Long Up in smoke Poems
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Far off the beaten track and trail
on quest for music’s Holy Grail
led pilgrims on biblical scale
more than can be counted.
With midsummer sun on our cheek
in tents to shelter we did seek
and pitched them at its highest peak
on a hilltop mounted
As we climbed the lean of the hill
my beer I would try not to spill
and sat with the great unwashed till
olé and adios.
It was I, El Skeet, amigo,
in my poncho and sombrero
half-cut like a loco gringo
who waved “vaya con dios!”
We lit yet another hash bong
all up in smoke like Cheech & Chong
and passed it to each one along
under the cop radars.
Till late as wasted brain cells flag
with every mind trip headfu-ck drag
I tucked in to my sleeping bag
on the hill ‘neath the stars
As music and mayhem did rage
back in next summer’s youthful age
we camped closer to the big stage
by a shallow hollow.
I’d sit and watch the crowds go by
in the hot sun and dust and dry
under a big Waikato sky
from our camp on tent row
And as I ripped in with the guys
to our grog trailer of supplies
we made a hanging chain of ties
with every pull tab rent.
Waiting for Cold Chisel that night
with a superdoob glowing bright
I was fuc-kin’ high as a kite
and lurched back to my tent
The next day I woke in a daze
and walked off my drunken malaise
when I heard singing songs of praise
in some weird sh-it I saw.
Tambourine hippies, punks and geeks
and chanting Hari Krishna freaks
burnt incense in clay painted cheeks
so I got high some more
Yet in a hot wet and wild hour
stoned in the unisex shower
I gazed many a sweet flower
in their naked splendour.
We bathed too in waters that flowed
down where the lazy river bowed
lest my head spontaneous explode
on my three day bender
That night by the stars we were led
as above a smoky sky bled
when out The Enz rocked “I See Red”
and fired a burning flare.
In the spirit of Sweetwaters
we lived among at close quarters
sons of Bacchus and his daughters
and I so revelled there
Written: November 2009
Sweetwaters was an annual three
day music festival back in 1980s.
Be yourself
She paints a picture of the real me.
I know in my heart that she truly believes.
She tells me stories that I always forget,
But neither of us mind that fact,
Because it means she gets to tell them all over again, I guess.
She tells my story to those who care.
She sings my praises, even when I am not there.
I would tell her story, but it is not mine to speak, or write.
She has always been there for me, so I will respect her copyright.
She is not a writer, nor does she have a poet mind.
She works to pay the bills and she leads a completely different life.
She held my hand and I felt safe,
As we walked on stepping stones over the stream;
She still watches over me, always, as I dash her hopeful dreams.
They all went up in smoke;
But I’m no gambler or criminal.
I’m just a humane being and my glass is never half full,
So I can only ever let you down;
I try to be a star, but I am still underground.
I have lived my story; it is mine to tell,
But I have no need to explain why I never seem to help myself;
Because she truly knows me and still she keeps the faith.
I hope and believe that she knows one day,
I’m going to change my ways.
This is my story; this is the tale I tell.
I have no diary musings, except the poetry; oh well.
With understanding, you will see my soul
And when I leave you all behind without me,
I hope that you know that I could only ever ‘Be yourself.’
If I write things that make you think,
I hope you know your love has only ever helped me to be.
She is at the window, the kitchen sink.
She can see me walking towards her house
And she can’t help but be welcoming.
That’s what I love about her;
For all she does,
Because without her I could never believe one day I will find true love.
She said be faithful and love will come.
I’m getting older now and I am still here unloved,
But I will promise, to maybe, one day,
Show her the love which I have found;
The love that takes my pain away.
Your understanding; it is your own,
But this is my story and its meaning has no need to be told.
I hope you forgive me, but this is mine.
I would give it all away,
But then how would I justify?
