Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

That’s what they say at the home.
So I picture her, little old lady with
a knapsack on her back, touring Europe,
eating baguette and cheese and grapes
on a hillside, surrounded by her traveling
companions—not scruffy college kids, but
Earl who used to farm near her farm,
Alice from the room down the hall,
Robert, Mabel, and Louise, who always
sing along on days the music therapist
visits and plays the battered old piano
in the common room, songs they know
by heart. If she wanders, let her friends
come too. If she wanders,
let it be far into joy.

No poem today
Head full of clever lines
Leading to blank walls
Painted to look like doorways
Always another corner
Laughter and the clink
And ring of silverware and crystal
Down a corridor
Music from another floor
And the mysterious splash
Of a fountain in a hidden garden
Like everything else
Just out of sight

Always surprised by it,
I remember again:
Everything is a metaphor
if I dig down far enough
if I breathe quietly and
hold out my hands.

Don’t search frantically,
as if looking for a lost child
or digging out after a snow storm.

Search patiently, by
waving as the children go, by
walking through the snow as it falls,
wearing the scarf you knit for me,
your cure for stress
warmed and woven by your hands.
Wrapped in your cure, I walk through
snow and metaphors thick on the ground
and falling fast–
Glistening in my hair,
Melting into my skin.

Approach work as if you were
another in the factory of craftsmen
building warriors in ancient China.
You do the same task all day–
craft torsos from long coiled ropes of clay,
Or form clay hands, empty or grasping a sword.
Or paint the eyes, adding features—a scowl,
a dashing mustache.
All day, turn your mind away from the ranks
of blank faces surrounding you, waiting for you,
the one in charge of fierce or sweet expressions.
When your energy fails, pretend a stranger
from the future whispers in your ear,
with news ridiculous but heartening:
They swear that centuries from now,
this enormous, crazy task
will be not an army but an art.

After the guests go, leftovers and wine glasses litter the table.
Leave it till morning, believe it’s your choice, just one messy secret.
In truth, it was planned–
The good china wine glasses teaspoons and coffee mugs conspired
To be left at the end of the cheerful night
Retelling each other, before it’s back to the cupboard,
How much fun we had.

because it demands attention,
rattling the old windows
panes loosened by years of this shaking,
so lonely it wants to be let in
to curl up by the fire
while someone who loves it
cooks oatmeal at the stove
and serves it in Winter’s favorite blue bowl.

Winter, of course, knows this will never happen
which makes it rattle the windows harder.
And this is why it steals your breath,
why it freezes your hands,
determined to take the warmth
the warmth you won’t give freely.
The legend says if ever one person
gave the Cold a kiss, a willing hug,
it would calm down, stop this bluster
and be June-like in its joy.

Incandescence is on its way out.
It lingers like an old employee refusing to retire
though everyone else can see
It Would Be For The Best.
Let’s remember—it gave decades of glow
before we grew so concerned with
Being Efficient.
Let’s remember to say thank you
for countless little sizzles of connection:
The lit farmhouse in the distance
visible from the highway.
The convenience store down the block
when the children are sick and
you are out of diapers or ginger ale or patience.
All those times you flipped a switch
and transformed a dark and empty room.
Or right now, that window across the street—
the one above your neighbor’s kitchen sink
when you thought you were alone in the night.
That little sizzle.

The story arrived in the middle of the night and I was delighted, especially the way it finished with a flourish and swirled itself into a poem, like an encore to a splendid piece of music, or a wave from visiting, gracious royalty, or the whipped cream on top of a sundae.

But I had been very sick and I wanted to sleep, so I asked the story to please stick there inside my head till morning. Insulted by the suggestion to wait, I felt that story gather itself to leave with a sharp swish of its tail. Stories are like that.

I hoped for more from the poem—poems tend more towards patience—often, you can fasten them loosely to your head with a picture. But not this time. The poem followed the story. I could see it going, tumbling down the well away from me into the depths and dark distance with all its parts—a little boy named Jerome, a bouncing rubber ball, and a tiny gray elephant, looking surprised. Going, gone.

So what? said the Cranky Chorus in my head, made of old ladies and grumpy businessmen in rumpled suits. Go back to sleep. You’ve been Very Sick and what’s the use of all this midnight nonsense anyway? All these words—what’s it For?

That’s when you laugh because it becomes so much itself, a puzzle wrapped inside an answer. The people who’d ask? That Disapproving Board Of Advisers? They couldn’t ask the right question even. What’s it For? It isn’t for anything. It’s a story. It’s a poem. Itself and nothing else.