Bad Pipe Poetry
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MikeDennison
- Certified Codger
- Posts: 7623
- Joined: Mon Jul 30, 2018 7:18 pm
@Whalehead King, I'm...floored. And humbled to be in the presence of such poetic poety-ness. Really.
"I realized I had the gift of seeming to know more than I actually did." -A.J. Cronin-
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Kevin Keith
- Grand Poobah
- Posts: 9372
- Joined: Sun Apr 22, 2018 3:59 pm
- Location: Texas
There once was a man named King,
Turning a phrase was his thing.
Amidst other's tripe,
He wrote a poem 'bout a pipe,
Thus I threw my hat in the ring. Pipes.
WK ain't the PSF Raconteur Extraordinaire for nothing!
Turning a phrase was his thing.
Amidst other's tripe,
He wrote a poem 'bout a pipe,
Thus I threw my hat in the ring. Pipes.
WK ain't the PSF Raconteur Extraordinaire for nothing!
FJB
Vote Trump 2024!
Vote Trump 2024!
Oriental, Burley, Perique, Latakia,
Light them all up, the aroma will free ya,
if you've got none of these,
don't be a pooper,
reach for some cherry,
and light up a gooper.
Light them all up, the aroma will free ya,
if you've got none of these,
don't be a pooper,
reach for some cherry,
and light up a gooper.
"It is ordained in the eternal constitution of things, that men of intemperate minds cannot be free. Their passions forge the fetters." - Edmund Burke
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MikeDennison
- Certified Codger
- Posts: 7623
- Joined: Mon Jul 30, 2018 7:18 pm
Love it! And it's good to see ya, Lt!
"I realized I had the gift of seeming to know more than I actually did." -A.J. Cronin-
"What a tool" she said,
As she stared at my pipe
I could tell by her smile,
her humor was ripe.
She said, "Mind if I try it?",
I said, "What the heck?"
"As you see it's well used,
so yes, feel free to Czech"
As she stared at my pipe
I could tell by her smile,
her humor was ripe.
She said, "Mind if I try it?",
I said, "What the heck?"
"As you see it's well used,
so yes, feel free to Czech"
"It is ordained in the eternal constitution of things, that men of intemperate minds cannot be free. Their passions forge the fetters." - Edmund Burke
Prize for worst pipe poem.
Doesn't rhyme, has no consistent meter.
Like a slam poem without line breaks.
A+
Pause, said my muse, don’t get swept up in the whirl and whorl of words and thoughts and dreams that pipe smoke inspires when you exhale.
Instead…
Take the time to smoke, smoke, smoke, and be glad.
Smoke and ponder all the moments and minutiae that led up to this moment,
From the seeds to the sowing, from the watering to the tending,
From the harvest to the storage barn, from the fermenting to the cutting, from the packing to the charring light, from the beginning the end,
From all that came from before to now, A to Z, alpha to omega.
Pause and ponder the glory of creation that is held in a humble bowl of briar, and be enlightened by the warm glow you hold in your hand.
A briar in the palm does not make the palm of martyrs but it is still a sainted thing.
The smoke from my pipe trickled from the corner of my mouth and it wrapped around my ear, tickling it and whispering into it.
“I love you,” my pipe smoke said to me as it caressed my palette and my spirit.
“I love you,” my pipe smoke said before it was even lit.
“I love you,” my pipe tobacco said while it was still entombed, packed dense, inside its tin.
The flame of my charring light set this love free.
Love.
Lonely fools crave love and they find imitations of it in hard liquor and in watered-down wine, in women-for-hire,
They find it in Hollywood phantasms, cheap pornography, and in saccharine songs that extol the superficial and artificial virtues of love.
True love, real love is hard to find if you don’t know where to look for it.
Love is ethereal. Pipe smoke is ethereal.
Real love is the foundation of a life lived well.
Something done well is its own reward.
Ask any pipe if it has been loved well and a good pipe will tell you, Yes.
Yes.
Every pipe that has been smoked has been loved and it has loved its companion right back, giving back as much, if not more, than it was asked.
My soul beckoned me to pause awhile to savor the flavor of the smoke my pipe offered me.
I listened to my soul. I listened to my conscience.
Practice makes perfect and perfection is a grace for which we train ourselves over years and years of tongue bite and oxidized vulcanite bits.
Love has a stinger. Love has a filter. Love also has no rules when it comes to smoking a pipe.
True love comes to those who practice its virtues.
Briar, brylon, meerschaum, cob....
When the pipe is right, all is well in the world.
We get an intimation of glory, glory, glory when we smoke a pipe well.
We get a hint of what lies beyond this mortal veil, what awaits us when we shuffle us this mortal coil.
