Tuesday, February 23, 2016

καπνός προσευχή

The smoke starts sighing, sorrowing deeply.
Repentant tears are an expected result of the sad breath playing on my eyes.
The death- dirge plays and the sound is crackling, crumbling paper and prayers carried to Creator, whispered, but not understood by mortal minds and earthly ears.
I breathe the prayer in, and add a line of my own, before letting it out and watching it ascend like the incense of old.

The leaves of tabbaq are wrapped together in the arms of flax and esparto, in a morbid embrace- and a cruel irony.
But the kindly leaves pass on my prayers.
They speak to me only with their dying breaths.
They have no voice before they are given the filter that interprets their speech and tells me secrets.
But they speak for themselves, and they have a lovely singing voice.

When they are old and grey, I let them pass with dignity, under the heel of my shoe.
And attempting to follow the teaching of the Saint, I light one prayer after another- without ceasing.

by George Callihan

Thursday, October 11, 2012

A Mere Quatrain

The Poor Expensive Cigar

I, by thee unruly lied, chased the fleeing tide,
Forward far to fume the futile cigar.
Why didst so shy betrayed, I lustfully eyed,
Par was drawn, marred in the jar.

By Evan Gunn Wilson

Thursday, September 20, 2012

ATY's Tobacco Sonnet #3

With just a cigar, I am not alone.
I converse with smoke, atone for my day
in peace. The measured puffs set my tempo
and this is how I pray – with no other
than this nude beauty, Colorado brown,
quietly dying, her ash testament
to our time together and our pleasure.
There is no better friend than this cigar,
who listens well and is comfortable
with silence, just sitting there, her and I,
for a time, she helps me forget about
bills, arguments, politics, endless war.
And then she goes out so I look around,
wake from my reverie, and remember.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

ATY's Tobacco Sonnet #2

Even my dreams weigh heavy at day's end,
they line up with my bills and body,
remind me what could have been done better,
what could have been completed, put away.
There is such knowledge in the world, today,
did I learn any of it? Is smarter
how I go to bed tonight? Did I see
a new argument, or did my mind bend?
I've been sitting all day: my aches and pains send
sporadic stimuli to my brain, breathes
a rhythm only my back knows – harder
my chair grew. After this day, I am drained.
But, before bed, I bring out a cigar,
bathe in its blue smoke, scrub off the day's scars.

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Tobacco Poetry Exercise 2.1

 Here is a half assed poem I just wrote.  Though the language is not much to speak of, I hope you enjoy the sentiment.

Who will we call when we die of smoke?
When no remedies there to fix what we broke.
Then we will feel the fresh air's choke,
Of King James the First! (a miserable moke)

That Counterblaste King of Stuart land,
Saves us all with his potentate hand.
By the time that devil Raleigh drew near,
Was James ready to strike us with fear.

'Twas that ruler that started on health,
So we can live longer in miserable wealth.
A wealth we would like to indulge ourselves in,
Only to find that these things are sin.

Call on him, and a seance conduct,
For severe lectures, the ghost instructs.
But if you wish to be comfortably old,
Join for a smoke in the unforgiving cold.

"Sir Walter Raleigh, name of worth!
How sweet for thee to know.
King James who never smoked on earth,
Is smoking down below!"

Friday, June 29, 2012

Atticus 06/27/12

Atticus 06/27/12

Shade-dappled, mocha steaming, slightly hidden
In a café alleyway, the smoke from my Ruination
Gliding – the only cloud on this blazing day –
As the street passes by, left to right.

Temporary sanctuary, granted by the owner’s wink
And the mention of increased fines, has cost me:
1 espresso
1 large tip
1 Ave Maria St.
George
1 promise to stop, if asked

The book lies unopened, the cell
Set to vibrate, hospital rooms
And bills and ex-wives
And dead end jobs and regrets
And nostalgia and angst
Lost to the low croon of leaf
On leaf and long legs
Delicately perched on very
High heels.

I will eventually stand up,
Take one last sip, scatter the ashes,
Leave this outlaw life, enter
Stage left and deliver.

But, right now, the wind is soft,
The world is slow, and this stick
Is just getting interesting.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

The Wanderer's Man o' War Sonnet


Man o’ war, oh, Man o’ war,
verily the cry rings out.
A weak man's plea with hands aloft,
Poor fool, what be he about?
Man o’ war, oh, Man o’ war,
away with all worries bout.
Burn thine torch, brighten thine eye,
Truly a fine made redoubt.
Man o’ war, oh, Man o’ war,
Sweet scent of each Virtue bought.
I fear at last through the last Ruination,
My bank account has finally run out.

-The wanderer A