Landay 2, August 2. 2024
It’s the campfire we ran around and stood watching sparks in our pajamas.
Our parents smoking pot, they let us eat all the marshmallows burnt.
Cigarette smoke was my childhood, but my kids will never get it.
My dad quit for his grandchildren, I still feel it in my lungs.
Both grandfathers died of cancer. They smoked pipes which had the sweetest Aroma of smoke you ever enjoyed, a leather well-worn is the closest I come.
The Parent’s fireplace, not cleaned of birdnest spring, little chicks screeching. Filled air with black and dying and I was in trouble and couldn’t clean it out.
I smoked for seven years quite steadily and very addicted to the smell of tobacco
When I quit, for love I thought, I dreamt of smoke every night for three years.
When our new-house was full of sage smoke, we released it out of the top window.
Northridge Earthquake shook electric smoke, but the house was fall-down free and sage fine.
The sky smells like the campfires of childhood, the sky is on fire at sunset. I’m tired.
Feeling the once wet forests in Canada and the Pacific Northwest, all on fire, on fire.
Ashes fell from the sky the size of my hands when Rodney was held as a criminal
When he “asked “can’t we all just get along?” A city on fire smells different from a forest.
The Malibu fires not comparable fires twenty years later in the whole west.
I dream I smell the Solar Flares so bright my nose hurts, my eyes are stinging tears.
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Smoke©Vivi Sojorhn 2024
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