Stogie Poems | Examples

Gus

Don't make a fuss,
but here comes Gus.
Canine extraordinaire,
he smokes cigars, eats Milk-Bone, no cares.
Although our bigger dog, Beau, has got game,
Gus can play as well with him, just the same.
But, when Beau wears him out,
Gus doesn't pout.
He just lights up a stogie-
and revels that he's the alpha doggie!

Froggie Enjoys His Stogie

Froggie settled down right away in his delirious state
Enjoying his stogie, next to a slithery creature, a snake.
The rest of the swamp felt his demeanor calm down.
They loved the feeling they were feeling, relaxed all around.

Losing Again

They've sacked their hapless manager
and replaced him with a youthful figurine
They still need a steeley manager
who could cut ice with a glance

They lost 6 ~1
against a swerving  juggernaut
And I saw something
I wouldn't again
A Back Four fit for the slaughter
and a  strike force incapable
of scoring more than once
And what happened to the midfield
over burdened and over run
with a proverbial stogie in their mouth
They puffed away so mercilessly
I do believe they were shell shocked
like a sudden squall on the beach

Did Your Daddy Smoke a Stogie

hot cocoa with a marshmallow and a straw stick, please dear.
surprised the bartender, he didn’t get many of this kind in here.
You’re a bovine, right? He asked the calf wearing the jaunty smile.
My mommy and daddy think so; they live on a ranch called six mile.

I think they might have met in this bar, the old timer said.
Did your mama dance her hooves off and wear flashy red?
calf was shocked, he did not know anything about their courting days.
I guess I could ask my daddy, he said. This sounds like a phase.,

Don’t quote me said the barkeep, I get a lot of things wrong.
But did your father smoke a stogie? And can he sing a song?
Not my daddy, the calf said, maybe some other guy.
His mother would have disagreed with a long poignant sigh.

Sleep Damage

In a house I don’t live in
there’s a wife I don’t live with.
It all makes perfect sense,
the pillow is a dream-snatcher
it reveals other people’s dreams.

A movie I watched late at night
turns out to be my life
in black and white,
the 1940’s were big on
unintentional nostalgia.

My head skips out of one fantasy
into another.
Someone is dreaming of me.
Someone is in my mind
is smoking a reeking cigar
opening and closing doors
snooping.

Please don’t smoke in my mind.

The dream guy falls asleep in an easy chair,
The hot ash from the stogie turns to flames.
I am outside my mind now
looking in
as firefighters fight a losing battle.

One again sleep damage
jolts me awake
just to tell me to sleep.

Pregnant Male Emoji

Ah, yes! A jock can dream!
As depicted in Apple’s, latest,
Pregnant, male, emoji.

I imagine an overweight male,
In a slinky nightgown, hairy legs.
Puffing circles,from his very favorite stogie!


4/22/2022

Stranger Grandpa

He’s somebody’s grandpa I bet, we all said.
He had wandered into our family reunion around nine.
Grandma rolled her eyes and set him in front of the TV.

He smelled like chew, his flannel shirt was a bit wrinkled.
He was unkempt but clean, a relative maybe?
No one knew, but we kept our opinions to ourselves.

He lit up a stogie and watched the news past our heads.
Grandma brought him a tray with bacon, eggs and two piece of toast.
As she turned to go he gave her a playful pat on her petootsie ootsie.

We young ones laughed; earning sharp looks from our parents.
We never did find out who the guy was, but figured he was an Iowan. 
This was 1962, when children did not know the ways of grownups.

I have never forgotten the pat on grandma’s petootsie ootsie
Or the way the old dude’s face lit up when he looked at me and grinned.
I pegged him as Granddaddy’s replacement, but never saw him again.

Stogie the Smoker Cat

They called him Stogie for a clear reason.
He smoked fat pipes no matter the season.
Try to take it from him.
You’ll get a smack on the chin.
To take away the cat’s vice is tantamount to treason.

