Hello, calling Sergeant Stedenko,
Stedenko, we all just want to know!
Sarge, we just breezed the "Ghanja Boys" toke,
And then we seized the "Ghanja Boys" smoke!
Hell Sarge, we all found weed by the pound!
And, not one goddamn seed could be found!
It was sticky, stinky, funky, funk!
It was stinkin' funky from their trunk!
So, then we just gagged 'em and racked 'em,
After that, we tagged 'em and stacked 'em!
We need your okay just to proceed,
Meanwhile, we'll watch as those boys just bleed!
Or, we could opt or adopt your church,
And give those boys a cavity search!
If they pass anymore gas or grass,
Guess we'll just have to firebrand their ass!
What the Hell? So what do you say, Sarge?
Cuz...we know that "today" you're in charge!
But, we'd really get a big "charge" if...
We could just take a really big whiff!
Cigarette Smokers
In a world tainted by pollution and smog you're adding to the problem
Please don't think for a second that electric cigarettes will solve them
Cigarettes wouldn't be half bad if they just took the smoker out
It isn't fair that it kills those who wouldn't put one to their mouth
Parents smoke but would brake out in a rage if their children tried
What if each pack kept up with the growing number who died
Each smoker fails to realize what they smell and look like
The x-rays of their lungs to the doctors must be a horrible sight
They should ask themselves if this nasty habit is worth dying over
Are they recognizing with each puff their calling death much closer
What ingredients makes up the tobacco anyway
I heard rat poison makes up some of it so is that ok
Who's worse, neighborhood drug dealers or the tobacco company
They both make money from the lives they take if you're asking me
On a warm, dew-weakened day,
Watching the grey void of a lost
Sense, anxious moments recline
On whiffs of ancestral propitiations
When rafters regain possession of
Filched roast fish, balanced with
The fumes of a wild dance heckled
By chokes of a chagrined weekend.
Who rises faster than smokes of a
Low tar, ascending
Gently,
Whimsically,
Lazily,
With rings of white life
Extinguished through banalities,
Through clamoured waste? . . .
Such rise — gay, sensuous rise
Of the thin beam,
Goes with every thread of meaning
Long since posted on the banner of
Meaningful dreams.
Garfield was with Jon,
sitting on the lawn.
Waiting for pizza to arrive,
sitting under a beehive.
Garfield and Jon,
took the pizza and were gone.
They left smoke in their wake,
dinner was pizza not steak.
UP IN SMOKE*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
whispers on the rails,
a lone train fades into dusk—
memories depart,
echoes of laughter linger,
in the smoke, dreams drift away.
*Note: This poem was originally published at Writer Monk in July 2025. It is my original poem
My mind simmers—
a volcano,
waiting.
Maybe it erupts,
maybe it just holds,
a silent threat behind every blink.
It takes everything—
to stay still,
to not burst
when no one else feels the fire
licking the edge of my thoughts.
Decisions burn before they’re made—
Is it right?
Am I right?
Will this moment
become another
mess to clean
alone?
Life spills like paint
no one asked for—
a blur of colors no one sees
the same way I do.
And in the haze,
I wish—
not for answers,
just for someone
who sees the smoke
and stays.
Someone who doesn’t ask
why it’s so loud in my chest.
Someone who doesn’t try to fix it
but sits beside the lava
like it’s sunlight.
Just once,
I want to erupt
and not be left
in ash.
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.
Early on a cold March morning
a handful of men took a stand
in the year of eighteen thirty six
when a sabre drew a line in the sand
it was victory or death for the valiant few
outnumbered and out-gunned
surrender and be spared an ultimatum they knew
with a cannon shot by Travis it was shunned
even as the day was dawning
the handful of men held their ground
thirteen days in San Antonio
such a fearful sight a dreadful sound
Santa Ana gave the order,
'Fly the red banner, show no quarter,'
a bloody battle to the bitter end
while the Mexican band played 'El Degüello'
now the guns are silent the smoke has cleared
to this day Texians all say, "Remember the Alamo."
