Long Cigarette Poems
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The poor boy's got a temper, Rottweiler style
With cigarette-loving parents and a mind full of worry
When the lunch bell rings, he lets out a chuckle
"They'll never mess with me again and they'll be afraid"
Locker room tussles turned to punches and blood
Black eyes became his signature makeup style
Snapped his innocence like a freshly fallen twig
Nobody would crash through the persona he'd build
Glock in his art project, ammunition in pockets
A trench coat blanketed his skinny, pale body
When the shots rang out in cafe, his peers rushed
To the closets, the small classrooms, the temporary havens
Blood's on the young man's hands, but it isn't his
Belongs to the peer who told him boys can't cry
To the girl who rejected his invitation to prom
To the football player who always managed to outshine him
To the harshest, crankiest teachers
And even that of the fellow man who clothed his back during hardship.
And with a touch of his gun to the roof of his mouth
A quick demise met the boy who chose violence
While his name appeared in legislation and internet forums
The ones of his victims turned into bright monuments
For the athlete
For the young girl
For the educators
For the bully
And lastly, for the best friend
The boy who chose to kill won't feel so godly
But the victims, they live in our hearts like deities.
For Mystic Rose Rose
Bring me Home
Poetry Contest
Tuesday
28th September 2021
Bring Me Home
Today back when
What I'd like to give you is
A subtle heady mix of perfume and cologne
Before or just incase my mind and
recognitions fail me
Based purely on my childhood memories
Of what my mother and father's
actually smelled like to me
Which was embedded and infused into the
threadbare carpets born out over time inside
our family home
That once I was eventually forced into
finally replacing
Was then lost in time forever unable to return
Wishing although brand new later I never
had to replace
Because something new never will be able
to evoke the sensibility of the past
And once it's finally gone ever able to replace
As something you simply took for granted
as a certain scent or smell
No 1 else on this earth possesses but them
Like mum retuning home from a long
hard 12 hour shift from the hospital
where she once nursed breezing bye
With an aromatic blend of industrial
detergent and cigarette smoke
And dad embedded with what can only
be described as electricity and T.C.P
Garnered from the tubes that we're the
main component in the back used to
power old t.v sets
Is what every night I pray to dream
Following whichever comes first mother's
perfume or dad's cologne
Bings me home
And may I also take this opportunity of thanking you
Oh Mystic
For making me take the time to
stop and smell the sweet scented
rose's of my past once again
And for reminding me just how truly blessed
and grateful I should be
Europe is stuck in the past
Europe’s leaders have to see that the world has changed but continue to pursue a globalist agenda through the EU, where all of Europe’s nations from the cold North to temperate Spain should speak with the same voice, in happy unity
The Great Victor Orban disagreed and was hated, he believed that individual countries should decide their own future to create, if you like, a multi-power structure; globalists angrily objected to this state of affairs
Up from dark minds the Russia hatred arose among the leaders, suggesting they could arm Ukraine to go on fighting a lost war but the people do not fear Russia, in Norway it is a place for shopping, buying Russian vodka and so on
In Norway, whoever party is in charge lays down laws restricting what their inhabitants can do or not do and think, knowing what is best for the people believe, and they are not ashamed to bring religion into this. This is a micro-cosmos of
Europe’s strangulation of people’s free will and they have the nerve call this social democracy which to a set of rules that is an enemy of free will, free expression where people are banned for having an opinion contrary to officialdom
You might think restriction of booze and how much vodka you can take home after a trip to Russia, by-laws are made to make you safe and before you know, you can be arrested for carrying a cigarette lighter in your pocket
Scribe Under Fire
The wall had been there for an eternity
closing gaps of time and sacred places
field stones memories and gentle caress
Hans could not write any longer any
shorter it was too loud and far too quiet
the truth did not escape the lonely
fortress of sheltered dreams’ betrayal
He had lost a touch of his mind and a hand
already in previous senseless exchanges
luckily he was born tough and left handed
before right became wrong and left was a crime
When the trenches had become thicker
with blood bodies sticky bayonets guts
gore debatable glory and forlorn medals
Hans wrote from the depth of soul and despair
Hell bombs grenades shrapnel and agony
enacted a torrid cacophony of fire and noise
his nostrils became scorched while his ears
refused to hear and to listen any much longer
Scribbling poetry on the back of cigarette packets
his molten fountain pen fused with his mind
and he fought for his life his sanity and one
terminal act of kindness morale and advice
Hans could not release even one more shot from the
gun dangling from overburdened shoulders but
the sergeant shouted ‘attack you wretched coward
for King and for country for honour and sweet victory’
It had been a modern war and someone must have
known about shell shock or post traumatic disorder
but when they executed him with clean merciless shots
from a nameless firing squad because it was not for refusal
But for spreading fake news about the beauty of war for
sabotaging innocent minds of future generations for
soldiering with a mighty pen and not with a glittering
sword so he was shot at the wall for writing and not fighting
September 2018
Friday night beneath the blue neon lights
A honkytonk bar near surrounding heights
Full of cigarette smoke and loud music,
Boilermakers of whiskey and beer... winning trick.
The jukebox playing, "We Got Tonight." Young and able
He glances my way as he stands by the pool table.
Taking my breath away as he turns my way and say.
Do you want to dance? He holds my hand and away.
The minute that he touched my neck small bumps
Appear, the hair stood straight causing a lump
In my throat. I let him be my master.
Emotions of excitement arouse, my heart beats faster.
