Thoughts on politics, economics, life and creative works from the author including poetry
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Thursday, June 11, 2015
For my Brother it was his esophagus,
for my cousin it was his lungs.
For my sister in law it was her pancreas,
for my uncle it was his tongue.
They all went up in smoke.
For some of my relatives it wasn't smoking,
but going into black coal dark caves.
But others of my relatives grew the weed on their farms
And built fortunes on it's addictive charms.
We paid a price for those extractive fortunes.
For my Grandma it was heart lung failure,
She was a Lucky Strike babe.
And she came "a long way Baby" before the smoke killed her.
I watch my son, cough his lungs out every night.
And because he smokes, I know something isn't right.
If he'd gone to war I could rationalize "how brave."
But when he smokes out on my porch,
it's I who have to sweep up the cigarette butts.
After I remind him he's nuts.
I'm deathly afraid he'll go up in smoke,
Before I've taken my final toke.
Christopher H. Holte
Dedicated to that big leafed weed that has no good use other than poisoning things.
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