Long Smoke filled Poems
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I'd like to tell you a story of a boy who grew up to be a man.
A lonley man.
One day life came knocking, and out the back door he ran.
The music played so sweetly in his head.
But smoke filled his mind, and he never heard what the words said.
Now his days are filled with emptiness.
His nights are too.
He awakes to cold lonenly mornings.
Because he couldn't hear the minstrels warnings.
Hearts get broken, some never heal.
Words get spoken, and spin the wheel.
Where it stops, seals your fate.
Maybe on love, maybe on hate.
How long can you go on in a life of regret?
He wonders as he thinks of a time he tries to forget.
Hearts keep pounding till the very day you die.
I'm not sure, but I wonder if we'll ever know why.
he fought for his country
the freedom of others
and the will to survive
the compounds of war
his friends called him dizzy
because he could spin circles
around thoughts in their heads
while sipping on gin
from tarnished bottles
in smoke filled poker halls
retirement was an afterthought
to survival, when dodging bullets
in never ending wars
that now raid his mind
much like enemies
looking for a prisoner of war
to take back as some trophy
he was never rewarded
for the life he lived
he carries instead scars
resting above his wooden leg
unseen, like his heroic actions
and him as he walks along
alone in a society
that has forgotten his name
august 16, 2019
Bring a character to life Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Richard Lamoureux
So many days of roasting like a sunny toast. The summers are hot and the winters are wet.
Sometimes smoke-filled skies discomfort the eyes. But there are always heat-breaks and recesses of the sun,
brought on by those soothing delta breezes flowing from the Pacific. After a long and sweaty day, a gentle breeze drops by with my name on it.
It's the summer breezes I love so much.
Looking through the front window, I'm treated with waves from the trees. Those summer breezes never grow old, speaking ever so calm and peaceful.
Sometimes the rivers may crest and flood or the levees may breach. Yet I have grown to prefer this valley to all the regions I have known.
I think it's really true; it's the summer breezes I love to touch.
And for me, all things being equal, there's simply no equal. If I should ever part my humble abode for places yet unknown,
I shall greatly miss this valley where for thirty years I have called home. If ever forced to relocate, perhaps I shall most miss the nice friendly people.
But perhaps it's the pleasant and breezy summer nights I shall long remember. Embracing like a blanket, the summer breezes soothe my soul.
O yes, it's the summer breezes touching me that I love so much.
08032018PoetrySoupContest, Summer Breezes, John Hamilton
It is no small act that follows
no leaps nor bounds
as we are bound
the square, white-washed walls
crumbling, no doors, no sound
but who are we
are we not what one perceives
stuck to our one room box
we break down walls
chains
colour splashes from our minds
deep duck pond greens
clouded and clumsy periwinkle blues
rich like yellow satins
seducing our sky
dawning light down upon our eye
the back, the forth
smoke filled haze
tapping on the shoulder
a tapestry of the trumpets
tip tapping away
we sway
outside the room
pressures pierce the skull
they look inside
they see mirrors
a reflection of their kind
their closed mind
set in their ways and their worries
the world has ended for them
as the books and the doors shut
clenching rosaries and a plethora of pills
to beat the heart or dull the thrills
we're no dolls, nor drills, not make believe
we burn, we live, we breathe
our colours crimson
our lips bitten
our cheeks singed from the sun
blood stains our sanctuary
we don't whine, we will
yes we will
Rise
rise up from the duldroms
the blase acrimony
walk upon the broken glass
bleed
unhook harnesses holding you back
show off your bosoms
your tiger, your grit
stop bending over looking at your rear
trying to replicate yesteryear
storms are fast approaching
thunder fills the halls
be that lightning
a tempest igniting
One, uniquely one,
and all
Sunday Morning Blues**
Whether it's the vibrant nights of Rio de Janeiro or the electric energy of Las Vegas nightlife,
I’ve indulged in two or three glasses of Twisted Ice Lemonade,
Or perhaps it was an Alabama Slammer. One lesson learned: never trust your memory!
My days and nights have been nothing less than a freight train ride,
And that's the truth!
I can’t forget the Cuban Bulldog that bit me
Three years ago, in Kissimmee, that’s a fact.
It left me weak in the knees,
All thanks to those potent drinks.
Was it that audacious, wild Long Island Iced Tea
That nearly took me down.
After watching a news clip about Muammar Gaddafi,
Or maybe it was an episode of Friends?
Yet, I met my sweet Marlon Brando,
And it was hallelujah and Amen in Key Largo.
