Long Smoking Poems
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Summer day and a few minutes to spare
Take a swing around where the old school once stood
Finding only a parking lot and a tear in my eye
Another memory destroyed by progress
Pep rally in the school yard
How she smiled in her innocence
Laughing all the way to the corner store
Pinball's in the back room
Lucky dangling from the corner of your mouth
Two for a nickel to play it cool
Running Scared playing on the juke box
Maybe tonight in the park
Another memory fills my eyes
Dancing in the auditorium
Drifters singing Save The Last Dance For Me
A soft kiss with Goodnight Sweetheart Goodnight
Heart pounds. See you Monday
Walking those halls with her books under your arm
Passing notes in the classroom
Detention again. Oh no! Hitch hiking home.
Back on the bus in the morning. No Smoking!!
Prayer and Pledge. A new day starts
Sadie Hawkins Dance? Yes, I'll see you there
Bobbie socks and pedal pushers
Just another memory.
Men in tailored suits
and satin waistcoats,
gold watches peeking
out of their pockets,
walked arm in arm
with women in wide skirts ~
hooped,
crinolined,
elegantly sculpted.
Their tight corsets tease each careful traipse,
leaving traces of elegance and opulence...
dotting the streets at Christmastime
with exaggerated silhouettes.
They kissed under mistletoe ~
hung in doorways,
each kiss claiming a berry
until none were left.
Saliva dried from whispered promises,
and crisper breaths.
When mouths moistened anew,
their laughter spilled under winter's sun,
burning with the thrill
of ice-skating parties.
Half-empty plates of Christmas pudding,
roast meats and other festive dishes —
littered Victorian tables,
attesting to well-fed tummies
and indulgent hearts.
Back home, the evening evened
with silent acting charades,
Blind Man's Bluff, Forfeits, and Snapdragon.
Pass the Slipper, Piggy Squeak, and Hunt the Ring ~
played near wood-burning fireplaces,
transformed by Christmas
into coziness, family warmth
and seasonal magic.
Christmas trees stood adorned,
strategically placed
to frisk each risk of its sly trick
that might sneak out
to steal away their joy.
When the gift boxes were opened,
the fiancé received
smoking caps,
shaving soaps,
and tobacco pouches.
The fiancée unwrapped
doilies,
silver tea balls,
and tea strainers ~
simple treasures exchanged
beneath candlelit ceilings
in that age of elegance,
where laughter and love lingered long,
like the scent of pine needles and roast goose,
long after Christmas Day had passed.
Her thoughts and amusements were opaque. Blocked in a defensive wall.
Early hurt feelings had caused this, said her empathetic spiritual advisors
She had learned at a young age the wisdom of keeping her emotions inside.
She had been burned early. Sharing feelings where they were not welcome.
Annoying selfish people who were focused on their own hurts.
Drowning them in buckets of bitter tasting alcohol,
Smoking them in cartons of Winston cigarettes.
Smacking her unwelcome feelings down.
Laughing at them. Making her cry.
Her thoughts were opaque.
Not easy to decipher.
Not easy to guess.
Not easy at all.
Yet they
were
her
own
One
Thing
She
Could
Control.
Written: 11-21-2019
Contest: Opaque
Sponsor: Anthony Slausin
An Aria Beyond A Silent Dream
Just yesterday, I was dreaming some love I’ll never have
And now I’m sitting all alone, smoking… this night
Some soul within that never was mine, seems to have left
Like falling stars crying so, fading upon its dying light
It was just like a dream, a dream which began it all
A fantasy I so thought, a reality now fought
The enigmatic world of The Ancients is the world I saw
Some place where life is only to belong to the rot
I was petrified from the sights of the ungodly world
And I fear even more shall come eventually my sleep
Betrayal portrays the poison mind from the green of an emerald
And I wonder if strength can still be drawn from hearts of the weak
Its been a while since, had the befallen and the defier appear
I’m lost and very much alone atween a portal through stolen time
Though the bond of a steel may assure the undead minions to fear
Yet dependency is a weakness without the drop of faith close behind
Be it so if I should sleep in reality, I’m awaken otherwise within
And upon awakening elsewhere, it isn’t simply a hallucinatory fantasy
And as once more, I walk the path beyond ancient’s dream
I saw a world lost upon where I stand alone, in complete solitary
{With the reality world shut away, despairing never fails to end
The darken haze aloof the skies were evidence of time bearing no when
Bodies in impossible millions lay lifeless as far as the eye can see
With the essence of blood weighing upon the breath of air so free
From where I stood, the battle before seems wearily over and forgotten
With my sword at hand, I was left mortified with delusions of the tragic moment
How is it, a glitter of hope can present itself from this nightmarish hell?
