I never smoked a cigarette until I was nine.
quote by H.L. Mencken
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Smoke
Last summer, lazing by the sea,
I met a most entrancing creature,
Her black eyes quite bewildered me---
She had a Spanish cast of feature.
She often smoked a cigarette,
And did it in the cutest fashion.
Before a week passed by she set
My young heart in a raging passion.
I swore I loved her as my life,
I gave her gems (don't tell my tailor).
She promised to become my wife,
But whispered, 'Papa is my jailer.'
'We must be very sly, you see,
For Papa will not list to reason.
You must not come to call on me
Until he's gone from home a season.
'I'll send you word, now don't forget,
Take this as pledge, I will remember.'
She gave me a perfumed cigarette,
And turned and left me with September.
To-day she sent her 'cards' to me.
'My presence asked' to see her marry
That millionaire old banker C---
She has my 'presents,' so I'll tarry.
And still I feel a keen regret
(About the jewels that I gave her)
I've smoked the little cigarette---
It had a most delicious flavour.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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I kissed my first girl and smoked my first cigarette on the same day. I haven't had time for tobacco since.
quote by Arturo Toscanini
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wish my pain was a cigarette
Wish my pain was a cigarette,
It would have been touch by you
Wish my pain was a cigarette,
It would have had the comfort of your hand
Wish my pain was a cigarette,
I would have been on your lips
Wish my pain was a cigarette,
It would have been consumed with time
Wish my pain was a cigarette,
It would have ended in an ashtray
Wish my pain was a cigarette,
It would have been thrown away
poem by Secret Shal
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When I was young, I kissed my first woman and smoked my first cigarette on the same day. Believe me, never since have I wasted any more time on tobacco.
quote by Arturo Toscanini
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At one time I smoked, but in 1959 I couldn't think of anything else to give up for Lent so I stopped-and I haven't had a cigarette since.
quote by Ethel Merman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Very intense first summer out, to be 18 years old and never having gone on a date, never having smoked a cigarette, never had a drink, even a sip of beer, never kissed a girl, all of those things. It made for a fairly intense first year out.
quote by Peter Jurasik
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Ode to Greybeard
After leaving the convenience store, we smoked cigarettes insatiately, and were approached by a man with a long grey face, pink from the chilled wind.
Homeless, the man made due with a pile of jackets.
Spare a cigarette? He asked, like clockwork. And received what he bade for.
Without breaking his sight of his caretaker's eyes, he bit the filter out of the end and inhaled so deeply, he must have drank the smoke.
Thanks, pal - crept out from under his mustache and snuck by his cigarette.
His eyes turned slowly to meet mine and were as grey as his beard.
- Remember me when I die
He spoke also - with his eyes.
And mine spoke back - he knew I would
A legacy is only memory.
poem by C.S. Smith
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I'm Sick Of It
I'm sick, sick, sick of cigarette addiction
I'm sick of movies and their dishonest depiction
That smoking is glamorous, sophisticated and cool
When what it really is is something that rules
The cigarette addict from morning to night
And all the hours in between, they can never take flight
From the constant nagging fear that they must inhale the fumes
Of a deadly poison that will lead them to their doom
A cigarette addict can barely do a thing
Without a cigarette, it's got them on a string
They have to smoke it now, it just cannot wait
And then, another and another, they've really taken the bait
A cigarette addict is as helpless as a lamb
On a frosty hillside with no mother to keep it warm
Their mind is so confused that they actually believe
A cigarette is their saviour, they are so deceived
(Sydney, Australia - 2003)
poem by Alessandra Liverani
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When I Was Young
The rooms were so much colder then
My father was a soldier then
And times were very hard
When I was young
When I was young
I smoked my first cigarette at ten
And for girls I had a that yen
And I had quite a ball
When I was young
When I was young it was more important
Pain more painful and laughter much louder
song performed by by Ramones from Acid Eaters
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Emotion Called Anger
Anger is red.
It sounds like words spoken in spite.
It tastes like a meal eaten after a fight.
It smells like a cigarette smoked late at night.
It looks like a serpent just out of sight.
Anger makes you feel hatred.
Just to clarify this poem was written in the Five Senses form.
poem by Jesse Turner
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I saw John Garfield smoke. He was my idol, so I smoked. I even smoked like him.
quote by Jack Klugman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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9 Miles On A Dirty Futon
I spent nine miles with her.
in a cheap apartment.
Boxed wine and cheeses with exotic sounding names.
Eaten on a blanket on the floor as we had no table.
we had no couch,
we had no television.
But we had music.
At night we would lay on a futon matress
that layed on the floor.
The streetlight outside the bedroom window playing shadows across sections of her.
First her eyes were lit, the rest of her awash in shadows,
then,
when she turned,
her mouth was visible,
but her eyes were shadowed.
A breast, a thigh, her hair all illuminated
then darkened
according to her movments.
Sometimes she would lie on her back and light a cigarette.
Her whole face would light with the flash of the lighter,
like hand held lightining,
then darken again.
We would talk for hours on that futon,
I don't remember what was said...
I remember her in pieces of light and shadow.
When she smoked the light would turn the smoke in to a slow
languid serpent
escaping from her body through her mouth and nose.
I have never seen anyone smoke like that before or since.
Her face half lit by the streetlight.
She would speak and the words would drift out of her
entwined with the smoke.
She smoked like Garbo.
slow and seductive.
