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JΛM May 20
There once was a ponderous piper Peter,
Whose arm burned off in a heater.
It's now hard to fit pipe,
But he doesn't gripe.
He's got one arm, a mouth, and his peter.
CL Fjell Feb 16
Bright colored yellows and soft muted greens,
With a pipe in hand and a light for the means,
Of smoking away this long and hard day.

Leg dangles from branch, it waves lazily,
Clouds rise with a puff, and float merrily,
One great big ole breath, and troubles seem to cease.
Guntang Aug 2020
i don’t speak of things
only words
i don’t speak of time
only vapour
i inhale the dawn’s drapes
watching the bleeding sun
i smoke the burnt sunset
in a bent pipe
Chaque fois que j 'escalade
Les parois des mots vers les pics inviolés
J 'emmène avec moi dans l'expédition
Mon éclaireuse d'élite.

Ma sherpa me guide et me prévient
Des chutes de sérac et des avalanches,
Cuisine les rimes embrassées, porte les alexandrins
Installe le campement des rimes embrassantes.

Alors elle se repose sous sa tente
Et, satisfaite, cure sa pipe
Tout en fredonnant inconsciemment
Ses deux quatrains suivis de  deux tercets
Tandis que que moi je suçote
Mes surelles poétiques confites.
Ma pisteuse pose ses pitons et ses broches à glace
Dans l 'ombre des cimes
Sans oxygène sans assistance
Dans les nuages de la haute poésie.

Nous avons ainsi planté nos sonnets
Dans les vingt-et-un sommets continentaux
Ma sherpa c'est mieux qu 'un sur-homme
C'est une sur-femme, une sur-muse
Une sur-déesse
Une vieille briscarde
C'est Junko Tabei et Bachendri Pal
Et après chaque sommet qu 'elle franchit
Sans désagrément
Elle se retire sous sa tente
Et, satisfaite, cure sa pipe
Tout en fredonnant inconsciemment
Ses deux quatrains suivis de deux tercets
Tandis que moi je suçote
Mes surelles poétiques confites.

Parfois la chute d'un sérac imprévisible
Nous emporte, nous ensevelit et nous broie presque
Mais jamais ma sherpa ne se départit de sa pipe
Ni moi de mes surelles
Dans nos joutes poétiques.
Andrew Harris Apr 2019
My wound is fresh
My words weak
But light my pipe
And words begin to steep

It’s a slow burn
Betwicks the tobacco and me
the nightshade can’t last
My thoughts they burn

The smoke is a manafestation
It’s shows how things burn inside
So much for the fascination
Of a future I prized as mine...
Elizabeth Zenk Jan 2019
Regurgitating visceral insults
and spewing out vile barbs.
A danger to all around.
A pipe bomb,
and storing away
immense pressure
until I
e x p l o d e.
And you will see me for the destructive force I truly am.
I am mlre  dangerous than you know
Bryce Dec 2018
There is nobody to leave you in the sands,
Where you leave yourself and the range of thoughts flows freely,
And the 20 mules are stuffed in some museum--their final gift

There is no place to clean your wounds
Just sand to stunt the bleeding

The Paiute, drunk off cactus and smoking themselves into oblivion

They understood that the desert has no need for sadness
the desert IS sadness.

Searching for what? Food? It's all spiked and scared of you out here--
No love on this plane, just in the shape of things

The nick of *****

The bleed of seed

The dream

Santa stood by the fire
With a pipe in his teeth
With smoke in the air
Circling him like a wreath

Clement Clarke Moore
Said this so long ago
But, what kind of pipe
I'm sure you don't know

Santa, a smoker
That's nothing new
If you remember the poem
Then you'll know it's true

The pipe, oh so slender
A small bowl at the end
A slight whisper of smoke
In the air, it would send

It arched to the floor
To the end of his beard
If it ever got close
Then his beard would be seared

The tobacco he smoked
Was a Turkish fine blend
With cloves and some nutmeg
Just how much, would depend

Was he giving out presents
Or sitting down by a fire
That determined just what
He would put in his briar

The pipe had a name
It was a Churchwarden pipe
Made of briar so old
A now long extinct type

Red Man tobacco
Some days he'd switch
But, not very often
It made his nose itch

The pipe is a classic
It shows Santa had style
Though it had a small bowl
It would last him a while

He could make rings appear
And they would circle his head
Or he'd just taste the spice
And form a small cloud instead

A Churchwarden pipe
Can be smoked by so few
It's a long way to draw
It's a tough thing to do

The scent that it leaves
Is of burnt spices and pear
And if you should smell it
You know Santa was there

So, this Christmas instead
Make it your pre bedtime goal
To leave out some OHM Turkish
To replenish his bowl
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