Long Cigarettes Poems
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within the shutters of dusk
as traces of crimson lay hidden
against the ebony skies of night
amethyst and turquoise bursts
exploded above then fell
in splashes of ash
as our eyes met
there were no words
that fell the between us
just sparks as they trailed
like lost stars
the music faded
beneath the strums
of the ocean
and beats of hearts
in rhythmic pulses
where love once lingered
yet you linger
only in memory
a kiss in parting
day old beer and cigarettes
as my lips drew back
we held hands
as we walked
along the splintered path
echoes of laughter
behind our steps
as we walked along
the edges of life
your hands
caress less now
as memory recalls
the strength of your hands
in hues of purple and blue
beneath opaque tears
we no longer walk
together on a path
i walk alone
as echoes
on sidewalks
lash back
in quickened steps
my mind bleeds nightmares
deep within this hidden pain
memory remains
i cast you out
over and
over again
....again
August 20, 2019
Invitation to Play Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Sheri Fresonke Harper
i used free verse with some haiku scattered within
She is fragile like an egg so l had to treat her right, she caught me when l was drowning in my lonely misery of hangovers and cigarettes with fake smiles .
I was lost in the city like a kid who left home thinking he was the man until a jersey taught him a tough lesson for stubborn hearts stumble the most l was stumbling and mumbling she reminded me of my purpose so l stood straight.
In the face of hate , judgement , doubt and hopelessness she was the peace , the common sense and she awakened me to a place of righteousness she was heavenly sent.
We made love and everytime fireworks sparked and l saw that the 4th of July existed in the expectation of paradise in her eyes she was the sweet temptation of reality.
Like the Virgin Mary , she was the Jane next door sent by the angels to make a man realize the nugget that lies over the rainbow.....
The Right Choices
There are those who have gladly made their drugs of choice.
Then, there are those whose choices took away their voice.
When just a little lad, I stealthily opened our refrigerator, and experienced such distaste as I secretly drank hard liquor.
Fortunately, for me, neither of my parents ever discovered my crime.
In addition, thankfully, I never acquired a taste for drinking a second time.
And also when just a lad, with friends I secretly took puffs from cigarettes.
Again, I escaped detection; and for this deed, my parents never had to protest.
O, the deeds of a child that often remain hidden and never remedied.
But then, there are those who early on, choose rightly by God’s Grace alone.
They make better choices; drugs never being among them.
And O, what pain we avoid, by making the right choices.
05302016 PS Contest, That Colorful Drug, by Lewis Raynes; HM
Contest, Any HM ever, Laura Loo; 5th Pl.
On a rainy day, I float like a spider in an earthen city,
the glue of the body is my own land,
who also can I blame?
Insane to find the demonic catastrophe suppressed,
folded in the gaps of the body of the beauty!
The lamp post, like the naked thighs of the sun,
gives a shameless handshake in the afternoon,
the delight of an imaginary woman!
Being a monk, I am being oxidized by my own digestive juice, who else can I blame? So many disobedient hormones born in your own body!
The great art of walking up the night of a women's civilization;
exquisite craftsmanship of cosmic architects,
their banners have been put up for auction,
prices are rising like crazy horses in the stock market!
Men cannot move the peacock's tail to calculate the simple figure!
Who do I blame?
Fastinstru with Neanderthals,
people are now all hybrid!
The youth of a half-eaten man submerged in water,
burns in cheap cigarettes and
eats adulterated poisonous food,
like bait fish guardian.
Seeing the fertile love of Goddesses Aphreter, the fun-filled cum, when it smells like rotten jack fruit, I understand that it is my own body --prowess beast,
every time I count the grains, the poisonous bite is accumulating in my jaw!
Her silent steps the night takes,
ink-stained fingers sculpt erotica:
she is the child of disillusionment.
Crooked smile hears the words outside her head-
within reach, but not quite.
The mirrors in her room reflect
the kohl of her achievements;
she is a stream long run dry
in desperation for agriculture.
The cigarettes blister her lips
in the careless moments of broken shards;
she is the firefly caught in the summer storm,
beckoning lights have shut the windows.
Her world towers and reproves the thought
of her in the charcoal street;
she is a flower that blooms by the roads,
feeds on the dust
and craves to be steel.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 06 / 11 / 2016
The morning sun’s oppressive; a nasty b*tch in heat on Rizal Avenue,
Where vendors hawk their cigarettes, baloot, and dog meat barbecue.
The jeepneys buzz the intersection like a hornet’s nest,
But it’s quiet down the mountain once the stone has come to rest.
Olongapo is waking. Magsaysay Drive gives up its dreams.
