O spoon,
washed and dried
worn out
after the dinner shift.
Your work, as
necessary as a key–
to unlock our lips,
open our voices
over tonight’s
fine bowls of soup.
Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems
Spoon Rest
Arrows
Every stone on my path
triangle-shaped, like an
arrow pointing,
showing me the way.
I leave them
nestled into the dirt
in case these directions
were meant for
some other walker.
Two Umbrella Life
Tiny one left behind by children
who no longer believe in umbrellas
hangs by the door
eager as a puppy
ready to throw itself
at a chance to open.
Bigger one leans in the corner
lazy as an old but faithful dog
opens creakily, slowly
rousing itself from dreams
of other storms, long ago.
Dublin Tale
Here on the far side of the ocean
that crazy rumor turns out to be true.
Rain fell hard all night.
Wind swept through the trees,
shook everything loose.
We wake this morning
to a world where all the
streets are paved in gold.
If A Tree Falls
huge branch cracks
mighty snap and rustle as
smaller branches, leaves, apples
collapse in concert, broken
beneath the weight of too much.
************************************
After,
this view from the forest floor–
How tall the trees look now.
How apples soften into the earth
How dried leaves crumble,
Melt into the dirt.
Lichens gray as cat fur,
Mosses soft and bristled along the flank,
Mushrooms gilled as sea creatures
Bunched together, clustered and
Humming to themselves.
Everything you’ve carried
breathes out, expands
murmurs to the ground
as you soften and disappear
curious about this new glimpse of the sky.
Episode Guide: Bad Dream
And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider—…
…the signals we give–yes or no, or maybe–
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.
—- Excerpt from William Stafford’s poem, A Ritual To Read To Each Other
Here we are again
in the dark.
The farmhouse is gone
We stay in the barn
close together
as our numbers dwindle
and I sing songs
the songs I can remember
till night
when I get scared, again,
at how much darkness is out there
and how few we are.
Build A Box Workshop
Holidays are boxes
built by plaited years
to hold what happens.
Your house is an open box
where costumes and pumpkin seeds,
masks and wigs and jack-o-lanterns,
giant spiders and tiny candy bars
still tumble into the world
fashioned by a crowd of busy children
into an enormous orange box decorated
with light sabers and false eyelashes
and labeled Halloween.
Grandmother Haiku
Four hundred years old,
Haiku spread its rules
in the shady spot at
the edge of the meadow
on a faded patchwork quilt
of sonnets and prose.
Here a square of roses,
next to Shakespeare’s dark lady
in gold, stitched to
paragraphs of pattern,
then a square of green.
Haiku stretches its cramped muscles
tied seventeen ways for so many years,
sighs with contentment
and here, amid the crumbs
of the feast
watches its many grandchildren
play in the meadow.
Leave A Message
Here, my new message:
Please
Do not
Hang up 5 times
And then
Complain later that
I’m never
Home, I never
Call, you are
So worried.
Put down the phone.
Listen to the world
At your window. Better,
Open your door and walk out into
The deep green world.
Life
Is
Short.
Ask
For
What you want.
And if you
Don’t know what you want,
At least
Leave a message.
Authority
Each author, an authority
on their own world—
Me, I am an authority on
sipping coffee by candlelight
while the cat purrs,
And I stretch out time like taffy—
Slow, slow hour—
The day pulls the blankets closer,
bunches up its pillow and
dozes for a few more minutes
while I sit with the last of the cosmos
blooming in their vase,
pollen and words drifting into my lap.