The Wardrobe
I opened the wardrobe door
There they hang, suits and trousers
worn so long, looking pale
copies of my figure
This can't go on, in a fit of self-anger
I gave my old clothes to the Salvation Army
Too much textile is a burden
In a suitable shop, I bought a pair of jeans
and a matching jacket
Feeling adventurous, I walked out looking
For a mule, horses are too tall, began
Exploring the landscape of dreams
you trace my constellations
you put stars in my eyes
you whisper sweet nothings
which ended up being my demise
the sweet taste of honey you leave on my tongue
numbs the pain of the nicotine in my burning lungs
you say the lace of my garments traces my bones
but all i see is a girl way out of tone
it’s not the falling that scares me
it’s the outcome i fear
will you get better
or will you grow worse throughout the years
My hatred weaves into verses like a serpent of smoke,
I am a sad poet who bathes his pen in blood and shadows,
I seek my reason in the past, in those days that seem never to die,
And memories are my muses, ghosts nesting in my soul.
My hatred grows when I uncover my scars,
Turning them into fresh wounds that refuse to heal,
A poet of pain, playing roles that trap me in snares,
I try to navigate from darkness towards a flickering light.
My hatred swallows me when my words are misunderstood,
I am seen as a captive soul, yet I seek my way out,
Fragments of poetry writing about pain and wounded love,
The pain that remains, deeply rooted like a bitter seed.
My hatred stretches over pages, a veil of trauma and fear,
I relive the moments that haunt me, weary of their burden,
But the words flow, unceasing, like a river of blood and pain,
For this is all I know, an endless source of emotions.
In the silence of the night, I tell myself that perhaps one day I'll find peace,
But until then, I remain a sad poet, prisoner of my own verses,
In a universe where pain becomes art, and art becomes liberation,
Always seeking the path to light, beyond the shadows within me.
I know my partner
well and nigh, do tell a lie
for he stop smoking ~
but the loo has a chimney
that puffs white smoke, pokes the Pope
If, as the saying goes,
'There's no smoke without fire,'
is it smarter to ignite a spark
(illumination causation)
than bedamn the dark,
and thereby induce a funeral pyre,
or, better yet, a safer bet,
to avoid gossip and accusations,
find the substantiated fact(s)
(true datum)
before you act
and land in sorry situations?
It's no joke, on soot you'll choke,
yet, on the greener side,
carry the torch for earth non-scorched
but best your light you hide,
(it may be life-transforming)
beneath an unburnt bush,
so as not to incur global warming.
It was a ghostly orb
obscured by smog—
glowing faintly yellow
at the center and fading
to amber,
then ochre,
raw sienna,
and finally umber—
as if the light itself
were turning into smoke—
and I couldn’t breathe.
Even my crib was hazy
beneath the poisonous
congregation of vapors
roiling and swirling
near the ceiling
and descending lower,
like tornado clouds, brown and black—
and I wondered
where was my dad.
Maybe he heard me coughing,
or finally noticed the smoke—
a yellow rectangle appeared
with him silhouetted within,
but I was already drifting
and woke up somewhere else.
Years later, in a field at night,
I saw a lamp post glowing
in the distance—
soft-edged, haloed,
as if blurred by breath or memory.
I didn’t think of the nursery,
not then—
but something in me paused,
and recognized the shape of despair.
Smoke Another Cigar
Under pressure
Blue smoke, flair
Dwelling on yesterday
Dreadful memories
Drink away your sorrows
Ashes burning, secrets
Recluse in the dark
A dim light over shadows
Abandoned self-worth
Just growing old
An unforgiving road
Breathe in cigar smoke
Let out the guilt
Self indulge
Rugged skin turns into leather
Plant another tombstone
Thoughts vanishing
Eyes burning
Life is overwhelming
Smoke another cigar
An old man's poem
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