You see this is worthless, but priceless to me,
Because when I find myself in love one day,
I will, at last, find…my…peace…
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
The way it is today
I must say
So much hate
Of late
Such a sad fate
People crying over wrongs in the past
Things that did not even then last
Lifes that were torn
Before we were even born
Fighting over what they believe
Words hidden beneath the sleeve
Such a disgrace
Cause we are all the same race
Words become stone
When your all alone
Watch what you say
It is the new way
Feelings becoming easy to hurt
By someone not curt
Your life is better than mine
My light never did shine
Just standing in line
Wasting time
Writing this rhyme
Watching the world go up in smoke
With fear the world starts to choke
I will have another toak
Watching the war machine start coming alive
All that jive
That powers that be
Can no longer see
What is right for us
Giving us reasons to fuss
Hiding tomorrow
With our own sorrow
By making us have to beg and borrow
So many without a home
Left to roam
So many hiding behind a locked door
Afraid those without, may want a little more
Just to get by
Do it or die
The harder we try
The anger starts to simmer
The light becomes dimmer
I want this I want that
Some just sit there and get fat
The poor pulling their dinner out of their hat
The hungry crying out for more
Closer draws this war
We fight among ourselves
For imaginary wealths
We let our hearts grow cold
Or souls, sold
Hate
Fate
Way too late
We fight with each other
No time for our brother
Love starts to smother
The fire
Gets higher
Spreads across the land
Alone we each stand
Each tick of the clock
More guns cock
More hearts start to lock
Directing our attention away
From what's really going on today
Misdirection with news that is fake
Giving us the wrong direction to take
So the more bad decisions we make
The war among us remains unseen so far
But sticks to us like tar
Building up with each day
Cannot trust what anyone has to say
This is the new way
I see
What could be
What is coming around
Our hands become bound
Blind becomes our eyes
This is the time of lies
My heart cries
War
Finds our door
War of hate
Is now our fate
No reason to ask why
Every reason to die
As fire burns the sky
To late we see
How things really be
They held our attention so long
On things we thought were wrong
Did not see till too late
This change of fate
Brought on by hate
Already the month
of August 2018,
May never become
a je June'm
(Forget-me-not)
time of year,
especially for nouveau
homeless and,
penniless residents,
(now more like worrier),
who reside in the
(burnt to a crisp)
Golden State where,
towering uncontrollable
wild fire infernos veer
really did tax mental,
physical, and spiritual
oye vey iz mare (to
the bajillion power
of Google Plex) their
heirlooms, mementos,
and trappings of
das kapital lifestyle
went up in smoke,
which tragedy didst seer
the eyes (yes, iz traumatic,
but also the air)
looms with toxic
particulate matter,
though concerned former
propertied owners
(now ashen faced)
as utter grief doth rear
a scorched (bumping) ugly head,
yet the onset of Autumn,
(and the main
purport of this poem)
(oh my dog, that twill be
in approximately three weeks,
when Eastern Orthodox Church
denotes beginning of ecclesiastical
annum mull house
for straight or *****
(these times opening
doors to LGBT, or GLBT
(an initialism that
stands for lesbian,
gay, bisexual, and transgender),
nonetheless history
replete with app pear
chock full of factoids such as:
September (Latin septem,
"seven") with near
exhaustive steeped in
pagan glory of antiquity.
Ancient Roman observances
for September include:
Ludi Romani, originally celebrated
September 12 - September 14,
later extended to
September 5 to September 19.
In 1st century BC, an extra day added
in honor of deified
Julius Caesar on 4 September.
Epulum Jovis held: September 13.
Ludi Triumphales held: September 18–22.
Septimontium celebrated September, and
December 11 on later calendars
September called "harvest month"
in Charlemagne's calendar.
September corresponds partly to
Fructidor and partly to Vendémiaire
of first French republic.
On Usenet, September 1993
(Eternal September) never ended.
September called Herbstmonat,
harvest month, in Switzerland.
The Anglo-Saxons called
month Gerstmonath,
barley month, that crop
then usually harvested.
And then the cold had its story to tell again and emerged overnight
The seasons had not changed but as always kept a sudden surprise
Days sunbathing and skinny dipping on the beach felt like a shiver
As the UV filter congealed in oily tubes and prepared to hibernate
Shells from the shoreline caught the fading light by the window
Sent a message of hope and rebirth with foregone conclusions
That life can be a nauseous circle and hearts can fade without fail
Pebbles watched on still sandy and puzzled for they had lost the sea
Driftwood was stacked near the fireplace and awaited its fate
Would it go up in smoke or be preserved for artwork and fantasy
Knotted and round at the edges the tinder planned its escape
We should warm hearts and memories and refuse to be ashes
Fossilised wisdom cast its message from the core of its surface
Requested to be held in regard and esteem by the collector
Sandalwood fragrance conjoined with salty motion making waves
And reached deep inside sadness and sorrow for ongoing erosion
Jenny had lit candles whose flames danced a ballet with apt feeling
Moving as they held court over coal logs bellow ember and ashes
Their flickering flashes sang a tune of resilience and feeble closure
Blending with shades of rose petals and thorns gathered in summer
While woollen hats blankets and hot water bottles found purpose
In the essence and meaning of heart-warming tender togetherness
Jenny folded summer clothes and gave them a home in the confines
Of her chest of drawers handed down over generations of close kin
She made pumpkin soup with ground cinnamon and nobly ginger
Grated herbs seeds and remembrance then smacked her kind lips
My kisses have survived another year frozen as they may impress
The knowledge that life is impermanent and wanes as it struggles
In the distance a fog horn sounded mist spray darkness and longing
The lighthouse’s beams shone a torch and glowed unperturbed
Whereas Jenny felt a moment of questioning the might of the ocean
Took out a photograph and honoured her husband long missed in a storm
25th October 2019
Crazy… can’t begin to describe, some of my Trolls, many ways.