It’s six AM in Subic Bay, Republic of the Philippines.
A sailor slouches back to base, hung over and depressed,
But it’s quiet down the mountain once the stone has come to rest.
His head is stuffed with sawdust. His mouth’s as dry as peanut shells.
Last night he guzzled mojo on top of all those San Miguels.
At midnight he responded to the curfew’s harsh request,
But it’s quiet down the mountain once the stone has come to rest.
Been a year since he’s been stateside, a year since he’s been home.
Just another duty station, and another port to roam.
When he hears a stand-up comic, he reacts indifferently;
He lost his sense of humor on the South China Sea.
He’d picked a girl named Cora, and booked an air-conditioned room.
He’d paid her fifty pesos to revel in her raw perfume.
He spoke a few Tagalog words, but she was not impressed,
And it’s quiet down the mountain once the stone has come to rest.
He held her like he knew her; embraced her warm skin tenderly.
His dreams were of Missouri; his nightmares, of the open sea.
He’d found a lonely refuge with his hand upon her breast,
And it’s quiet down the mountain once the stone has come to rest.
A new day brings its promise of beauty and of poverty;
Of cockfights in the province, and monkeys in the mango tree,
But Subic is a working port, and work must be addressed.
Still, it’s quiet down the mountain once the stone has come to rest.
Been a year since she divorced him; a year since she’s been gone,
Just another disappointment, and another West Pac dawn.
If he laughs, it’s nothing funny; it’s the sound of irony.
He lost his sense of humor on the South China Sea.
And that chip upon his shoulder’s like that ancient, fabled boulder;
He’s a victim of his own mythology.
What I got to do
For my Father
To accept me
The way I am
I am praying every
Single night for my Father
Before I go to sleep
I never miss a night praying
For my Father
Also I never let my Father down
When I make a promise I keep
I never brake it
Because that might make
My father upset
And I am not planning
To make my Father upset
Because that would be
A wrong thing to do
My Father did a lot of good things
For me
Now it is pay back time
I need to work together
To bring peace
Into so many people's lives
Because it is peace that is missing
In so many people's lives
Also the poor people are suffering
Every single day
We hate to see the poor people suffering
We know that
They are starving every single day
Nobody will feed the poor
Besides my Father and me
It is sad to see the poor people starving
And also being dehydrated
Yes we keep than hydrated
Also every night I pray for the poor
That lives in our streets
Also they spend their days
Begging for food
We don't encourage that
Because they buy rum
To drink and get high
We are not happy that
Some poor people have a drink problem
Also thanks good the poor people
Don't have the money
To buy cigarettes
Because they would be
Destroying their lungs
Also they would die
Of lung cancer
Weary, I am weary of traveling life;
this suitcase, the home I carry like a shell -
barstools, my buddies; a typewriter, my wife.
I want to settle, forsake this hotel hell,
buy my last airline ticket and throw away
this suitcase, the home I carry like a shell.
This great war keeps me writing news to dismay,
soldiers' stories hard to portray; I want to
buy my last airline ticket and throw away
all the harsh reminders, hurry home to you,
let pink stained cigarettes kiss mine in the tray.
Soldiers stories, hard to portray, I have to
forget; with you build a lovers' hideaway,
return this lonely, golden earring you gave,
let pink stained cigarettes kiss mine in the tray.
I must return to shores where freedom's flags wave,
return this lonely golden earring you gave.
Weary I am weary of traveling life -
bar stools, my buddies; a typewriter, my wife.
Copyright, November 19, 2014
what is it
to eat from your spoon
and drink from your cup
to feel your lips
from cigarettes lit up
to pretend that
we're not on a date
we follow the rules
but it is way too late
we're living the lives
of a hollywood tale
"The Forbiden Love"
where forbidding fails
slow burns the furnace
of passion to pursue
kisses filled with desire
what was old now new
forbidden once, forbidden twice
forbidden three times
forbidden by common sense,
the forsaken, and by God
but forward we take the steps
love growing stronger
marches on
next week there will be
something else
something she will do
and i'll will follow just the same
to show my love is true
Alcohol to numb the pains.
Cigarettes to taste something other than hate.
Sex to escape the constant loud voices in my head.
Makeup to hide the broken girl inside.
So put together, so stylish, so grown up and mature. Little did they know that girl was always manic, depressed, and anxious.
Giving her body with no meaning just to escape herself. She felt beautiful on the outside, but like a raging storm on the inside.
Her brave front for everyone to see on the outside comes naturally after so long. Just sometimes, she could not push back the overflow of brokenness from her non-healing wounds.
One more cigarette, one more night for temporary relief, only to be followed with guilt.