Tag: Smoke

Blowing Smoke, 1971 by Bruce Morton

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Blowing Smoke, 1971

So, we beat a hasty retreat to the confines
Of our minds, the second story apartment
Two fights up from America, and more
Important—not in Vietnam. We were there
Congregants congregating. Each holding
Our own pipe and dreams, as we tamped
Reality, hashing angst and anger down
Against hope. Hoping to see a future
Through the smoke that was being blown.
The candle was there, flame fed by a draft,
An old war here, young versus old, haves
Versus nots, the certain versus whatever.
O’Leary lit up first, bleary-eyed and pale.
Don’t believe what they tell you. Inhale.

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Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. He is the author of Planet Mort (FootHills Publishing, 2024) and the chapbook Olive-drab Khaki Blues (FootHills, 2026). His poems have appeared in numerous online and print venues. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.

Smoke by Jerrice J Baptiste

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Smoke

She’d light a cigarette and let it wobble in the corner between her top and bottom lip as she spoke of the pain of birthing her five children, then raising them alone. Grandmother lay in bed, both feet hung off the edge and shook in cadence of a clock ticking, keeping time from midnight ’till dawn. Her body seemed ready to jump off as if she couldn’t trust that empty space behind her back. As if someone or something would invade it. As if her day was not done, and another task would summon her from rest. Her head leaned forward at an angle that allowed ashes of her newly lit cigarette to fall onto the cement floor. I’d watch her mind travel back from our city street in Port-au-Prince to the little island of La Gonave. The cows and goats had been milked. She had breastfed the newest baby before clouds appeared in cobalt sky above the barn. Root vegetables, pulled and gathered from her garden, filled her woven baskets. I’ve been smoking these things since age twelve, she says, taking her last drag of the cigarette as she lights the new one. A man couldn’t love me for long, even after his baby was born, she sucked her teeth before placing the new cigarette on the same spot where all of her rage laid dormant. Her restless feet continued shaking off of the bed over the fitted maroon sheet. They were like her long carrot stems in basket in the wind, when she walked the rough terrain to market. You must be happy you had children Manman? I said. Her eyes closed, I didn’t have any other choice.

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Jerrice J Baptiste is a poet and author of nine books, Her most recent poetry book Coral in The Diaspora is published by Abode Press (August 2024). She’s been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize 2024 by Jerry Jazz Musician & Abode Press 2025, and Best of the Net 2022. Jerrice’s poems have been published in Artemis Journal, The Yale Review, Kosmos Journal, The Banyan Review, The Caribbean Writer and numerous others. Her collaborative songwriting and poems are featured on the Grammy nominated album: Many Hands Family Music for Haiti.