Yet I knew, extraordinary from ordinary isn’t just some words to praytell
I scan the bloodshed more intensely, knowing not what I may assume to find?
And I’m not alone… as something else was heard from behind
There was a voice, voicing sadness and sorrow in solemn aria
Singing perhaps to the heavens, yearning so to be heard from afar
I trail towards the tune and saw a figure standing atop a shadowy stone
Cloaked in an armour that at once suggested swiftness, as well a necklace of bones
And seen in her hand… she held a crypted bow
Where strap over her shoulder, was as well a quiver of arrows
Stepping over the threshold
Locating the floor buttons
I press the 3rd floor
~ my brain images still flashing ~
Disfigured long flames curl around
Cherished memories-
Dry spruce branches smoking and crackling
Glowing coals cooking steaks in a fire
Above the crashing waves on the North Shore
Of Lake Superior with mom and dad
Laughing and sipping root beer
Spying a twisted piece of petrified oak
most likely a plank
From an ancient sunken vessel splintered
In the Gale's of November
Loosening the piece from the grips of glistening
Basalt boulders, etching our names and place
Of discovery above striated agates embedded in
Crevices a millennial ago
Proudly displayed on the mantle above my fireplace
Gone
Now
Only precious memories remain
I flash the card lock on my hotel room
Entering
The
Future
2/18/23
Nonviolent designers
of Public Service Announcements
Like "STOP"
smoking
shooting up
drinking
trashing
burning
ignoring various morbid diseases
sinning
sundry mental/spiritual pathologies
unsafe behavior
And feeling ugly
smelling
bad sexing
eating crap
unsafe touching
Undeclaring vengeful killing wars
Straight White Male supremacy
ecofeminist confused agendas
greens
reds
whites
blues
browns
blacks
Lust
rust
greed
going to seed
All these STOP campaigns
seem to miss my pointed
loser experience
that aiming for what makes me right now happy
is, perhaps, a long-term disgrace
So, what I aim for
instead
is whatever lies
and hiddenness,
safe camouflage
behind
and beneath respectful society's
muttered under sour breath
"good riddance"ness,
I aim for saving face.
You can campaign
all commercial day
and consummating night
to persuade me that my health
is also our happy
absence of communal fright
and resonant,
perhaps even resilient,
brilliantly enlightened
and empowering wealth.
But,
in my heart
of hurt
addiction
depression
anxiety
remorse for an angry life
at least half dead
from fear
you may uncover me
in ways I can't pretend
to self-righteously defend
I need some campaign
even larger than anti-addiction
to thinking either bliss
or blues,
Win/lose
Earth's evolving
devolving runaway mission,
money exchanging zero-sum transmission,
inside a nonzero multiplying transmission
system
Not for peace,
or win/win health
is also wealth,
or whimsically precarious
happy nest
unrest;
not sure I tried
my best.
I want to join
Earth's Great Return
for self-regenerating
revolving annual campaigns
springing climate forth
summer's healthy maturation
falling harvest wisdom
wintering indigenous
sacred
nurtured meaning,
Theological enlightenment
ecologically empowering
in-between
co-arising Yang SunGod
and Yintegral
Matriarchal Earth
Tribes consuming public campaigns
green co-passionate
communion
saving Earth's most happy
sacred face,
warm embrace,
holistic place
divinely humane race
toward peaceful space
and pace.
what should we do with sexual predators,
trauma, victims, pain and suffering,
what should we do with sexual predators
they creep in like rats
under a leaking ceiling,
all teeth and shadow.
you can't kill every rat.
but you can stop feeding them.
trauma sits in the corner,
cross-legged, smoking,
she never asks for much,
but she stays.
victims keep walking,
along the yellow brick road
clutching their pain
like a cheap winter coat.
there's no shelter
from memory.
as for the predators—
chain them to the darkness,
make them live where
their own whispers
haunt them.
the rest of us
keep crawling
to morning.
