Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

Sip it slowly,
at first. Tiny servings,
a jigger, a shot of silence.
Ignore the ocean of quiet waves,
far from shore,
on all our paths.
You do not have to
swim across today.
If you dwell on the ocean,
you panic and flail,
drowning in all the ways
you’ve ignored yourself—
All those nights desperate
for a crowd, any crowd,
parties, dinners, sports,
in a pinch, the shopping malls
and 24-hour grocery stores.
Instead, a cup, a pint until
you remember how
to love the ocean.

holds the air
as summer never will.
Bird’s song, traffic, children in the trees,
muffled, tucked away by
storm windows, closed doors, falling snow
in concert, singing to the world,
Hush, now
and Here, hold this:
a mug of cocoa
a cup full of quiet.

Winter makes a statement here,
impossible to drown out or ignore.
Metaphors cling like snow to sidewalks,
analogies thick as icicles hang from the eaves.
Blizzards rush in, so thick and sudden
your only job is to get home and stay there.
Then there are storms like this one:
Flakes so tiny
it looks like no snow at all.
Only when you are deep in the middle
do you realize and name it.
Feel how sharp those tiny bits of ice,
see how they build up around your house, your heart
without you seeing them, without recognizing and
naming the danger—
Till divorce or springtime are
the only things immense enough
to guide you through the storm.

According to this meditation book, we each possess
a vase—no, we each are a vase—that’s it—
And we, says my book, decide what to fill ourselves
with and we can choose Positive Self-Talk. It doesn’t
mention what falls or drifts or tips accidentally
into my vase. What am I to do with
leaves and snow, pollen, road salt, insects,
occasional tiny frogs or salamanders?
Ferns? Candy wrappers? Cottonwood?
This river otter?
Obviously, I’ve fished out the candy wrappers.
But otherwise, I decide I’m keeping them—
Strayed far again from cool and carefully
Detached. Instead of a clear vase of good intent
I’ve gone and built an ecosystem and
crawled out of the river of me and I’m sitting on the bank
listening to the frogs on the lily pads of me,
watching that river otter happy at the far edge of me,
deep in my cattails and here comes some salmon, for dinner,
and a blue heron for awe and mighty luck.

Make oatmeal, not poems
On the mornings words freeze
Or move as slow sludge deep
Inside a region we don’t
Discuss, someplace you can’t
Reach into and stir.
Unlike oatmeal
Which will wait forever.
Stirred easily, heated,
It transforms.
Add pecans, some blueberries,
A dash of cinnamon
As changed, as built from
Very little, as delicious as
A poem.

Late last night, while the wind rattled at the windows, I finished reading my book club’s choice, The Snow Child, by Eowyn Ivey. Knew I had to make an attempt at a poem about the experience.

Story behaved as if discovered
not invented or made up,
not easy in its unfolding
this Found thing, unearthed with effort,
solid as a boulder, real as a red fox.
It did not need our eyes on it
as, led down from the mountains,
it turned from fur to words on a page.
Wary creature, deep stone, could only be told
by one who knows and loves.
It followed a storyteller who did not forget,
who made sure to fold all that matters
into a tale of snow and wilderness,
magical children, lanterns to skate by
beneath a cold sky, northern lights,
swan wings sewed into wedding gowns,
loyalty and long, long loves,
the whole salted with tears
and found joy.

Because the battery is dead
and if I charge my cell phone
while talking, I will lose you
and my crazy phone
will offer to show me photos
or attempt a call to Bulgaria
instead of the Bahamas.

Because while I clear out photos
you try to call back and
it won’t come through, as if we
were at a seance
on opposite sides of this veil.

Because when we finally connect
you can’t hear my voice, stolen by fish
in the deep seas between us
or maybe it’s all done in the air now
gulls flown off with our voices.

Because face to face is not currently
an app that’s available for this model
unless we upgrade.

Because nobody uses landlines anymore.
Remember the thrill of cordless?
Remember when we could talk while
we cooked dinner or folded laundry
or washed dishes?

Because now it’s all Hello? Hello?
Shouting into our handheld devices
like grandmothers from the old country
mystified by all this folderol to hear
familiar voices saying the same old things.

Because creaky as an old grandmother
I’m going to pick the basil now, start
the sauce and bury the cell phone in the
herb garden to scare the beetles
and encourage the earthworms.
I am going to write you a letter
and cook and read and work and sleep
while I wait for your answer
written in your own sweet voice.

Okay, not a poem today, but a starter. Try this prompt from my latest favorite book, a vacation gift from me to me. The Pocket Muse, by Monica Wood. She suggests writing down ten random letters, then writing sentences using words that begin with those letters, in that order. Or, I supposed, you could write poems…or lists of ingredients, made-up song titles, invented words. GO ahead, give it a try. I used exactly the letters Ms. Wood gave as an example, because I am a Rule Follower. Her letters: C W I T S N E M B R

My tries, which quickly veered towards food:

SENTENCES
Captivate wildebeests in town, shy neighbors end meandering but restless.

Culling wishes in tinselled sieves, never eat memories braised, roasted.

RECIPE: WITCH STEW
Cook with
imps, toads,
snipped nails,
Eeks, mangroves.
Boil, repeat.

LIST: INSTRUCTIONS FOR ODD FOODS
Chew wiggling
insect tapenade.
Saute nasturtiums.
Eat mackerel.
Bring radishes (really, because most everyone needs some tastes indulged with commonness.)