Twilight leans against the horizon,
indigo smoke curling low through the grass.
I kneel beside the compass stone~
its chill steady, its edges rough with time.
The wind offers nothing steady tonight;
it rustles past, unsure of itself
I listen anyway, tracing the carved lines,
trying to feel which direction breathes.
When I stand, the dusk shifts a little.
A faint silver thread glimmers far off,
and I turn toward it, quietly certain
that every road begins with breath.
When midnight turns the corner
another day will begin
but only time and tide can tell
what it holds within
for man's best laid plans
are made of smoke in the wind
on which his hopes and desires
are pinned
from a fading moon to a rising sun
dreams may be superfluous
for who's to say at the end of the day
what will become of us
Smoked gauze drifts across
the burnished face of the moon
revealed & concealed
Smoke Alarm
The smoke alarm must be defective like an old thermometer
Even though it is neither daily or monthly mor even weekly
It tends to go off when there is neither smoke or fire – does it
have a short wire?
It is so irritating that I feel like throwing it away
As far as it can possibly go without a hurricane
By which it could go to the middle of Maine
Where it can never again annoy me for free
Clandestine orchards perched upon the horts and whos so we'll make anew, the glowing fruit, is it purple or mewed pink, like colored sinks that sink the pink rose in the backyard pond for shallow eyes, that deftly see deepness and solidarity.
Follow pulse
follow low and high
like a dress in the wind
a simple lovely sin
She spins and ends well
I could devour whole
the simple lovely sin
between her eyes and brow
a kiss on lips
a taste left on fingertips
Wildfires don't recognize borders.
Neither should common sense.
But the nonsense coming out of your leaders' mouths
just proves that they're really dense.
Smoke doesn't come with a passport.
It's not some thing you can just deport.
You see, here's the way it goes.
We can't control the way the wind blows.
Maybe you should clean up your own mess
before blaming others for your distress.
We actually have way more
boreal forest than you.
Yet, statistically, for some reason,
you have more fires than we do.
Your priorities are something
you need to rearrange
because the problem is not Canada;
it's climate change.
ANGER SPEWING FORTH
CANADIAN SMOKE FROM UP NORTH
WE SHALL NO REMORTH
(thanks Sylvester thuffering thuckatash)
The noisy train runs down
the track.
It carries boxes on its back.
It blows out smoke both grey
and black.
For the last thirty months, I have had nothing to smoke.
I said goodbye to cigarettes forever and that is no joke.
I stopped smoking on New Year's Day of 2024.
I decided that I didn't want to smoke anymore.
My uncle got lung cancer and it caused him to die.
When it came to cigarettes, I was able to say goodbye.
My heart roams this wild landscape
in search of a vanished childhood.
I had last seen her walking along this
sandy loam path that cuts between
two pines. There she walked farther
up to the clearing now overgrown
with poison oak. Thistle had not
snagged her gauzy skirt in those
days of childhood wonder. Deer
tracks were recognizable, and scrub
jay feathers were to be found and
tucked into skirt pockets. But now,
even as smoke clouds the horizon,
I find only the rust of pine cones,
a half-eaten bird, and a snake that
choked and died on another
snake's head.
fall forest deer path
I follow heart-shaped deer tracks
still seeking her soul
Feel as tho' I'm going to the dogs
it's almost time to pop my clogs
kick the bucket chuck it in
call it a day take a spin
and shuffle off this mortal coil
be released from worldly troubles and toil
buy the farm and bite the dust
or cash in my chips if I must
when D-Day dawns (it's not that far)
a big bang send-off will be my last hurrah
but it's no joke
as should I croak
who will miss me
when I'm long-gone
for no matter where on earth I am
I don't fit in I don't belong
oh well easy come easy go
whether up in smoke or down below
Not the tell tale heart under the floorus
nor Edgar Allan Poe's thesaurus
can convey the nightmare that disturbs my sleep
when my smoke alarm goes "beep".
molecules lower into mist
then smoke and screenshots
my nicotine grows from roots
onto tongue into thyroid
deliciously fresh I blow
sprays across crisp lawn
true blue sky sings its songs
massaging through trendy T-shirt
day moves harmonic, stylish
cigar shortens
I’m patient with cameraman
he is late as usual
our canvas is painted
with muted colours of farmlands
organic every morn
let us go for cappuccinos
before work starts in ernest
in coffeeshop we’ll love
ourselves f o r e v e r ~
______________________________
BRONZE WINNER POEM
Allpoetry Imagery Contest
May ‘26
Beware of your surroundings at all times,
inside some hearts, are darkened chimes.
To God be true, to thyself the same,
trust and believe in Jesus name.
For good people, are surely their prey,
so to the Lord, we should truly pray.
To walk in goodness, with each step we take,
and to know the real, from the fake.
Always watching, because shadows will appear,
for they gather round, with smoke and mirror.
To kill, to steal, and to destroy you and me,
for in their hearts, is no love, you see.
So be watching and praying, and always be aware,
there are those shadows, who do not care.
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