O Dat Mcgee

It was the end of the day when McGee walked in
to his favorite neighborhood pub
Gave a last puff on a stogie 
that he smoked right down to the stub

Then made his way up to the bar
Where he said with a troubling grin
Serve me a beer and put it right here
Before all the trouble begins 

After the first, he had another
as his patients appeared to wear thin
And saying He wanted a beer
Before all the trouble begins

So this went on 'til the barman 
produced McGee's bill, and that's when
McGee scratched his head, and then calmly said
"Now Here's where the trouble begins"

Breakfast of Champions

Domestic beer and cheap cigars 
inflame my lyric flare,  
spark my anxious urge
to create something readable,
splurge into visions of sugarplums,
flights of pure fancy, till I have a 
poem distilled in my brain.

The struggle to articulate is 
pure and simple pleasure, 
making mountains out of molehills, 
silk purses from sows' ears,
perched at my computer 
with my dreams and foolish wishes.

So I'll smoke another stogie, 
free a beer from the refrigerator,
write another silly verse to share 
with God knows whom;
I'll keep shunning good nutrition
and be grateful to my muse
'til they lay me cold and lifeless in my tomb!

On the Prairie

On The Prairie

Congregated on the prairie western clear with beasts
Cowboy chews tobacco, swirls black liquid, spits
Projectile clean, target hit, lizard quick
Long tongued creature stunned
No time to snatch a timid bug
So much hungry love undone
Reptile rolls over rounded rock pin ball like
Looks both ways before crossing into dark
Cowpoke silhouetted, floated on campfire
Smiles Clint Eastwood style
Slips a small stogie through cracked dry lips
Moves it from left to right
Lights it, inhales harsh life
Jagged teeth, yellow, tinted by time
Clinched while he thinks about old wars  
A warrior down to the core 
Grins at the beans bubbling up
Old iron skillet and the western sky 
Gazes at the long lost stars through smoke
Shakes sand off hat and boots when done
Speaks not a single word 
But with a sigh he rises and rides off

A Man and His Cigar

A man in his later years enjoys a cigar.
He holds a fat brown rolled stogie with his fingers to his lips.
He puckers at the end of the stimulating stump, pulling a large puff.
He lights his vice with a blow torch.
Blue, red, yellow flame jets out the end of a curved steel tube.
	
He is balding and grey with whiskers.
Puckering and squinting casually his skin reveals fine wrinkles.
A dark green frame with round clear lenses sets on a large triangular nose.
His clothes are plain: 
a button collar shirt with tiny blue checks, 
a dark blue puffed coat, a tan denim bib.
His hands are large with fingers like sausages.
He holds his cigar and torch like a gorilla enjoying fruit.

At times only a moment matters.
The best things in life are not always sophisticated.
Experience and simplicity allow senses to be the only luxury needed.
People relish their vices 
after youth and excess have revealed what is common and uninteresting.
It is the process of feeling what is familiar and different about the moment 
which drives people in later years to enjoy an awareness of their senses 
rather than any perception driven by language.

Garden Mist

...and I want to start all my sentences with
the taste of his tongue.
 

I find him locked inside my rib cage
leaning softly against my heart
smoking a stogie and strumming bones,
where every thought of him is a losing
battle between good and evil that
I just don't truly want to win.
 

A garden of mist dripped wisteria
and criminal desire to cross all the 
wrong borders to nymphet hysteria.
 

I'm afraid it might hurt a little,
this promise to make me a woman
again...
 

engrave his name on my spine
with a lovers knot of whispering pine
a seven year itch into ivy climb.
 

I want to know the sure feel of his lips
on mine...splashed on all the inner
walls of his surrender.

Breakfast of Champions

Domestic beer and cheap cigars 
inflame my lyric flare,  
spark my anxious urge
to create something readable,
splurge into visions of sugarplums,
flights of pure fancy, till I have a 
poem distilled in my brain.

The struggle to articulate 
is pure and simple pleasure, 
making mountains out of molehills 
and silk purses from sows' ears,
perched at my computer 
with my dreams and foolish wishes.

So I'll smoke another stogie, 
free a beer from the refrigerator,
write another silly verse to share 
with who knows whom;
I'll keep shunning good nutrition
and be grateful to my muse
'til they lay me cold and lifeless in my tomb!

Smoke a Banana

I would rather see you smoke a banana,
than that stale old stogie from Havana.

• Short Stogie Poems
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