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Smoke Scribe Apr 2020
scribing with smoke and utter devotion
———————————————-

****!

half an orange, half a grapefruit,
on a crystal dish, resting on a fine china plate,
Royal Worcester, from England  retrieved,
in a smoke cloud, upon my chest appears

the coverlet up to my chin pulled,
my arms tucked in tight, side by side,
the light turned off, the television too,
who?  in a smoke cloud, catch a faintly glimpse

the menu does not mention love, or utter devotion,
no recollection of ordering either, and yet,
here I-am, well served, piping hot and well chilled,
scribing of one’s shadow, she who never disappears

she, whose never disappoints, late in the evening,
early in the morning, a mirage, a ghost, magical elusive,
lightest touch of a forehead kissed, a tingle for evidence,
but not the only proof of her

utter loving and devotions appearance
Smoke Scribe Mar 2019
why the occurrence of something highly improbable should be inherently noteworthy


                            


Here is a way to produce                          Here is a way to produce
an outcome                                                  a poem
almost certainly                                          almost certainly
never seen before in                                   never seen before in
human history                                             human history
and never to be repeated:                          and never to be repeated:

Shuffle a deck of cards.                             Shuffle an alphabet.
The resulting deck, assuming                  The resulting deck of letters
the cards are shuffled correctly,        if the letters are shuffled correctly
should only occur on average                should only occur on average
every 52 51 *50 *... *21 shuffles,       every 26 25 *24 *... *21 shuffles,
because this is the number                        because this is the number
of possible permutations of                       of possible permutations
52 cards, all equally likely.                         26 letters, all equally likely.

 This number is incomprehensibly large, on the order of 1068 or 534 using  letters

                               100,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,
                    ­                       000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,        
                        ­         000,000,000,000, (or half that with an alphabet)


                                                Every­ person on earth could
                                       write a gibberish poem once every nanosecond
                    for the expected lifetime of the universe and not even put
                                                      a dent in that number.

                               Is this why then is there not a GOOD poem written
                                          every time letters are shuffled about
                                             the astronomically unlikely event
                                                         that just took place?

Because letters are not numbers, the subset of sequenced associations called **words
  (in the English language) is about a mere
                                                  ~ 220,000~
                    But, each year, an estimated 800 to 1,000 new words
                                    are added to the English language


That is still a heck of a lot of possible combinations and is the reason                                          why the occurrence of something should be inherently noteworthy
at all.

So writing a new combination of words is still pretty difficult,
and writing an intelligible and intelligent
mind moving combination
is a rare thing indeed.

Should you happen to write a poem and get even a single read, that is a pretty miraculous thing because the subset of the billions of English reading persons on Earth who also read poetry habitutualy
read is the square root of pi, or 1.7724537398758821888.

which ain’t a lot of people.

So, if you wrote a really good poem today and a couple of people read it, liked it, that highly improbable event is highly improbable, about the same chance that someone else exists with your exact DNA (excluding any identical twin) is a reallly low number

so, consider yourself really, really special.  I do.
Smoke Scribe Sep 2018
I am the smoke of return and rest,
sky inscribing,
knowing your precise needs and the
screams and the years unfair taken,
screened through five perceptions

I am the word weaver
setting the loom for each peculiar requisition,
a havened place of restoration
as best I can,
for this weaving my eye’s recollections
perfect,
no imagination needed


imagine that
Sep 2018 · 1.9k
Porno (let the lying begin)
Smoke Scribe Sep 2018
let the lying begin

first, it's ***** - not *******.
don't pretend its scientific,
like geology, physiology.

It's just ***. raw and without boundaries.
you watch. you fantasize. you deny.

then when your conscience questions,
you lie, first and foremost,
to yourself.

what's your favorite category?
got a favorite site?
or you like to explore,
never satisfied, more?
more.

Let the hunger games begin.
who can lie with straightest face?

filter me off of your list,
unless you ready to follow me,
to where truth rules,
no punches pulled,
raw is real. *** is raw.
real is ***.

otherwise, why would you still be reading this
poem?

gotcha.
I  know who you are...
Smoke Scribe Aug 2018
is this the hill I want to die on?


there are certain questions I ask myself
filters, lines in the mental sands, rubicons, so denominated by me.

which loosely translated means is this battle worthy of dying,
fighting over?

the question comes so frequently I wonder what’s wrong with me.  

