Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

it is not a sidewalk stumble, a missed step
a thing you right yourself from
and carry on
as usual

not a fall off a mountain, damage
done to every part of you and the
small trees in your path, tiny path
of destruction

It is as sudden
but also, slow
slow, and by degrees

more like a climb down
down a mountain to the
valley below
fast but
not
quite
out of control
there are places to rest
along the way
no map
no path
just a trust that when
I reach out
there will be a handhold
sturdy as a rock
steady as a mountain

An expert says
the letter m
was
once upon a time
shaped to signify water

Interesting. However,
these days I am tangled in another—
my beloved
letter t
lower case
for tumble together
for tangled
for tender

tender has become the translation,
my whole view,
of this complicated, troublesome world.
I touch it all on its soft, tender body
tenderly

tender, also known as an offer, a payment.
I’ll pay.
Whatever it costs us to arrive at this tender
threshold,
I tell you, love,
this tenderness, this t that hooked us
has me opening, willing to tender it all

the moon was
waiting for us
already awake
when I opened the door
The dog and I, we both
sniffed the cold air
He wandered out to
tred paw prints in the snow
I nodded hello to the moon
We decided, all three,
Today will be another
happy day

distracted by joy
these days
words for anything but
romance
are gone—
ordinary words
for utensils and implements
sharp and practical-shaped words
curl up and sleep in the corners
of our closets—tangled with the other
forgotten things, out of season but not
out of our lives
These days I love
and find room to love
the patience of words

Our houses show their age.

Some years well-loved, full echo
of long-grown children, laughter
Other years? Neglected, worn down
by lack of will,
lack of money,
lack of time,
lack of love.

You need a whole paint job, and new windows.
I show damage from long ago water flowing
where it shouldn’t.
So much water, its shadows still
a stain on my ceilings.

The floors? All our floors are scarred and scraped and in need
No matter.

There are new sheets on the beds. Pillows I bought just for us.

You lead me outside and show me, near the sheltering
walls of your old house, the place you chose for me—
Right here, you say, I’ll turn the ground for you
Right here is where you can plant an herb garden

There is a door here,
he said. Let’s see where it leads—
adventure, dinosaurs, or
to the herb garden we haven’t planted yet
or deep into the woods.
Let’s find out, I said,
as he took my hand

I tell the dog,
Stay.
Say it again. And again.
We both know
he heard me
the first time.
I repeat it anyway,
as if he can be taught
to be more like a human—
We who are so divided
within
that to get our attention
another of our kind
must say our name
over and over
before we listen
before we lift
to meet their eyes

even now, when earth is so old,
weary and gray
with her winter-deep ruts
carved by cold, hardening the once warm,
once thick and luscious mud—
but
this
winter—
in the night, fresh snow fell
and falls still, straight and steady
quiet and lovely as a fairy tale snow
changing the view, altering her contours,
waking her up

not just any dog, because I do know
many lives are hardscrabble or worse.
I want to be my dog, specifically,
with his almost exact life
though not so crowded with thinking,
and not when he has to pee outside
not when he gives in to insatiable urges—
to eat what falls on the floor,
lick any bare feet that wander by,
and certainly not when he sniffs my armpit
as if it is the most exotic perfume.
Nope. Not that dog.
I want to be my dog right now,
5 a.m., already back home from exploring the
fresh pre-dawn air, fed breakfast, told
how handsome I am, cuddled and praised and now
curled up on the couch in the still dark room
for a quick nap before sunrise
comfortable in my fur and muscle, my skin
relaxed, every part of me suffused
with fresh air and love

on the phone
my daughter tells me
she spent the afternoon
with her brother,
impromptu
not arranged by
me. There’s one.

She asks the name
of the man I went on one
date with and I say,
It’s Axe—
but that might not be his real name,
more of a motorcycle gang nickname.
And she says,
I can’t tell if you’re joking.
Laughing. There’s another.