9 years with her and all my memories are of shadows, soft sodium streetlights, and orange cigarette glow.
9 years with her and all I remember are the lights and shadows
across her body.
On that futon matress
on the floor.
poem by Brevet Wilson
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Cigarette
I made by behind it.
Thus, I made it flower, stretched more,
then discharged to him
has whole group!
Its first facial massage, that moment,
monday morning unshowered,
this sexy thing never poses missed under a load.
It led again to her husband.
THEN It s' there extend 'ed with it everywhere
its face his/her husband nds' done forever this with it smoked its cigarette Now 'it' stays patient of it.
poem by Is It Poetry
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Cigarettes and Me
It's really strange to me, I fault the companies
Tobacco companies, Big Cancer
For their inefficiency. All my life
I never smoked a cigarette, not a single one
Nor even a sweet toke - in that respect
Hash cookies did for me, once and decisively.
My Mum smoked occasionally, sort of socially
But Dad, he never did, though he was in the war
I wonder what he did for comfort
To relieve anxiety and pain, when members of his crew
Disappeared without a word and were not seen again.
I must have had a rather stress-free life, how come
They failed to hook me, reel me in at school
No ciggies in the playground. Why? At college
I was mildly into alcohol. That didn't last too long
It was travel, close encounters with the continent
Called Africa that made me wild and high.
I ended up with Big C anyway
But I'm not coughing out my guts at least
Unlike the original Marlborough men
With damaged lungs, cancer of throat and tongue
I managed to escape all that, fell through the cracks
Neither macho nor gay, bohemian, sophisticate
And now it's so much easier. Every place you go
'No Smoking' signs proliferate. For me at least
They do not come too late.
poem by Frank Bana
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Lost Souls
hanging around
waiting for something to do
but there is nothing,
if he smoked he'd smoke a cigarette
fag-end of time
waiting
dynamic apathy, nothing
to do,
lives wasted in schizophrenia
wandering about, straying into cafes
hopeless pints
never a girlfriend
anxious hours
waiting-rooms, injections
occasional sweet moments of joy
a hundred years of boredom in a minute
Jesus spare us
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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I Dreamt Of My Father Last Night
I dreamt of my father last night
with an indifferent boy to his height
out from a hazy meadow into my sight
on his face was this grave grin
as he paused a little for me to join
while the boy looked away in vague pain
I might have been curious who he was
but father took out his cigarette case
that exuded its old taciturn wince
humbly I took the cigarette
though we both had long since quit
and leaned forward for father to light it
somehow my rusty puff snuffed out father’s light
the only inexplicable one for the night
while my apologetically lit cigarette was alright
I handed it over for father to light his cigarette
which he puffed hard but could not manage it
even if the two were closely joint tête-à-tête
knowing it was a dream I did not want daylight
in that haziness my cigarette was only thing alight
I waited and waited for father to get his light —
poem by Dr Ronnie Bai
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In Rotten Row
In Rotten Row a cigarette
I sat and smoked, with no regret
For all the tumult that had been.
The distances were still and green,
And streaked with shadows cool and wet.
Two sweethearts on a bench were set,
Two birds among the boughs were met;
So love and song were heard and seen
In Rotten Row.
A horse or two there was to fret
The soundless sand; but work and debt,
Fair flowers and falling leaves between,
While clocks are chiming clear and keen,
A man may very well forget
In Rotten Row.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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The old friends met in a quiet starlit night
He hums his unwritten song
Who's a famous drunkard in the village.
It's a quiet starlit night
And stars twinkle to his sad rhythm.
Passing the isolated graveyard nearby a stable
He stopped for a while.
And his old friend speaks from a broken tomb;
'Hey! There October Moon peeps like your innocent Auschwitz fiancee
And how the crawling life goes on chum! '
Could you please pass me a non-filter cigarette
If you have any spare one? '
He thinks on his way to the lonely Inn
That his dumb friend never smoked before.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Catastrophe
I may never write again,
in this wordless void
I feel helpless, hopeless,
discombobulated,
a stressed out mess.
Thoughts evaporate
into clouds of mist
high above my head.
I feel numb, dumb
and distressed.
Hot tears rain down
upon an empty page.
This is disastrous,
a bloody catastrophe,
I rage.
My fingers type
as the keyboard wobbles
under pressure
from a virgin sheet,
all sterile.
What trick is this,
that my wordiness
should be stubbed out
like a half smoked
cigarette………..
poem by Ruth Walters
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Joint At Deathbed
I smoked a joint
at my granddad’s deathbed.
In the living room of
childhood memories
Inhaling and Exhaling
blue plumes of smoke
Hours before he
drew HIS
last breath.
And
sitting at his deathbed.
as the grandfather clock struck
and the streetlamp outside the window
was turned on
and later off
I made my peace with God
and all consuming time
I smoked a joint
at my granddad’s deathbed
Putting my hand on
his
he spoke, his voice a pale whisper.
“Nothing can be done about it”
These last words to me
from a dying old man.
I smoked a joint
At my granddad’s deathbed.
Sweet soothing numbness
Held sadness and sorrow at bay.
Unspoken words of gratitude
milling around inside
but alas
a day too late.
and “nothing could be done about it”
I smoked a joint
at my granddad’s deathbed.
in cold cool contemplation
alone in the darkness, I understood:
All you hold dear will perish.
summer holidays,
friendships,
love,
life.
And no,
“nothing can be done about it”
The Old Man was right
poem by Carsten Thomsen
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