Dump a pile of dottle and ash and what is left?
The spirit of a smoke remains to tell a tale of reveries and flights of fancy, of epiphanies and prophecies that are all as true as gospel.
A pipe smoked well is a taste of heaven.
My soul gave me good advice when it told me to pause and ponder what was happening in my pipe and what was happening in me.
God blesses those who smoke a pipe,
They have tasted heaven.
Doesn't rhyme, has no consistent meter.
Like a slam poem without line breaks.
A+
Pause, said my soul, stop a while and ponder the wonders to where this pipe will lead you.
Pause, said my muse, don’t get swept up in the whirl and whorl of words and thoughts and dreams that pipe smoke inspires when you exhale.
Instead…
Take the time to smoke, smoke, smoke, and be glad.
Smoke and ponder all the moments and minutiae that led up to this moment,
From the seeds to the sowing, from the watering to the tending,
From the harvest to the storage barn, from the fermenting to the cutting, from the packing to the charring light, from the beginning the end,
From all that came from before to now, A to Z, alpha to omega.
Pause and ponder the glory of creation that is held in a humble bowl of briar, and be enlightened by the warm glow you hold in your hand.
A briar in the palm does not make the palm of martyrs but it is still a sainted thing.
The smoke from my pipe trickled from the corner of my mouth and it wrapped around my ear, tickling it and whispering into it.
“I love you,” my pipe smoke said to me as it caressed my palette and my spirit.
“I love you,” my pipe smoke said before it was even lit.
“I love you,” my pipe tobacco said while it was still entombed, packed dense, inside its tin.
The flame of my charring light set this love free.
Love.
Lonely fools crave love and they find imitations of it in hard liquor and in watered-down wine, in women-for-hire,
They find it in Hollywood phantasms, cheap pornography, and in saccharine songs that extol the superficial and artificial virtues of love.
True love, real love is hard to find if you don’t know where to look for it.
Love is ethereal. Pipe smoke is ethereal.
Real love is the foundation of a life lived well.
Something done well is its own reward.
Ask any pipe if it has been loved well and a good pipe will tell you, Yes.
Yes.
Every pipe that has been smoked has been loved and it has loved its companion right back, giving back as much, if not more, than it was asked.
My soul beckoned me to pause awhile to savor the flavor of the smoke my pipe offered me.
I listened to my soul. I listened to my conscience.
Practice makes perfect and perfection is a grace for which we train ourselves over years and years of tongue bite and oxidized vulcanite bits.
Love has a stinger. Love has a filter. Love also has no rules when it comes to smoking a pipe.
True love comes to those who practice its virtues.
Briar, brylon, meerschaum, cob....
When the pipe is right, all is well in the world.
We get an intimation of glory, glory, glory when we smoke a pipe well.
We get a hint of what lies beyond this mortal veil, what awaits us when we shuffle us this mortal coil.
Dump a pile of dottle and ash and what is left?
The spirit of a smoke remains to tell a tale of reveries and flights of fancy, of epiphanies and prophecies that are all as true as gospel.
A pipe smoked well is a taste of heaven.
My soul gave me good advice when it told me to pause and ponder what was happening in my pipe and what was happening in me.
God blesses those who smoke a pipe,
They have tasted heaven.
Underwater Basketweaver.
Baskets of basket pipes.
Baskets of basket pipes.
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Whalehead King
The pressure built up and I just had to let the doggerel out.arturo7 wrote: ↑Wed Sep 26, 2018 7:18 pmIs that a po-em?Whalehead King wrote: ↑Tue Sep 25, 2018 4:04 pm I can resist anything except temptation. -Oscar Wilde.
I am going to resist the temptation to flood this thread. -WK
It seems a bit disjointed.
You should try again.
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Ruffinogold
- The Mayor
- Posts: 9051
- Joined: Sun Apr 22, 2018 4:48 pm
- Location: Mineral Bluff , Georgia
Kevin Keith wrote: ↑Sat Sep 29, 2018 11:41 am There once was a man named King,
Turning a phrase was his thing.
Amidst other's tripe,
He wrote a poem 'bout a pipe,
Thus I threw my hat in the ring. Pipes.
WK ain't the PSF Raconteur Extraordinaire for nothing!
" I believe adventure is nothing but a romantic name for trouble " L.L.
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Whalehead King
I know you meant to write po-nutty-ness but spellcheck corrected you. Sorry to go all Walt Whitman on everyone. I couldn't keep it bottled up any longer. It's out of my system now.MikeDennison wrote: ↑Sat Sep 29, 2018 10:18 am @Whalehead King, I'm...floored. And humbled to be in the presence of such poetic poety-ness. Really.