always instigated by a human being and every one quick to the draw

I ask the question twice -
most times
once to them. then to myself

by now my children know,
to ask themselves first,

so once is enough
Aug 2018 · 22.3k
imagine that
Smoke Scribe Aug 2018
Imagine that
I could write a salve,
compose an ointment of verbal herbs to heal,
even mere protect the already-torn-so-easy mental flesh,
just to disguise/hide the multi-colored bruising our
fickle mistress-in-common provides when you are down so far
another bruise joining the cast like a  floodplain subsuming one more feeding creek bed into the shapelessness of indistinguishability

imagine that

where atoms hide eternal between creation and destruction,
borrow brief the set exact you require to restore the taken years
from fathers/mothers/brothers/sisters,
children,
return that which went unused by the uninvited, unseemly human whim of war and lies for no gain

imagine that

the deep sinkhole of despair that ***** one in, years in the formation, appearing in instance, and worse does not drowns but leaves helpless, unable to climb out, and all our scratching digs us in deeper until we cannot be, seen or heard or just be

imagine that

a check comes in the mail, payable left open for filling-in,
in the amount of full restoration, with no additional fees of guilt needed for deposit and cashing/caching out: and you wake up
and the stony chest is breathing lungs free

imagine that

and I do; for I am the smoke of return and rest, sky inscribing,
knowing precise needs and the screams and the years unfair taken,
they are screened through the five perceptions, and the word weaver
sets the loom for each peculiar requisition, no imagination needed

imagine that

you lament and anger demand verifiable proofs mathematical,
cursing the knights of false hopes with untethered regret

I do not imagine that; hear it and accept; my task, imagine that, making you imagine that, thus commencement of repair begins
when

we imagine that

for this how new healthy cells  are born

quiet-now,  go, imagine-that, now
if you recognize yourself within, it is no accident!
thank u all for the love and appreciation. one writes many poems in many disguises, so it is hard to believe  that an 8 month old poem, sent to you for safekeeping, is shortly thereafter barely recalled.
and then is rebirthed, and wouldn’t change a word...
imagine that!
Smoke Scribe Aug 2018
The Violent Storm by the Water
(Do You Trust Your Imagination)
was not unexpected
but its fury was without compare,
poet awake in semi-preparation

living by water should be a human right for all,
even a small room, overlooking, gives new meaning to
perspective

we blessed with a patio door, encased in a glass window big enough for a smallish elephant to come visit and play with children

a storm is observed up close and personal as if one was in
an IMAX 3D  theater, and the edges of existence were being redefined,
sharpened by fury, tooled by tools untouched by mortal hands

miles of bay illuminated with bass drum furious accompaniment

stand before the screen,
poets arms outstretched as a supplicant,
the light of the lightening passes through him,
yet , behind me, she still sleeps

then the entire house shakes, reverberates, as if to say:


”tremble humans, cower, you are not permitted to watch my majesty, for such it was when created heaven and earth”

bold poet window worshipping
risky answers:

“but who will know
if even a poet cannot declaim sights
no one else has seen?”

”true, true, but you must choose if poet truly,
do you trust your imagination human,
to prove that the powers of the heavens are limitless?”

write of storms unseen and nature endless miracles

”then you may call yourself
a miracle too,
a poet

violent #storm violentstorn
Smoke Scribe Apr 2018
Passover or Easter or Happy Any Ole Thing, Sam I Am

she
asks me good naturedly
which to wish me - a happy this or that
and a poem’s immaculate conception is instant arisen arising
hot ****

rueful smile and unruly reply
a solid out loud Ha!

neither either or he writes and so believes

for I am a god loving man,
whom we’ve -Him/It/Me have agreed
that I may call
Sam I Am
and the answer to your question is
why not

for most quests and questions can be well-answered
why not!

my genes my historical beings my ancestors and my issue
all declaiming that I am a jew who left egypt, no defaming, a slave to no man who cannot love another like his own self

but some in all that I write, this deity boss slips in quietly unseen in one of his jokes-on-us-disguises like singing ave maria

and thus whose to say
his rightful name, is not
Sam I Am

my choice and the big D
     (a self-employed informal his choice, nom-de-guerre)
has agreed via his acknowledgement in his normative style of
low volume taciturn tacit acceptance

so wish me a u happy
anything you want-to-call-it-day

don’t matter. but know this u were there
when, all on that happy day where, @ the manger,
when this Sam-Approved-Appeared
poem was born and Sam blessed it with a
hot ****!

she laughs, tosses back in my face, some schematic I
prior penned that I can’t recall the when or where or my
nom-de-guerre employed but fits this ex-slave perfectly

