
in pleasant comraderie,
tranquil smiles from anxious frowns
are formed in the Rohrbach Cafe.
But why are the tables empty,
why are the chairs unfilled?
Why are soulful fantasies,
yet unborn, mercilessly killed?
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.
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