deepundergroundpoetry.com
Up In Smoke
*(-Winner- of the 'Son/Daughter/Mother/Father' competition)
No, not yet
Its too soon for you to die old man
Even though you've earned it
Smoking Lucky Strikes by the pack
No filter between you and your sweet tobacco
Burning away your days
Inhaling smoke and ember
Scrawling wrinkles on your face
Cancer's come a-calling
But I'm the one that's wallowing in a sorrow
Only Jack Daniels knows how to handle
A candle's worth of light
Upon this desk tonight
As I spill out words and booze-soaked breath
To take the edge off my regrets when it comes to you,
The Father that I never knew
23 years without
And when you came around
I had no idea what to do with your presence
So just like all my other problems I let you hover
Sit there, until I had an impulse of something other
To do with you than to spit the curses of my ignorance
Sparing you a glance every now and then
A chance conversation
Scraping details off the surface of this relationship
If you can call it that
I don't know if I would bother
But for having never met
We held so much in common
Talents
Humor
Apprehension of higher powers
Facial structure, a given
And this separate life that I am living
Makes me sigh a heavy, booze-soaked breath of relief
What will there be left for me to reap when you are gone?
An empty bag full of questions?
Shrinking footsteps I wished to stand in?
The one-sided story of a good but injured woman
left alone to raise a son, stamping out an impression?
A handful of correspondences
Emails
Phone calls
Car rides to all-you-can-eat buffets
Short walks under the shining Florida sun
In St. Augustine near a fortress by the bay
Cheering on a sports team
I adopted because they...
seemed to make you happy
But that's not good enough for me.
Your loss, I'm afraid,
Will mean more to me once its real
And there is no cache of information
Pertaining to the blood, sweat, and vocations
Of the variables
That siphoned into me
But we don't have that type of openness to heal
And we don't ask questions, maybe, the way we should
And we aren't close enough to reach
To touch each other's lives in the way, that probably, we would
If it didn't take this Jack Daniels to make me feel like a son
And cancer for you to feel like you missed out on being a Dad
No, not yet
Its too soon for you to die old man
Even though you've earned it
Smoking Lucky Strikes by the pack
No filter between you and your sweet tobacco
Burning away your days
Inhaling smoke and ember
Scrawling wrinkles on your face
Cancer's come a-calling
But I'm the one that's wallowing in a sorrow
Only Jack Daniels knows how to handle
A candle's worth of light
Upon this desk tonight
As I spill out words and booze-soaked breath
To take the edge off my regrets when it comes to you,
The Father that I never knew
23 years without
And when you came around
I had no idea what to do with your presence
So just like all my other problems I let you hover
Sit there, until I had an impulse of something other
To do with you than to spit the curses of my ignorance
Sparing you a glance every now and then
A chance conversation
Scraping details off the surface of this relationship
If you can call it that
I don't know if I would bother
But for having never met
We held so much in common
Talents
Humor
Apprehension of higher powers
Facial structure, a given
And this separate life that I am living
Makes me sigh a heavy, booze-soaked breath of relief
What will there be left for me to reap when you are gone?
An empty bag full of questions?
Shrinking footsteps I wished to stand in?
The one-sided story of a good but injured woman
left alone to raise a son, stamping out an impression?
A handful of correspondences
Emails
Phone calls
Car rides to all-you-can-eat buffets
Short walks under the shining Florida sun
In St. Augustine near a fortress by the bay
Cheering on a sports team
I adopted because they...
seemed to make you happy
But that's not good enough for me.
Your loss, I'm afraid,
Will mean more to me once its real
And there is no cache of information
Pertaining to the blood, sweat, and vocations
Of the variables
That siphoned into me
But we don't have that type of openness to heal
And we don't ask questions, maybe, the way we should
And we aren't close enough to reach
To touch each other's lives in the way, that probably, we would
If it didn't take this Jack Daniels to make me feel like a son
And cancer for you to feel like you missed out on being a Dad
Published 3rd Dec 2010
| Edited 28th May 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 3
reading list entries 3
comments 20
reads 1593
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
3rd Dec 2010 2:07am
3rd Dec 2010 4:05am
Such great subject matter and your sentiments are expressed honestly and poingnantly; the only real criticism I can offer here would be to attempt more rhymes which I think might improve the piece--by the way, it didn't take jack daniels to make you feel like a son; afterall, the games, the buffet, seeing your own reflection in his face, obviously, the bond between you two was already formed and getting stronger. I have a story very similar to yours except I didn't really feel the way you felt; wish I did, though.
Nice work.
Nice work.
You must be new here, or at least new to PierreTheMad. :) I'm not a fan per se of completely rhyming pieces. I suppose I would attempt more rhyming and epic poetry if I were (akin to Milton's Paradise Lost, which I love.) I use rhymes in my works intermittently as a slam-poetry type styling. But thank you for recognizing the relationship. It is threadbare but still there, for now.