“there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth”
happy
Smoke Scribe Mar 2018
my sally my Sally

a wonderful double entendre
for it’s time,
my internal clock chiming

to sally forth and give the due
to where dew in her garden resides,
poetry becoming sweet tears
in all our eyes
when the philipina rain thirst quests our quenching

there is no reason no request for
this sally poem but a tickling thought suggests that a good friday. could be the trigger, or that
pandora bringing me Ave Maria as I compose
when
the due and the dew and the do are a
trinity

the best poems are the un-requested  but the most needed,
the most holy
Smoke Scribe Mar 2018
Shakespeare’s Dog


in the theater tonight, the notion of a poem-potion
courtesy of Shakespeare's dog came unbidden

So when home arrived, was unsurprised that this
very peculiar pug was farting before my own front door.

get lost, I announced got what I need from your boss,
but before I could kick him across the floor,
the pug spake thusly:

this dog knows the boot too well,
it is parcel of this dog's life of no quality,
but if you give me shelter tonite, I will provide,
share some of Speare's un-Published Works
and you can claim it as your own!



kicked that dog across the room,
(having pity earlier I let him in and enter)
told Jim, (that’s what I called him)
he can stay the night, or long as the sun rises up
and goes down unbidden, but, if I ever
caught him plagiarizing, selling sonnets on the side,
I would report him to the ASPCA and the Poet’s Union.

The American Society for the Poets of Conscience Alive -
might have his low hanging ***** cut off in retribution.

he laughed out loud, rhyming funny, pontificating:

well mate,
thanks for the soliloquy,
me ***** long time gone,
but what I know and what I’ve seen
if tale-told you, and you were to listen,
you would keep me around as fodder
for your artistic soul.

in return chappie,
you need only provide me a rug, a fire,
A/C for the languid summer eves,
fodder for me body, and your boots,
far removed from my hindquarters.


We spoke much thereafter,
turns out he served his poet-masters
in many ways, more than a mere footstool.

his snoring keeps me awake some twenty years later.
his love for country music makes me put him on nice days,
outdoors, his headphones securely strapped round his double chins.

ugh that pug. became my best becoming love, old friend,
one of us will pass someday and an elegy composition,
the other devotee will furnish sadness utterly becoming.

so if a farting pug before your door you’ve  found,
take him in, give him water, an amply supply please
of Carrie, Trisha and Chaplin-Carpenter for his immortal soul,
but beware, he might try to sell you
some of my words, as your own.
2014
Smoke Scribe Mar 2018
not exactly high heels and thigh highs
but an invitation is an invitation,
engraved or post-it.

when I one-stroke open your furry bathrobe,
furry slippers thunking-kerplunking
onto the polished wood floor,
poet-puts you laughing, protesting, prone,
on the dining room table, we both shaking,
possibly from laughter?

when I one-stroke open your furry parts
with various soft tissue medical instruments,
to which ****** harm is now "uncovered"
as specially advised by my insurance company,
no more, no matter,
the lady doth protest too much about my methodology, methinks,
no more, no matter
recently recovered some omy smoke scribe lost poems

written January 3, 2014 at 12:27:05 PM EST
Smoke Scribe Mar 2018
all poems write themselves, following plans that are drawn only
as the poem goes along, neither leading or following, but
carrying the writer along as first violin, a VIP passenger,
the first viewer, a consultant but not a conductor

a poem is written based on what has happened
a poem is written based on what was hoped to happen
a poem was written based on what could never happen
but is so well imagined that it is more real than if it happened


I willingly tell you I will not tell you which is what, for there is no difference between them for the writer, the first passenger,
though undeniably fully aware of the quality of the ware
that is proffered, plottered or just perchanced

perhaps you are thinking, but of course,
this is the way,
the way of all of us,
the way it has and will be and no
disclaimer needed for no believable claims are made

perhaps
for the weave is oft tight, tight as near-truth, and so well imagined, it wraps the first passenger in a cloak of skin
that actually feels, though cloaks cannot feel,
but belief is easily eased

there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth


Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum
but authenticated by me as
first viewer,

3/13/18
1:09am
Sep 2017 · 3.6k
best believe!
Smoke Scribe Sep 2017
best believe!

don't use this expression
much in my northern parts,
when you hear it spoke,
then you well,
best believe!
what comes next is **** serious

choose words more than with mere extra care,
when you true
believe

it is a surrender to surety,
a gift released,
to own the grit courage of trust
and all that is
best

when you give it up and write in
pixel perfect unretractable,
now know it immutable,
asking pointless,
there is fact that

I love you
(best believe it!)
*
too
Sep 2017 · 1.6k
Dear Mr. Carl Sandburg,
Smoke Scribe Sep 2017
Dear Mr. Carl Sandburg,

Once, you wrote:

"The lucid and endless wrinkles"
Draw in, lapse and withdraw.
Wavelets crumble and white spent bubbles
Wash on the floor of the beach."


