Cigars are more than
                                                                                          Dried tobacco leaves
                                                                                          rolled by skilled hand.
                                                                                          Thick surges of luxury,
                                                                                          power, prestige, phallic
                                                                                          encircled, paper band.
                                                                                          Los puros share a glass
                                                                                          of brandy, champagne,
                                                                                          whisky, cognac, wine.
                                                                                          Cigars gently exhale
                                                                                           spirits of curling, gray
                                                                                           smoky breath so fine.
                                                                                           Wrapped like a gift in
                                                                                           brown paper they dot
                                                                                           and punctuate the air,
                                                                                           conducting dialogue,
                                                                                           guiding questions to
                                                                                           left, right, to nowhere.
                                                                                          And with skin like fine
                                                                                          boots they reek of a
                                                                                          forgotten time and sun
                                                                                          until the moment slips,
                                                                                          ashes heat, then cool,
                                                                                          falling off when done.
                                                                                                  Castro now

Lady Smoker

8 thoughts on “HAVANA BROWNS

  1. Ah, you captured the essence beautifully here. The poem was ripe with visuals, scents, memories, lost time…and a hint toward the end and the beginning. I read it several times just to savour the scent of the Havana Brown!


  2. Thanks for the like and kind comments on this poem. I like to throw one of my poems in once in a while. And I used to smoke an occasional cigar but I have not had one in years, but I still love the smell of an unlit cigar beneath my nose!


  3. Happy Friday to you,

    What a treat I’ve been giving this morning, and I’ll tell you why.

    Often times, poetry starts of almost cold, or at the very least hazy. I’ll find myself needing to warm to it the way I would to a person I’m not so sure about . . . From the first line of your colorful, vibrant poem, I was not just warm — but toasty. I imagined it all with lucidity, though I would hardly consider myself traveled and certainly never visited the likes of Havana. When I’m feeling like I want to, I’ll come on over to here to experience it. Coming to the alliteration mid-way through, I was putty. “This woman can use words,” I said to myself. You write beautifully, and I am so glad to have found a new terrific blog to follow.


    Thank you for the like on post yesterday. I hope you enjoyed the time you spent reading.


    • Oh, how I do wish there was an edit button to ameliorate typos . . . Just as I clicked the “post comment” I noticed I used “giving” instead of “given”. I have not been giving treats this morning; I haven’t even fully woken enough to take my sweet-pup to the bathroom. 🙂

      Again, Happy Friday!


    • Thank you for the kind comments – they are valued coming from someone like you who writes with a poetic slant. You have made my Friday happier. I am glad to have found your blog to follow also and enjoyed your one on TMJ. One has to keep a sense of humor these days! Have a great weekend.


      • And in turn, you have made my Friday happier, so thank you! Oh, yes, the TMJ! That, I assure you, was not at all fun while in the midst, but I suppose that which doesn’t kill us . . . right? Ha! You are so painstakingly right; what would we do without our sense of humor. I’d be a terribly cranky person, that’s what!



  4. Well done. If people smoked products made as they had been in the 19th century I wonder if the lung cancer rates would be so high as they are now. Having contact with First Nations culture up here it is interesting that they view tobacco as a sacred gift that is only intended for special occasions. it primarily viewed as something for the elders not the youth.


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