3rd Dec 2010 4:22am
Cheering on a sports team
I adopted because they...
seemed to make you happy
Gold standard, brother.
I adopted because they...
seemed to make you happy
Gold standard, brother.
6th Dec 2010 5:29pm
Thanks hh. Strange how that works, no? I could have given a shit less about the entire sport but he and my half-brother always got so animated about it, about their team. How could I want to be left out of that?
3rd Dec 2010 7:16am
Re-kindles memories of a father I could never please. Yet I also see his face in my mirror
every day.
every day.
3rd Dec 2010 8:38am
That's the rub...my old man was an a-grade cunt, and still I wish I'd done better...respect to Pierre for talking to us like men.
3rd Dec 2010 8:25am
your poem really touches me in sad places. missed love and loss...a sore one..
3rd Dec 2010 11:32am
Strong energy here, and I like the poem's sardonic and darkly ironic directness and honesty. This poem is a minefield of symbols that can act as doors for further expounding and exploration. The Child/Father relationship, when it reveals itself as a theme in a poetry, its been my experience, that the kind of honesty this poem requires to ensure a fulfilling experience for the reader as well as the writer, is the kind that takes "projection error" into effect when establishing a point of view. Your poem is already almost there. Try to find some symbols in there to have memories about, and see if those memories can be counter-pointed back into this poem in a way that creates a kind of alchemy on the page. Turn the light on the darkness as well. Communicate compassion. When an accusation is made, make sure you've explored the origins of it mindfully...Your poem already sets this up with "It's too soon for you to die old man/Even though you've earned it." Thanks for sharing.
6th Dec 2010 5:37pm
That approach probably would make for a better poem overall but I know I chose the right place to post this when I chose the 'Anger' category. When I found out my dad diagnosed with Esophageal Cancer a second time it pissed me off. He hadn't stopped smoking, not even tried lighter cigarettes. We didn't/don't have much of a rapport so looking for the other side of this, even through sympathy or compassion was the furthest thing from my mind. Even the first lines you quoted were a condemnation, he earned his death through his habit, not his life accomplishments. This was/is just anger.
4th Dec 2010 6:10pm
wow, that really hit home. so many loved ones in my life depend on cigarettes...so sad.
5th Dec 2010 3:12pm
I think the whole piece is well-crafted and impressive, and it touches me in a deep place~but there was one part that sent chills up & down my spine, in that second-to-last stanza: "...there is no cache of information / Pertaining to the the blood, sweat, and vocations / Of the variables / That siphoned into me..." Kind of took my breath away, it did (BTW, I think you have an extra "the" in the fourth line of that stanza). And Pierre~St. Augustine? I used to live there! Anyway, excellent piece~I've got to save it.
Thank you! I fixed the "the" problem. Glad I could deliver chills. Being as close to me as it was , the whole piece did that to me so to know that some of that translated is a good feeling. In fact it took me this long to even come back and respond to the comments. Thank you, Lauren, for your reads and comments.
11th Dec 2010 7:47pm
WOW !! Yeah.. That's wat i was slike after going through your peice of art..
As mentioned earlier.. It did manage to deliver chills ..
Thumbs up.. Keep the good work flowing !
As mentioned earlier.. It did manage to deliver chills ..
Thumbs up.. Keep the good work flowing !
18th Dec 2010 8:03pm
this one hit me, too. the anger comes along with the realization of the missing pieces. and the missing of the pieces...
excellence, extremely well communicated as well as almost meticulously put together. being pissed off makes my mind sharper, don't know if it does yours, but i see my reflection in this one, so i'm relating. relate, relate, relate. [:
excellence, extremely well communicated as well as almost meticulously put together. being pissed off makes my mind sharper, don't know if it does yours, but i see my reflection in this one, so i'm relating. relate, relate, relate. [:
19th Dec 2010 4:47pm
Anger makes me able to put into words what I couldn't previously. I think you're right it makes things sharper, discernment and such. Thank you for your kind words and read, Jacki.
19th Dec 2010 9:39am
The depth od your poetry is immense and once the script starts your imagination howls every possible minute thing that can be buried in a complex relationship like this. The subject matter is so complicated, highly emotional and at not a single point in the entire script you loose your rhythm. At every explanation of grief and personal emotion the intensity of drama heightens and then what should I do with your rhyming boss? I love Paradise Lost too and I love you. Pierre you are my best. Amazingly deep poetry and I am drowned.
19th Dec 2010 4:53pm
Anando, you are too flattering. I don't know that my work is worth all that but I must thank you fervently for your comment. Yeah, it seems that people are really responding to this piece. Once again, thank you for all that you've said and I will try to continue to write this well in my future endeavors. Namaste.
29th Dec 2010 2:04am
"If it didn't take this Jack Daniels to make me feel like a son
And cancer for you to feel like you missed out on being a Dad"
i fuckin love that!
And cancer for you to feel like you missed out on being a Dad"
i fuckin love that!