Having observed often, the exact phenomenon you reference
in the words above, the undulating action upon a sand white beach, patient waiting the greetings of the all-day wavelets, which reminded you, which reminded me, of the lucid and endless wrinkles sea worn upon our faces, it is my happy duty incumbent to inform your spirit, that we have yet in this the 21st century, to invent, a machine that does it better than you man, hu-man, connecting our aged faces to the timeless stroking of the Earth by the water that sustains life.

Yours truly,

Mr. Smoke Scribe
Smoke Scribe Mar 2015
Part II  of "Got 0 Followers"

aim high
to keep
it low

expectations
such an
Awesome Awful
curse
others infect
you with

don't, yada yada,
ya wanna be like
Tom, **** and Jane,
even Harry, a transgendered
friend and fellow (ha) outcast,
all with a good job
prospects of a
goodly tented long life?

so ya write poems
to nobody
about nothing and
you are pleased
to be pleasing just yourself

in writing you have
nothing to prove,
so read them
like keepsakes
ya like,
keep 'em & me hid,
in the shoebox
under the closeted
pile of ***** clothes,
special designer outfits concocted
so they keep my remains,
privatized and unsanitized,
my equity,
hidden,
disguised as disgusting

but for god-sakes
don't follow me,
unless
you want to curse us
both with
Expectations of Expectations,
then comes with
illiteracy of
Affection

then the literary
pre-tension
that always follows,
leading to

Affectation,
the first derivative of the infection of affection

yeah,
then comes
caring
and it instantly it's too late,
you're *******,
right up the mental heine,
lost condemned
ruined annihilated
crushed subverted
crushed into
mental death camp suffocation of more, please ma,
can I have some more?

**crap, why did you have to go and follow me?
Smoke Scribe Mar 2015
Got 0 followers, but one tongue, and that's perfectly ok...

cause I got
two eyes
two nostrils
two hands
two ears
two ventricles

they all
follow me

all riders
on the one tongue
that speaks my piece

that finds poetry
on ***** streets
in closed places
and in the
if's of our lives
that makes writing
in one common tongue
so **** desirable
Feb 2015 · 2.2k
fancy seeing you here
Smoke Scribe Feb 2015
not especially social,
just a couple of friends,
so our interaction qualifies,
special, very,
with sincerity I say,
fancy seeing you here

come and gone,
come back again,
restarting an engine,
that been redesigned
to be as simple as
you and me,
reader, writer

quit, here, brevity here,
but say out loud that word,
fancy
one mo' time

part fantasy,
special, very,
a poem read,
a fan friendship established
here, where words and eyes
intersect, a very fancy place...
Smoke Scribe Feb 2015
can't imagine it ranks high up
on any list of any deity,
*** and God ******,
probably don't make the cut,
on a relative basis,
but ya never know...

looked around,
couldn't be found
any mention of who he roots for,
or if it's ok to ask for intervention


but
if you ******...
if you behead...
claiming with perfect
human vanity
his name as your own
for justification
in ignoring
Thou Shall Not ****,
know this

you're a commandment breaker,
having taken god's name in vain,
vain like vanity,
the sin unique to only humans

we cannot divine the divine,
sure wish it was my NY Giants
were today bowl-occupied,
why he chooses me to suffer
someday will surely be explained
or not

but you murderers,
easy rest assured,
taking his name in vain,
you won't be forgotten,
cause and effect
spelled out clearly


“the LORD will not hold him guiltless
who takes his name in vain”
Smoke Scribe Feb 2015
crazy idea, silly notion,
then again,
come back, circle around,
why not, you ask yourself

now prior to posting hereon,
every word with extra care reviewed

sharing, checking in
with my beloveds,
here, those gone/disappeared

telling myself
telling anyone,
talking to you
letting you know
my grace, your grace,
one and the same,
my face, your face,
my child, my son

know you're
checking in,
checking out,
the comings,
the goings,
knowing full and well,
I see you,
my face, your face
everywhere and everyday

our conversation never ending,
look for me here,
at the intersection
of memory and what's up,
you see my messages,
responding in a thousand
different ways,
our dialogue unending,
formally organized
Face to Facebook,
your face, my Facebook
my child, my son

— The End —