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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
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 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
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 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 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
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
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 Apr 18
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
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