Seize the Day is a sentiment thought up by a man.
Mostly, the day seizes me, and gives me a hard shake.
So I’ve decided on a new way to get through a day.
Picture prairie dogs.
Really.
Imagine the day as a field filled with prairie dogs,
always another head popping up.
Don’t seize a thing because that’s when they bite.
Instead, take off you shoes. Stretch your pinched toes,
whisper to your fingers that they can choose not to clench.
Remind your jaw, too.
Walk through the grass. Peek into the holes
where the prairie dogs, suddenly shy, have hidden.
Give them what they demand. It’s only time, after all,
the time a man with a pen would tell you to wrestle to your will.
Relax into the opposite of seize, and the pester of prairie dogs calms.
Later, together, you can watch the sun set over your shared field
while somewhere, some man writes advice in Latin.
Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems
Still Life With Prairie Dogs
Spinster
There’s a wool-suited spinster
Who lives in my head–
Thin hair in a bun
Pursed lips on her face
Saying, Stop that nonsense at once.
Sternly, of course.
Oh, don’t listen to her
Says the other voice, who looks like me–
The voice I name my true self.
She says the spinster isn’t cranky,
cranky takes too much spirit.
She isn’t even mean,
And come to think of it,
I don’t know her well enough to
Even be certain she is a spinster.
What she is, is disapproving
But colorless—-No heat behind her words
Just a certainty that she must warn me to Stop,
Before I make a Fool of Her.
So, I say thank you to that spinster—
Thank you for letting me be like an old, creased photo
carried in your sensible handbag:
A picture of dreams you abandoned
cut from a magazine, tucked away as a warning,
a reminder of the crazy way you once thought
Of running off to Paris.
Old paper now, limp with age and dank
But carried always, this reminder.
And thank you also, spinster,
for being the faded photo I carry.
Thank you for being my warning
of all I could become,
If I’m careful.
Two Hours And 42 Minutes
is the answer to:
How long can I wander
through a bookstore
drunk on words
if left to wander
as long as I like?
But the weekend held its
unanswered questions, too.
How long can I linger
over lunch with you, old friend?
Longer than the turbaned waiters
at the Indian buffet will tolerate.
They turned the lights off
while we still talked and laughed.
So the only answer is:
Longer than this time.
Which means we must plan
another lunch and keep eating
and talking, in search of answers.
Scary Story, Morning Glory
All summer long, my neighbor’s porch blossomed.
Now those morning glories, sweet faced and blue,
stop their perpetual climb, turn shocked faces
to stare out at the transformed world.
Bare trees, sidewalks covered in skittering leaves,
and their own porch perch surrounded
by pumpkins and paper ghosts.
Yesterday, a fabric witch appeared.
Waiting to see what happens next,
tiny blue faces shiver.
Define Distracted Driving
When the handwritten cardboard sign
at the side of the road
turns out not to say
Quiet Shrimp
which is what I read
and spent hours trying to picture
as I drove away from that particular mystery.
Only much later, on the way home,
did I discover it actually said
Quilt Shop
which is likely accurate
but much less fun.
Wild Lilies of July
The orange lilies of July
sudden and unplanned
startling as miracles
are long gone now.
The next act appears:
Autumn wildflowers
star in this season’s hit
side of the road show.
Leaving Home
When you stand at the opened
refrigerator door and tell me
there is nothing to eat,
I clamp my mouth closed
over the next line, the one
where I list the contents of
the rapidly warming shelves.
There is no fruit at all, you prompt,
since I seem to have forgotten my line,
certain I won’t be able to resist.
And you’re right.
Blackberries, pineapple,kiwi, grapefruit,
bananas, I list—
All things you can see, too.
You sigh, relieved
to be on familiar ground
the kitchen, your kitchen again.
but no strawberries, you say, no grapes, no oranges.
One more week till you go back to college.
Pocket-Dialed
Restless truths
prowl the house
at all hours
leaving me signs–
dreams of golden
retrievers who can talk
and phone messages
from my mysterious girl
crying too hard to speak.
The Sailor Formerly Known As Student
Done with basic training,
a week before he ships out,
he visits us at his old school
crew cut and a camera.
I want pictures of everything, he says—
teachers, cafeteria, library, courtyard, walls,
Books, of course. And the road I live on,
my house, my family, our yard, trees in autumn.
I think of him far out at sea,
with his few carefully chosen books,
and his plentiful photos,
scrolling through his world,
watching maple leaves change
where leaves have never been before
while the ocean swells and wonders
how something so small
captures all this attention.
Weight Watchers For Worries
The Big Worries
hog all the space in my brain:
Kids, money, work, madmen with axes
crouching in the basement.
Today, treat them like rude and chubby
house guests, intruders with
lousy manners. Today, teach them not
to squeeze out all the other tiny worries—
Will frost nip the mums?
Does this outfit make me look fat?
Is there tea left in the pot?
Let them come, the little
inconsequential worries. Give them room
to breathe. Soon enough, their clamor
might make me long for the good old days
when worries were fat but few.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 