In the high open rafters of the
recycling center, a swallow’s
nest built entirely from old
envelopes, shredded news,
beauty tips and tinsel
Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems
Waiting In Line At The Dump
One Of Those Really Long Poem Titles, This One Concerning What Only Becomes Visible When You Cannot Start The Gas-Powered Monstrosity And Must Tend The Spring-Shaggy Lawn With The Ancient Wood And Metal Push Mower
through wooden fence slats
sun paints yellow stripes across
the freshly mown grass
Spring Wind
Stirred up Spring, all Night
Wind rattles the window panes
Change is in the Air
Rowing This Boat
Written in response to a River Prompt at Red Wolf Poems.
The instructions are clear:
Row, row, row your boat
gently
down the stream.
Gently, gently
and Merrily—
Sing till you remember how to Row,
how to Change Course Midstream.
Though you’ve grown accustomed to drifting
and admiring the scenery, now you must
Take Hold of the Oars—
Oars dry from disuse, with their
paint crackled or chipped away.
Splinters fill your hands,
hands which grip too tightly.
Remember to breathe.
Remember what you know
of good seamanship:
Sometimes you cannot
Stop
Sometimes you cannot
put the whole thing in dry-dock
and wait for repairs.
Sometimes you are in the
Middle of the River.
Remember what you know.
Later, there may well be time
to sand these oars smooth,
paint them a bright, jaunty yellow.
But for now?
Loosen your Grip
Set your Course
Hold to your oars Firmly
but Gently
gently,
rowing towards merrily
till the end of this particular
Bend in the river.
till the end of this particular
part of the dream.
Late April, Early Morning
birds sing in the trees
before leaves or nests, sing though
the world is still dark
Pillows
Today I worry about pillows
lugged through life by my children.
My children
Who wander the world,
each with their pillow
tucked beneath an arm.
Remember how I cradled
their sweet and sweaty heads
when they woke from naps?
Naps in clean soft beds I made.
I remember. Them? No, they are
Busy
balancing those pillows
while they walk
Busy
ignoring the hovering
worrier who watches to see
where their pillows rest tonight.
Long-Range Forecast
Now, sleepy as a seed
buried deep in spring mud
dreaming lazily of this
week-end’s house party, full of
old friends and anticipation.
The forecast:
Warming Trend Straight Ahead.
Superman On The Front Porch
Something about distance.
You are standing on my front porch calling me
on the phone, wondering where I am.
I am far away
Just last night, a different distance—
Dinner with the transformed boy
I haven’t seen in thirty years.
Across the table, talk of flying to Denmark
for Easter, back again the next day.
I think we should all put down our forks and
phones and wineglasses, and pause
a moment, pause right here, touch the space we inhabit,
marvel at this magic world where
we rise above time and place where
we can leap tall buildings
for the sweet sound
of each other’s voices.
Boy Band Spring Tour
Finally arrived,
the original boy band
sang all night outside our windows—
Spring peepers
waking up
to serenade the forest.
Another Reason To Write
Carried all week, small stone of story in my luggage.
How did we progress, in the span of a grocery line,
from paper or plastic to powwows, you asked.
For a moment, I have no idea. Then trace it
back to him admiring my beaded necklace
while he scanned and tallied our groceries.
He told me it reminded him
of ones his aunties made to sell at powwows
and had we ever been
And now, all these days later, time to write this down
before life rushes it away. Turns out what I hold isn’t
the small magic, sweet berries of talk with strangers,
or even the glow of you and I
with so much to say to each other
that a week won’t hold it all.
Turns out what I now hold is this:
The look on his young, faintly acne-scarred face
when I asked if he went to powwows, too
along with his aunties.
Oh yes, he said, eyes Alive,
But not to sell bead work.
He smiled, quiet and proud,
as he bagged our groceries.
At the powwows,
I dance.