But suddenly it was ninja this, and ninja that, today.
You should see them in black, though; they’re way too big to miss!
Shiny baubles tied all around, jingling with every move, in bliss.
But stealth isn’t their name to fame, for they’re not very small.
And with or without a costume, who would fight a Troll at all?
Stalking little birdies, and each other, was suddenly all the rage.
One startled a skunk… he’ll be staying outside, for a few days…
They tried to climb a downspout and trellis, to the hardwares’ demise.
Thank God, they never made it to the roof, for the results I would despise.
To practice throwing ninja stars, I gave them bubble gum balls, instead.
No one got hurt, and the stars were forgotten, with bubble gum wars, ahead.
They Did protect me from my swing set, may it rest in peace, this day.
But the smoke bombs, they thought they needed, definitely went astray.
It seems all the wood, that for my fireplace stood, has now gone up in smoke.
But they had lots of fun with marshmallows and a great weenie roast.
The firemen then came, and I explained as I met them in the front yard.
I warned of the ninjas, but they knew the ropes... they’d been here before.
So the firemen declared themselves ninja masters, that everyone must obey…
The ninjas immediately bowed down to their sensei. Thank God, is all I can say!
You can bet, I wish I’d thought of that, before a stanza or two, back… sooo true!
The firemen declared a safety violation for the trolls, and declared a big toll, too.
The toll would be to clean up the mess, and to practice at the local dojo.
Go figure…Apparently, one of the firemen owns that darn thing, you know!
He loaded up the ninja Trolls, for the fire truck ride of their life…
Winking... he said he’d have them and their jinglely suits… home safe, by night.
Got to love those firemen, they sure know their stuff… With just one look…
They told me: I could now relax and get some much-needed rest…
But first, I'll be hiding all those ninja movies… it’ll be for the best.
Sri Lal
Crows
i.
I come from nowhere,
and I have nowhere to go,
I tell the crow perched
on a low neem branch
beyond the Periyar River.
He agrees.
He and I are free.
We speak the same language.
You know who I mean. He eats
the garbage you and I toss aside—
the endless sacks of rubbish
hauled down to be burnt
at the water’s edge,
like a secret in the dark.
ii.
I have seen smoke plume
like the crown of peacock
feathers my blue love wears.
Garbage burns beside the river,
but I dream that he woos me
with white champa bloom.
His hands are like the water
on my skin.
Still, some nights,
the fire of rag and bone rises
so that even the crow
cannot sing for the smoke.
Some nights, the blaze
chafes my throat,
and swallows the sky whole.
Some nights of jasmine bloom
and sweet rice, I am
mute in the face of love.
iii.
So many crows, some say—
the erratic caw,
and I remember cities far north,
where monkeys climb the temple walls.
They swing and chatter
like a mind that longs
for enough gold to buy
an unbruised freedom,
like flesh and bone that hunger
for a gentle touch in the night.
Wherever we are,
some cry carries us
away from ourselves—
the voice of a crow,
an unquiet mind,
the cremation ground
where a father’s beatings
go up in smoke,
or the bronze tongue of the temple bell
that calls good souls to prayer.
iv.
This saffron hour before dusk,
a small silver mallet tunes the tabla—
knocking dowels up and down.
Soon, bhajan will rise
beyond the firepit
beyond the wisping smoke
of jasmine and sandalwood.
I have not yet washed
clean from hauling garbage.
I stand beyond
the stone-pillared hall,
by the big tub sink,
run cold water across my arms.
A crow alone sees me,
in a way most men do not
see the lesser sex.
We are outsiders, he and I.
His call is full of longing,
and I answer back
beyond the liturgy of temple rite,
the cry from my own throat
a song he understands,
my small mouth open
like red lotus before dark.
Published in Doubly Mad
You left me without a reason why
You said you loved me, it was a lie
Now I sit in the dark and just cry
Folk notice my demeanor and pry
I shut them out tell the goodbye
I just want to heal,but hurt is nigh
Will I ever love again before I die?
I often sleep and eat and just sigh
Is there such a thing as a soul tie?
If so I doomed, and mustn't even try
Being in love in nothing but a joke
Broken promises is all you spoke
My fairy tale life went up in smoke
Now I'm waiting for me to just croak
Do you recall our kiss? By the oak
That memory alone makes me choke
When you left me, I'm double broke
Misery and despair is now my cloak
You were nothing but a trivalent bloke
And I hope you slip on an artichoke
I thought that you were the one
We used to have so much fun
Our lives together had just begun
I wonder if you took our old gun
My world is dark, where's the sun?
