Smells

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St.Bruno-smoking kills-writingasitcomes

I have a section in my blog called Ghosts from the Shoebox.  I took some verse, accidentally stumbled on, and kept writing.  Anyway, ’tis there, lol.   My dad smoked a pipe, and in it he stuffed St Bruno pipe tobacco, which I loved the smell of and crave it now.  Probably why I became a smoker. But in November 2018 it will be 10 years since I stopped smoking, and 3 years since my dad died.  With my husband in the US for a family visit and me dwelling as the day is resting, here I am.  My dad is the reason for my blog to begin with. So bear with me .  And ever the activist, please, please do not be tempted to smoke, take drugs or anything you are curious about.  It is not worth it!

Newspaper clippings,
old stories spilled on the floor.
No smoke, no cigar.

All good stories emanate from
tall skinny houses
with their cracked secrets
and crumbling walls?

Great monologues
came from those giant shoeboxes
and pipe tobacco –
the houses I have left

to tobacco flakes
from an old St Bruno tin –
they inherit occupancy.

There are no rooms for emptiness
or spaces for grief.
There rarely is smoke
without heartache.

Larks ~ Remembrance Sunday

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Silence rolls with sunset’s formation
as mighty clouds, in honour, cast
solemn larks to glide below
but high enough
above soil still resting
since peace remains with those who fought
and were lost in  battles in desperate fields,
lost to the enemy and lost to us.
Brave deeds still haunt the crimson mists
and words not drowned by time
miss me not till I have died
then always remember me.
We let go of tears like falling petals
one by one, and to each one
we salute you and say,
we will always remember,
and shame on us if we should fail.

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