So many bartenders, so many smoke-filled rooms,
And once again, here I am, tackling
Another Sunday morning blues head-on.
she didnt want to live in fear
so the smoke filled up the air
from the gun that she just shot
as the bullet pierced his heart
they say love hurts and it is true
but when someone turns on you
and your life is flipped around
on the day that you have found
the man you thought would always care
left you with bruises everywhere
as his fists came at full force
leaving you to scream and toss
knowing that his strength will grow
at each punch that he will throw
as your left with no defense
and he takes away your strength
you lose control of your whole world
when he turns on his little girl
that is small and scared to death
as strong holds take away her breath
you watch in horror and decide
no one will take away her life
grabbing the gun you crawl around
and drop that a--hole to the ground
Smoke filled the little river lounge
The ceiling fans twirling to jazzy notes of the band
Music weaved its way amongst the crowd
Whiskey warmed my soul
As my I laid my eyes on what I surely would lay
A fine bird she seemed all dressed in black
My eyes had already stripped this one naked and bare
I smiled her way, her sultry gaze back said, let’s fly away
Sherlock was sitting next to me, pipe in hand
He looked me in the eye, and said never dance with a Raven young man
Your love will be clawed and a bloody mess in no time
In hindsight, this Sherlock was some detective
He sure had a good read of the situation that night
I being full of bravado and whiskey took me chances
Her perfume seduced my loins
I fell into her charms, this lady in black
Well I must confess I took her back
To my boudoir of desire
I should have headed Sherlock’s dire warnings
For indeed I had bedded the Raven, no doubt at all
Raving mad she was
Nostrils flared and claws ready to pounce
On my oh so romantic heart
I now have only one eye
In which to read the tales of Inspector Holmes
I have no ladies in waiting any more
No more raving mad love affairs
As I stare out my window
At the old black crow
I wrote this on a bus ride through the city
An early morning excursion with no sleep
A chance encounter flooded by unknown
Original reference AM/PM 26 years ago
The gritty rhyme blindly spoke for itself
Like the back of a smoke-filled jazz club
Notes transporting me to another place
Destination decided with no destiny
For certain this was uncharted waters
A whispered verse beneath streetlights
Each syllable swaying with the potholes
Did I write this or did the city pen it?
Its pulse echoing in the hollow of my ribs
Doors hiss open stepping off into fog
A silhouette waiting for me at the curb
Eyes I’ve never met but already know
Together we disappeared into the abyss
TWIN FLAME
confection of ideas —
candles understand
each other’s name.
soul sisters with hearts leaping
in breasts of recognizance —
breathing fire,
lighting up eyes, cheeks, the world.
red-haired stepchildren,
denied by society...
but arm in arm —
infinity rings.
one singular flame becomes blue
divides
each follows the flame
to the end of their rope
looking to bond
one with an angel...
one with the jerk...
the chasm between them
a smoke filled space
where no hope exists
they doubt friendship’s game
in golden years the smoke clears
but the rope remains singed,
irreparable
not even a tug-o-war can be played
one flame rises in death
the other descends in ashes
5/14/2018
For Twin Flame Contest
In a high rise block in Toxteth lived a Jazz clarinettist called Joe.
His fans in the Jazz club worshipped him and flocked to every show.
And night after night in that smoke filled club, his fingers weaved a spell,
While the audience cheered to the echo, unaware of his private hell
For, every night, in his tenth-floor flat, before he could play again,
He injected himself with Dutch courage to deaden the inner pain
It began with soothing cannabis, which the law doesn’t class as abuse
Just so long as that stash in the biscuit tin is purely for personal use
It can’t do any harm, they said, to smoke the occasional spliff;
Then the drummer introduced him to a line of white powder to sniff
It was just an occasional habit he wasn’t dependent upon
But he found that his music lost its edge when the buzz of the powder had gone
His dealer had something better at an introductory price
He wouldn’t become addicted if he tried it once or twice.
His music got better and better and the audience howled for more
But now he was hooked on heroin and stealing in order to score
One Sunday he didn’t turn up at the club so the band was reduced to three
Who thanked him as they pocketed a larger slice of the fee
When they tried to ‘phone on Monday, his mobile wasn’t on.
The neighbours hadn’t seen him and thought he might have gone
They found him three days later in his squalid tenth-floor flat
When they forced the front door open past the junk mail on the mat.
“Death by misadventure”, said the Coroner’s report.
“A tragic waste of talent,” he told the crowded court.
The church was overflowing on the chill November day
As they gathered to remember him and send him on his way.
A host of jazz musicians and a multitude of fans
Joined in celebrating the life of a gifted man.
His own band followed the coffin as they took him from the nave
Out to the wintry churchyard to lower him into his grave.
They have a new clarinettist now but, although he’s very good,
He doesn’t have Joe’s magic; well nobody ever could.
He lacks that extra something that no-one can define.
But the drummer’s offered a helping hand – in the form of a thin white line