Whether the weather
necessitates to anchor
myself as a tether
when the frankenstorm
socks the east coast
shredding terrestrial
zone like soft leather
i may end up attired
in esprit de corpse
being tossed hither and yon
to and fro like a feather.
If...the forecast imbues
meteorologists flooded with folly
making a mockery
of humanity run amuck
in panic mode - by golly
this mortal male will don himself as
"the chief garbage" taster
with a garland of holly
shuffling along the
boulevard of broken
tin cans and rubbish
feigning to be melancholy.
This getup a throw
back to a costume
adorned this papa when
he attended grade school
eons ago, where corporal punishment
prevailed in case
student disavowed any rule
such as smoking in the boys' room
cigarette such
manufactured by Kent or kool
or lambasting any unlikable teacher,
(whose bookish face) at
receiving end of
pranks rather cruel.
So...presume that Halloween
will take place without any axe
of nature to grind monster
brewing at sea
and picture this poet decked
out dumpster diving
for the most fetid trash
and materiel with cracks
to be affixed upon
a heavy duty sack
with goop from
sullied foodstuffs -
a cause for glee
rotten meat infested
with maggots, shards of glass,
crushed metal cans,
et cetera to the max
will be haphazardly splayed
(Jackson Pollack like)
on this sturdy cloth
that will drape me
spurring a conga like of hungry beasts
ready go pounce – menacing
ferocious wolf packs
adding to the welter per helter skelter
of decayed detritus distributed
from head to knee
and a set of punishing
pronged antlers spiking out
in all directions upon
ma noggin-hence to tax
utmost fear in passersby, and quite
an abominable sight to see.
God's Answer
Living a long life we lose so many we love
It feels unfair left with a heart full of memories
We question God why?
Live on be strong
Your wealth of life continue to share
For when the Good Lord calls you home
Who will be there to welcome you at Heavens Gate
The loved ones you lost before
Life Tree
Each leaf that falls
A life recalled
Is it sways to the ground
Returning to mother earth
Replenishing her soul
So new life may grow
To bud forth in a new rebirth
Uncle Marion
He was a strong quiet man
Words not wasted
The biggest tomatoes grew in his bountiful garden
Smoking his pipe in his old rocking chair
After a long hard day of honest labor
And he was blessed with a beautiful full head of hair
02/12/2010
These old boots, they've sure been around. They don't know where their goin' but they sure know where they've been. Drinkin' Corona and dancing with a Mexican Senorita in Jaurez, the smell of perfume and Tequila fill the air. Gracias for the good time, but these old boots got to go. Hitched a ride on an old cattle truck to El Paso, my Stetson blocking the sun and hiding my bloodshot eyes. Throwing cow chips at an old wooden fence, I count the $100 dollars I just made at the slaughter house, the foreman said "you work like that you'll make good money boy". "Thanks, but these old boots got to go" I said. "That $100 dollars sure went fast", I told the deputy as he unlocked the gate at the jail sitting in downtown Amarillo smoking a Marlboro with my thumb in the air, thinkin', these old boots got to go. Tired and weary, I got a motel room for $50 bucks I made on a sway-back horse in a low-class rodeo outside Albuquerque but don't remember much about last night other than the empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the table. Dippin' in a can of Kodiak, I'm thinking to myself, these old boots got to go. That Budweiser sure did taste good after bailing hay in the snow in Durango, as night fell pickin' my guitar as the cowgirls on the dancefloor cut a rug. I thought to myself, the good times don't last forever so these old boots got to go. I've been a lot of things' and nonthin at the same time, money in my pocket and a liquor bottle, I roll on down the road like a tumbleweed blowing in the wind. Back in big sky country, the prairie grass sways in the breeze casting shadows on my tombstone. Hard work and hard drinkin' caught up to me, but I had fun y'all, these old boots got to go...........