Scales are on my eyes,there're a ton
I'm through living, I'm just done
You caused to shut out everyone
My life is like an old film, a sad rerun
You were like my mother's dear son
I must get used to this intense pain
Rainbows long gone, all I see is rain
On most days and nights I go insane
There's like a ticking bomb in my brain
I'm likened to a wreckless moving train
My awful life is going down the drain
I have small scars and cuts on my vein
I'm locked in my mind, ball and chain
The days are gone when I was sane
My life over, I have nothing to obtain
But If ever emerge from this living hell
I'll work on me first, only time will tell
I used to be so happy and full of life
Now I'm so sad and someone's ex wife
I think to myself, can I fall in love with me?
If I could my heart would know much glee
Instead I long for my existence to expire
I often feel like I've touched a live wire
Is this place a dream? Is this my reality
If so I've grown accustomed to insanity
*I know this contest is over. But I was inpired to give it a try after reading Andrea's poem in this form. I don't know if I got it right. Fiction
Alexis Y.
11/09/19
Thank God, I was born,
in a world of hate,
and in a world of scorn,
in a world that shares the earth’s beating heart,
and a world that’s drifting, several worlds apart.
Thank God, I can see,
the people who are killed,
and the people who are set free,
from their own homes and their own land,
destroyed, are the walls they’ve built with their own hand.
Thank God, I can hear,
the silenced, raging cries,
of lost children who cower in fear,
of that which they’ve known and that which is now, not,
and of the love that has perished in the battles that love has fought.
Thank God, I aspire,
that I have hope
and I aim higher,
than most people can raise their crown,
and those people whose smile is but a straight frown.
Thank God, I see past,
these concrete walls, into the inferno,
in which the world’s doomed to be cast,
in which lies the devil, who will feed at your creations,
God,
this world is falling fast.
Thank God, you’ve given man thought,
for all the might he has made and all the might he’s brought,
stripped mercilessly from the womb of nature,
he’s made himself a new home,
he’s built himself a future.
Thank God, you’ve never rebelled against man,
which is why he made religion,
which is why he thinks he can,
subdue your people with weapons and arms,
subdue your creations, your love and your farms.
Thank God, you’ve given man, power,
to create a breed,
and perpetuate his greed,
through holy and unholy means -
And thrive in his brutal creed.
People combust and fly to bits,
parts dispersing like the dandelions you’ve made,
disassembled by the hate they’ve assembled,
flesh ripping apart -
The world – God – is balanced on the lip of a blade.
The land you’ve nurtured
has matured into a beast,
and the land you’ve birthed,
is never satiated, but by a blood feast!
For my fortunately unfortunate fate,
the world is going up in smoke, and all that’s left is a wraith.
Thank God, I have no religion
because in God,
I have faith.
This was written after reading another's poem on this site.
It just grabbed hold of me and well, I had to do something, so here it is.
Those dreams that he promised
Have gone up in smoke
She loved him and surrendered
Now he thinks she’s a joke
The job down at the diner
Helps out a little it seems
But it’s not what she hoped for
While searching for that dream
Panic sets in
What should she do?
No period this month
And all the other signs are true
He wants to know her problem
As he roughly has his way
So she spit it all out
Before she thinks what else to say
He’s no longer here with her
Witch doesn’t seem fair
Cause the job down at the diner
Well it’s up in the air
Seems that times are hard
And someone has to go
Since she’s low on the totem pole
It’s goodbye Cotton Eye Joe
She’s hustling the streets
And bringing in some cash
But it’s not adding up
Just a small little stash
And the land lord is threatening
And no money for the room
So she’s just getting swept out
With another worn out broom
Now it’s cold weather and rags
But the baby finally arrived
And now she must find food
To keep the little one alive
But who needs a worker
With a newborn by her side
It’s so long, see ya later
Take off and let it slide
She’s trying her best
But Mother Nature rebels
She’s throwing sleet and ice
Which is really mortal hell
The woman and child
Seek cover to live
But the cover in winter
Is very stingy to give
She finds a small shelter
In a rotted out tree
And places in the bundle
And gets down on her knees
She prays to God above
Will You listen she cries?
As the howling wind are relentless
On her and the child
She then falls to the ground
Exhausted and beat
No strength to gather herself
And get back to her feet
She finally pulls up
But the night has passed her by
And when she checks the cavity
She lets out a cry
Little Liza didn’t make it
She blames God for her pain
But she knows it was hers
As the ice turns to rain
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