Long Tobacco Poems
Long Tobacco Poems. Below are the most popular long Tobacco by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tobacco poems by poem length and keyword.
Swirling smoke and tobacco cheeks;
leave no glass on the patio. Plastic
water bottle filled to the gills with butts.
children don’t care -
off
in their own world. generation gap
is apparent as one grows
old. Young
will carry on. What will the world
be?
I breathe, I sigh, I hold my breath;
eventually,
I inhale secondhand smoke, and try
to reach, teach, inspire
these kids, but I can’t reach them, so I
pray.
The laughs, the jokes, loud rock, the moods
of one generation down; one
to go.
Perhaps, I’ll linger for a while; follow
grand pals, see where life leads them.
Certainly
strange on this side of life. Dear dad
doesn’t care
anymore; I can see that.
Paddling
the ball; pingpong
for all.
It is where we meet in the middle,
on
the center line - dividing net.
Sidenote:
pool is a free for all. splash.
L is for the matches love my beloved
Lord, and Savior Jesus Christ.
Love is what my blessed savior
has freely bequeathed unto me.
L is for his candlestick shining in the darkness.
It shines throughout his life for the whole
wide wonderful world to see.
L is for his lampstand for his special
chosen people of the Jewish race.
It is for Christians loving the Jewish people.
Love is for freedom from deepest darkest
depression and misery. Which only seek
to unsuccessfully destroy other suffers such as me.
Love is for freedom of addiction. We are not
subservient to alcohol, tobacco, vaping or drugs.
Love of sugar seeks to entice willing victims.
Love is the blessed assurance of our wonderful savior.
L is for the love he showed for people at the Cross of Calvary.
Our own special savior shed his blood to redeem our souls.
L is the freedom of everlasting life. Guaranteed to all believers
and followers of Jesus Christ. He made the ultimate sacrifice
of his earthly life! L is for freedom from death, hell and the grave!
Love in Christ Jesus!
Roxanne Lea Dubarry
Roxy Lea 1954
Roxy 1954/ October Country
January 01, 2020
Mr. Motion Man Preparation packed plan Coolest cat of the clan Baddest bro back but just began Jeopardize the job in Japan Demon dude on demand Can't forget about his friend Dan Who is his biggest fan And smokes tobacco out of a can And sits on the beach to tan Like he was sitting in a frying pan But wait he just got up and ran
Regression Whispers
ancient almond wild stood still
stark in dark forest through which
moved determination
a quick tobacco roll
cold beer
AK the companion
whispers in jungian depths
puffed from psyche
fumes of struggle, lymph
floated across eyeballs
camp was porridge, malaria, madness
heart opened a tendril
a shudder of brilliant focus
how far was freedom ?
and what was it ?
this mission to unshackle
shame or ignorance or land
outer triangles inner
the quick smoke tormented
logistic management or cavalla
trudge along, single file
whispers of ape to shoot
could not stop hunger’s choke
a single sinew of animal flesh
soldier with ape, with crescent moon
staring down, heavens cried
somehow Rahu appeared
no crows cawed
not a single lone dragonfly
just mosquitos, a taruntula
scurry from heavy leather boot
immune systems build
armours of steel
ape, black-brown mammal
its life for brothers, sisters
whispers float the dark
animal eye integrated human eye
souls unite
before blood, shadowy shudders
a single tear rolled down
night-drenched cheek
she settled for mopane
worms as they built a fire
for an ape braai
no lamentation
~~~~~~
footnote : braai :
South African word
for barbecue
His incendiary comments
Ignited a conflagration
Concerning the dangers
Of “smokeless” tobacco
It’s the same look
Like the one the dogs get
When they hear the leash rattle
The eyes focus and scan
The attitude
Takes on an urgency.
That tree awaits.
Who might have been there
Who may still linger
Did we bring the ball
I hate it when he forgets
As I am not too fond of
Other dog’s saliva-soaked offerings.
“Biodegradable” poop bags
Holy Scat, what next
What is my carbon pawprint
A vegetarian diet
Little rain coats and hats
What, wait, no way, don’t even think
About putting me
In that “puppy pull toy”
You’ll pay for this
I know where you hide
Your golf shoes.
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!
Ambling along a country lane, a weathered barn caught my eye.
Nigh it stood a crumbling silo, yet reaching for the sky.
