Long Ashtrays Poems
Long Ashtrays Poems. Below are the most popular long Ashtrays by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ashtrays poems by poem length and keyword.
Things That Should Grow on Trees
Things that should grow on trees include:
big sea birds with
extremely long wings, old-fashioned shoe
horns, tape recorders who
play sporadically cries of
grief, blank
photographs, stamps with
printed eyeballs, people with
colourless or
very nearly colourless hair and
skin and
pinkish eyes, the word
unfortunately, the word
regrettably, the word
even though, miniature
pianos, vampire
teeth, leaf
blowers, False
IDs, illuminated loyalty
cards, the watchful and
attentive, damp
clothes, pom
poms, glass
shards, pack of
cards, rope knot
balls, plastic
trinket boxes, ashtrays (glass only), lips (too
animal lips), spines (too
animal spines), toast, headache
tablets, running
shoes, and
whores.
take my ashes
throw them to
the wind where
they may be
spirited away
taken places
randomly took
take a look and
see where the
rambling winds
have taken me
from here to
Timbuktu i
blew in on
a noreaster
but further
south i was
being sucked
up by a French
maid's vacuum
which whom i
simply replied
c'est la vie but
part of me went
straight to the
stratosphere
and landed me
on a snowflake
at Everest's peak
where i would
never melt and
meld back into
life's stream
yet another ash
oppositly in Egypt
found fellowship
with the ka of a milk
bathed beauty who
said she knew me
in another life time
but then time and
time again mostly
my scattered ashes
touched down as if
one small step for
man and landed a
piece of me so
peacefully in
seemingly every
day places
placing me
in ashtrays and
even on my Muse's
car windshield
but before she
could use her
fluid and wipers
up ran a man with
a dirty water bucket
and spit while wielding
as he held it
a squeegee hammer
as if to attack her
window she screamed
not knowing not or
giving a rat's
ash
about me
she realized
that she had
though i had no
change
Form:
when the pack is empty
nothing out weighs the need
the brain is sick
and the breath it pleads
even unlit
it brings us calm
but the absence of ciggie
is a cause for alarm
our smoking friends
throw us life savers
but when they're gone
where is our savior
at times like these
there is no need to quit
there is only one answer
that can answer our wit
all friends desert us
in our deepest need
ciggie is just another friend
undisguised that is greed
even cars have lighters and
ashtrays to please
that unknown factor
that can bring us to our knees
pen and paper
and ashtray near by
taking that breath
wondering what to write
we believe it's helping
what we're doing to ourself
it may be relaxing
but when it's gone
it's something else
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.
7/11/21
Never been the smoothest talker
Got to make the best of it before I need a walker
Had a lot or nothing to offer
Wasn't always worth the bother
4 days a week I work with and help doctors
Occasionally seeing Boxers
She got some knockers
Too many peeps are squawkers
I'm flying sky high inside a saucer
Above waters
With otters
Never been an imposter
Thought I had a chance and how quick I lost her
It's all been testing my dignity and honor
Never been a prince, always been a pauper
An endless battle to prosper
In the end it was or wasn't a shocker
The truth locked behind a locker
Or bouncing around like a ball in soccer
People being respectful or a stalker
In a world full of good intentions and slaughter
Some folks heroes and others monsters
Objects of value and sentiment behind a glass case
A giant rat race
Traveling slow or at a fast pace
Winding up in first or last place
Oh in that case
No wonder the sad face
This all left a bad taste
Good and bad days
Glass crutches in the ashtrays
While going in and out of a vast maze
It's much more than kind of
A big deal if you can't make your mind up
Before time's up
That's why the past and history is there to remind us
Sit around or get out and try stuff
That's for you to decide what
Find out you might hate or like much
If hate was fuel, our country would burn right now
If hate was food, our grocery stores would be empty
If hate was a cigarette, it would be butts in ashtrays of ashes
If hate was the wind, it would be fiercely howling
If hate was candy, people wouldn’t have any teeth
If hate was a computer, it would malfunction and crash
If hate was the rain, we would be flooded by now
The hate is spreading across our land, at everyone’s feet
Filling the air we breathe and reaching our ears day to day
What will you do to counter it, stay dry and tune it out?
What will you do to survive without flowing in it?
Heidi Sands
10/28/19
Before corporate café`s took over and Starbucks became so ubiquitous, on every corner of your city, small business cafés thrived. There was Antique Row Café Ave; four café`s that stood alongside each other, noted for their unique furniture and boasted their own peculiar interior. The antique row cafés were so cool, as you could amble around and observe intriguing artifacts and some for sale, and pictures of famous stars whom you grew up with. Very nicely decorated.
Tiperillo, sweet and husky tobacco smoke ascending from golden ashtrays, and lava lamps bohemian chic—purple plush couches, and stylish bars. We met twice a week, Flor, Cece, and I, and a few other college buddies. We studied, shared ideas and asked one another for advice.
I met Joey the manager of the café’s, resembling a young Salvador Dali`. He answered my questions about the unique and endearing bar café`s his father once owned, before they were drowned out under the heavy hand of corporate takeover. Hoping one day they’ll return with their indispensable charm and upbeat youthful ambiance. Until then it’s corporate dull and uncomfortable seating at the Starbucks!
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.
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
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