Mom, he said—there’s someone.
And he brought her to dinner,
which went exactly as you’d guess—
Nervous laughter,
many sidelong glances,
her fiddling with her hair,
her scarf, her phone, her fork,
barely eating.
What I really wanted
was to reach across the table
over the untouched food
kiss her forehead
and tell her to relax—
The judging is over, results are in:
that light in his eyes and his
happy, goofy grin
were all I needed to see.
Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems
Meeting His Girlfriend
Armor For The Morning
It began as such an ordinary day—-
She woke herself reaching, as usual,
for the armor, but pulled her hand back
Empty,
her head and heart suddenly filled
with this Advice, this Certainty:
Pain will always find you,
despite the shield. The armor is heavy,
so cumbersome to carry that you
wake already weary at the prospect
of strapping on all that cold silver
before breakfast.
Today, instead, make oatmeal
and fill yourself with warmth
no protection at all, only comfort.
Ships Across The Sea
At the darkest turn of the year,
choose lightness. Choose to believe in
their capable hands, each steering
the ship of their own life—
sometimes, far off across the sea
sometimes, near enough to signal
sometimes, pausing at your side
where you can watch together
the moon, the whales
and schools of tiny, iridescent fish
darting beneath your hulls,
close enough for you and the one on the other ship
to marvel together —
How the neon fish catch the moonlight
and pull it deep into the sea
far below the waves, into the quiet
where we have never been before.
Unread
He asked for help with the old book
falling apart in his hands.
The spine was gone.
Inside, leaves of pages stitched together.
Those neat stitches may hold forever,
but the pages are disintegrating
the words unraveling themselves from
this book, titled What A Woman Wants,
Unread
across the long decades.
Grace For The Commute
I listen to the NPR series
about commuting
on my morning commute
to savor the symmetry.
Today a mother spoke about
her three-hour commute
on a subway, with a toddler,
and the word she used
to describe this time was grateful.
I listened,
as I drove and the sun rose
over the hills and little lakes
of my morning commute,
red sky reflecting me,
ashamed of the petty griping
in my head, of my need to
be prodded, like a toddler,
reminded to say thank you,
to be grateful for this
overflowing world of wonder.
Peeling A Tangerine
I try to hurry the stubborn skin off
because there’s a poem I want
to write before I forget—
Every day, every minute,
there is so much to notice and
a poem is a tool, like a spoon,
made to scoop up a moment,
to slow and savor
to step outside
the rush of this world.
And I would, I would savor
if this stubborn peel
was off. Instead, it clings
and slows me down.
Holidays Take Their Toll
Like a toll road
you must pay to travel,
away and back again, or
like the wreath on our front door
built years ago by a little girl–
Apples, cut into circles, dried to
dark brown, glued onto Styrofoam
in overlapping rings.
The little girl is long grown,
but the wreath remains,
disintegrating year by year
as the holidays take their toll.
Now the Styrofoam shows at the edge
a clue to what holds everything together
despite the years and the wearing away.
Instructions For The Season
A found poem, composed from song titles in an old book of traditional Christmas carols.
Dame, get up and bake your pies
Now, light one thousand Christmas lights
Come, mad boys, be glad boys
O, come little children
O, come all ye faithful
Deck the halls
God bless the master of this house
While shepherds watch their flocks
Sleep, Little Jesus
Christmas Shadorma
I’d forgotten this Spanish form–remembered, gave it another try. Shadorma is a six-line form of counted syllables, divided as follows: 3/5/3/3/7/5. Go ahead, you try too–everyone has time for 26 syllables.
Colored lights
tacked along white walls
against night
help darkness
set itself on a new path:
To reflect and glow.