Bathing in warm and chills head-to-toe goosebumps
Off balance singing along to the song in my new pumps.
11/7/2019
In Ulzana's Raid,
the Native- and European-American concepts of property ownership
and rights
are incompatible and irresolvable. McIntosh
had no illusions about that. He said hating Apaches for killing whites
is like hating the desert for having no water.
I suspect the movie's not a good source of anthropological data
and overlooks the commonalities among human communities
to focus on just a few bold characters
as all art must.
I consider McIntosh fortunate
to have died commensurate with the way he lived his life,
rolling a final cigarette, nothing between him and the desert,
and no gravediggers waiting, jesting, defecating. Also,
he is lucky to have had one last, dispassionate friend
to whom there is nothing left to say, the Chiracahua tracker
Kah-ti-nay.
Last night's performance of Beauty and the Beast
may have been the most victorious, ecstatic, cohesive
moment in our little school's history. Emily was Beauty, a filament of
energy
who doesn't like to be touched and has been known to punch
boys hard. She had memorized her lines until she was hardly
Emily but only Beauty in a blue dress unselfconsciously
hiking up her tights between the Beast's advances.
Is this done in every American town and the world
over so there's no need to feel lost or lonely
ever?
There is no context for a man
outside the platoon or raiding party, home or shop.
When violence comes to the neighborhood,
the hierarchy of communicants will hold or fold
it is then the peace work proves relevant. I noticed McIntosh,
grizzled as he was, accepted the given hierarchy, a raw lieutenant's
orders,
as he did the desert and Apaches, with a shrug and foreknowledge
of the outcome.
If there's anywhere with no Emily or Beauty
we should bring them such blessings at the point of a
gun. But there is no place without Emily, not
the least-known prison in deepest space as long
as we do not hate or hurt or shun
the Beast.
A lone Nile felucca threads a path through a sorrel haze.
Morning tea outside the Winter Palace.
A Turkish cigarette mulling my wine.
The waiter is Nubian. He whistles a Cairo melody
as he sweeps the steps.
Luxor,
always one step from the desert.
Sand creeps over boulevards in serpentine waves.
Temples and hotels caught by an embalming dust; cinders
that must be swept daily under wilting shadows.
Soon Ra will walk out of the dawn.
I will barter with his face, haggle for a seared moment
of permanence.
For now, by the river, I sip tea, watch the light kindle
a far necropolis – a valley where kings gouged blood-lines
into the tombs for the sun.
I asked the owl:
“What is love?”
She said to me:
"Ask God."
I asked God:
“What is love?”
He said:
“Ask your wife.”
I asked my wife:
“What is love?”
She replied with a smile:
«Ask the owl»
I smoked a cigarette and left the city behind.
J’ai demandé à la chouette :
« Qu’est-ce que l’amour ? »
Elle m’a dit :
« Demande à Dieu. »
J’ai demandé à Dieu :
« Qu’est-ce que l’amour ? »
Il m’a répondu :
« Demande à ta femme. »
J’ai demandé à ma femme :
« Qu’est-ce que l’amour ? »
Elle m’a répondu en souriant :
« Demande à la chouette »
J’ai fumé une cigarette et ai laissé la ville derrière moi.
What is a square, a shape, container quadraphonics, a traditional rollerskate
What is an atrium, a fireplace, a closet
What is a boxing ring, a gymnasium, blackboard
What are a checkerboard, deck cards, crossword puzzle, jigsaw puzzle, dice
What is a bed/mattress/ boxsprings/sleeping bag
What is a swimming pool, shower/bathroom stall
What is an upright piano/organ
What is a refrigerator, microwave, cellphone, monitor, TV, a room laptop, curio What is a dinette, medicine cabinet, bathtub
What is a book/shelf/sheet/tablecloth/towel/handkerchief
What is a quadruplet, quadrant, quadriceps muscle, cubic, square knot
What is a cushion, table, mirror, milk carton, van
What is a suitcase, cigarette pack/carton, bowling alley
What is a filing cabinet, bureau, grandfather clock, casket
What is a trampoline, stadium, arena
What is a deck, galleria, patio, smoke pit, plaza, terrace, aquarium, cloister
What is a tent, arcade, forum, mall, piazza, right-angled, square feet, acre
What is a parking space, pinball machine
What is a color scheme Cyan, Magenta, Yellow, and Black
What is the smell of chocolate
What is the taste of cocoa
What represents the seasons
ANSWER: The number ....
2020 January 30
What's In A Number Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Juliet Ligon
I couldn’t tell you why I died
I couldn’t reason with your hurt
I know you’d like to know
Why I couldn’t further my efforts
Time tears ripples in us, you know
And nothing seems to last forever
So you might as well get over it
And the rain continues its descent
Here’s to the tyranny of we men
I’d kill myself on paper
With only revolvers left to spin
But only my sorrow leaks
From within the quivers of my pen
I can touch a little bit of Listerine
I can’t seem to get my hands on my liquor
Will someone tell me exactly what it’s about
Or will the weather wash away my doubt
I used to think I was unbreakable
Now I just want to sooth my sore throat
Why don’t you have another cigarette?
And all your fears you just may forget
Here’s to the tyranny of we men
I’d kill myself on paper
Evolving my thoughts to an end
But only my sorrow leaks
From within the quivers of my pen
I couldn’t move you
From the vaults of your worries
I tried but I couldn’t save you
We are but suicidal kings