Oaks raised leafless arms heavenward, on that bleak autumn day,
As if in supplication, pleading to deter its inexorable decay.
The once sturdy structure was now in forlorn shambles,
Nearly over taken by tall grasses, weeds and brambles.
On its weathered boards were traces of faded reddish paint.
A Mail Pouch Tobacco mural graced one side, tho' very faint.
Atop the sagging roof was a rusted, squeaky weather vane,
Turning listlessly at the whim of the fickle wind's gust or wane.
A lightning rod, even in its day, considered somewhat odd,
Had collapsed - its copper pinnacle buried beneath the sod.
Rusty hinges protested as I opened the door and ventured thro'.
I startled a flock of pigeons, creating bedlam as they flew!
Mice skittered across the floor in the dimly filtered light,
As they raced about in confusion in their frenzied flight!
What once had sheltered cattle and stored the farmer's grain,
Was the hapless prey of the lashing storms' complete disdain.
For such old abandoned barns, I have a very special affinity,
And enjoy visiting them whenever I am in their vicinity!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Evening's glow means supper is over
and it's time for my pipe and tobacco to find my porch
where I will sit alone
and the only sound is the creaking of my chair
as I rock back and forth
to watch sunsets in the skies of absorbed light
giving rendered edges to starlights dim
rotating across the vast expanse like a slow carousel
as my soul rides along
hoping to be granted access to wandering dreams
unimagined nor dreamt by gatherers
whose needs are to reap man-made objects of no importance
and fighting to see who ends up with the largest pile
as others argue among themselves over large swaths of Earth
that they can never own
I would rather sit and smoke my pipe
and catch the wandering dreams
of silent rapture and wishful treasure
at the end of a long day
8/29/21
contest Vagabond Dreams
sponsor Craig Cornish
"Hey buddies. so what are we doing !"
Looks around and the clique has snotty faces on,
pedigree pinkies in the air. "You are not one of we,
the beautiful approved ones. You are uncultured and that's gross !"
Whatevs, go .... ........ !
(Junior follows them to camp and
pisssssssses on their campfire !)
Satisfying, takes a plug of tobacco and spits on their
jelly clog-Birkenstocks-for snob hill gardening-
before they lasso the noose and hanggg me high !
Worth it.
(Disingenuous Anglish prudes gather in their jerk-circlejerk...circling typos and chanting to Mammon...
We call upon the forces of the Upper Middle Class and beyond. "Get these Wal Mart shoppers looking for bargains for the poor out of here, they are not the "beautiful ones"...")
Bows to the beautiful ones.
All hail the clique ! Click.
Bubbling babbling burbling banter from the bar..
Sup hush….memory lane trip...Proustian rush..pleasingly tickled.
Plushly ebbed…spidery beer swirls webbed…lace whirls..grace dimpled dappled jar..
Perch...parched pagans besmirch..sip...druid fluid drip..Iris’s secular church..
Venerate yesteryear dips…commemorate Faustian fillips....teasingly pickled..
Smug treacle toned thatch rugs hugs sturdy slabs.. shrugs..
Tugs tussling tree torn trusses and trestles....
Trumpets tradition.. crisp crumpets in flames..sedition flickering..
Like sassy strumpets calling each other names…playfully bickering..
Remember the surreal cast….gayfully ethereal echoes..
Beacons blush in the embers of the past..
Classy pubs dripping with polished pewter.. parochial paraphernalia…ballsy brass...
Crepuscular charms. splinters splicing smokey shadows..
Wafting whispers.. across tobacco tinted tainted times..
Whistles whetted..quaffing…quenching ...cavorting with crannies..
Carousing with nooks naked in timber flannelled panels..
Canoodling on fecund bulbous bales farm foraged.. freshly fashioned...
Flirtatious follicle flicks....gurgling guffaws, raffish rascals' whisky whimsy..
Courting curious covens..sporting prosecco cackle cacophonies.
As sons become dad..in turn perched with their lad..
Lady lawyer betwixt a pimpled tyro…local employer, bumpkin on the giro..
Museums of marvels.. hoodwink misplaced metaphors..
Laced with a house pour of moreish memories of before..
That without impunity the nub of a pub..
The bar.. a community hubbub hub..
Gracious Landladies…loquacious Landlords..
Sagacious stars...near and far..
We raise our jar.
For our home from home..
A public house..
Ta..