Swirling smoke and tobacco cheeks;
leave no glass on the patio. Plastic
water bottle filled to the gills with butts.
children don’t care -
off
in their own world. generation gap
is apparent as one grows
old. Young
will carry on. What will the world
be?
I breathe, I sigh, I hold my breath;
eventually,
I inhale secondhand smoke, and try
to reach, teach, inspire
these kids, but I can’t reach them, so I
pray.
The laughs, the jokes, loud rock, the moods
of one generation down; one
to go.
Perhaps, I’ll linger for a while; follow
grand pals, see where life leads them.
Certainly
strange on this side of life. Dear dad
doesn’t care
anymore; I can see that.
Paddling
the ball; pingpong
for all.
It is where we meet in the middle,
on
the center line - dividing net.
Sidenote:
pool is a free for all. splash.
"Long has My grace been proffered
Long has intercession been offered
Short is My space for repentance
'On my terms!' frames their resistance
'Tis not I who needs to change
Defying My terms will estrange
Worship Me in spirit and truth
Stop treating My words as uncouth
My Vineyard I designed to produce
But not all of My grapes have juice
These are destined for destruction
They refuse to obey My instruction
Secondhand smoke provokes My eyes
Their sacrifices only antagonize
Their outcome has been decreed
Curses will pursue their seed
Their toxic smoke is spreading
The effects of it - upsetting
False gods mislead and blind
Fulfilling the devil's design
Blowing immoral smoke in My face
Masking deceit without disgrace
They have earned My displeasure
I'll punish them in full measure
But My good grapes will inherit
As joint-heirs, they'll share it
They truly love and obey Me
Becoming My priority
I'll restore the Universe for them
New Jerusalem from every kind of gem
Justice and righteousness prevail
Secondhand smoke is a devil's tale"
it was almost midnight and we
with our fingers laced around Marlboro beyond blue cigarettes
were staring out the window
which was open so that our guilt and smoke could escape on the wind
and we wouldn’t get caught.
. for public domain
[ Hey, man! New threads? ]
Tomorrow morning,
I jump into a new pair of pants.
They're not fancy,
not pressed and sleek,
like pants Fred Astaire would wear to dance.
They're not so new.
They're second hand, but not worn so thin
that they feel pansy.
The thread's not weak
like thin skins drunkards wear, too full of gin.
These pants are good pants,
fit for a working stiff who sweeps floors.
Not for a Nancy,
nothing near chic,
like scores in show windows of finer stores.