When you were small,
we came here so little
you thought Santa lived
at the mall all year.
Now, taller than me,
an errand for a friend
brings us to this alien territory
where people look like us
except with better hair
and many shopping bags,
tissue paper wrapped
around their treasures.
I’m glad I hate it here.
And glad you hate it too—
glad you carry all your treasures
unwrapped and close to your heart,
spilling from your musical hands,
and your easy smile.
Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems
At The Mall With My Son
Missing
There’s so little we must Accept in this life—
mostly we can buy or talk, laugh or walk or learn our way
to what we want to know.
But not Everything, not Always.
Sometimes, you don’t get to Know.
Sometimes, the children’s favorite pet
disappears in the night
and never comes home again.
Here you are.
Another step
into the Spirit Life.
You are here.
Another glimpse
Into The Way the World Really Is.
What you thought would be a window
turns out to be a door.
And the door is closed.
And the door is locked from the other side.
Root System
Picture trees—
How the roots (they say)
Extend down into the ground
An equal distance
To what we see reaching up
above us
Try this as another instructive way
To think about people:
How our memories, our passions,
Our worries, our loves
Fill up invisible ground within us
History that keeps us upright
Standing as best we can
In this world.
Leaf and Lady
Back here again, in the country of clocks,
there’s no time to write a poem.
Inside my head, behind the gears and metal wheels,
wander poems about quilts and wildflowers,
old friends and that maple tree I saw yesterday,
each green leaf edged orange
so precise it looked painted onto the leaves.
Contrast made the green brighter
than all the million greens surrounding it.
Something rattles around in me, humming
about that contrast—
how it reminds me of my old friends—
but the chain of words and thoughts
to get from leaf to ladies takes time
and that is gone, again.
Reminder Weekend 2013
In the immortal words of Meatloaf
the essential question is this:
I’ve got to know right now
before we go any further
will you love me,
will you love me forever?
So here’s the answer,
unfolding over one long weekend
of food and laughing,
unfolding over thirty years
of news from the heart,
our Reminder–
Before we go any further,
Before we get any older,
From each of us,
To each of us,
the answer
Is
Yes.
Another Note To Myself, This One Regarding Answering Machines
When it is your turn to be old,
leave a message–
and not the irritated kind of message
asking
Where On Earth Could You Be????
Treat each message like a balloon
released into the air,
a general update:
Life Is Fine Here.
Better yet, learn to text.
Let your texts be Quirky.
Be quite clear in your own mind
that this will make no difference
to the children,
who will continue to ignore you
until they need cash or advice.
But having told them all they could handle,
and having made yourself laugh
you will feel better
in that quiet moment
when you put down the phone
and turn to look out the window.
Afterward, the whole day will color itself
into brighter, more satisfied lines.
The Man Who Mowed The Lawn
Yesterday, a tall man
who looked just like my son
showed up unannounced
and mowed the shaggy lawn.
Under normal circumstances,
A Mowing Stranger
would have been Alarming.
But then he kicked off his big shoes
by the front door,
where I tripped on them
while he ate the last of the cake,
and all the leftover chicken,
leaving only the vegetables,
and a pile of dirty dishes in the sink.
Oh, it’s you! I said.
Packing Monsters
The doors of childhood are closed,
all the monsters dozing.
Inside, each room is full of boxes.
All those boxes, inexpertly packed, half-taped shut,
boxes you won’t open, knowing they are filled
with snoring monsters, big and small
curled together like puppies
in boxes you are bound to carry
wherever you go in the world
never free of the scent of dust and old cardboard.
Love Song To A Dollar Store Pen
I am in love with this early morning dance we dance together
you and me, black pen and sleepy person
while candles flicker against dark windows,
windows brushed with snow, or rain, or soft summer.
Cat’s purr sets the back-beat as
we begin our ordinary rhythm
warming up, shuffling
through the comfort of familiar steps
knowing that any moment an idea–
a symphony or a single trumpet
or a pair of flirting eyes across
a crowded dance floor
could sweep us into a new story.
And here we go again
Writing it all down,
before the other dances take the day.
Pressed For Time
It’s back to the harried life,
the one where I wake the alarm clock each morning,
rouse it with harsh reminders
of All We Have To Do.
I drag us through the day,
haul its ticking body everywhere,
poor little clock.
When it slows or worse,
threatens to stop,
I speak to it sternly.
There is no time for that nonsense, I tell it.
Then I wind it tight and give it a little shake
to squeeze out every captive minute.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 