is tart lemonade and a blue plate of sugar cookies sprinkled with colored crystals, eaten on the front porch, frosty glass perched on the wide railing, cookie on a paper napkin crumbs dropped for the ants (all business, as usual) to cart away.
Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems
Blackberry Pancakes
This was over breakfast, your homemade pancakes
thick with the blackberries I picked this morning,
still damp with dew when I drove them to your house.
We discussed living alone–
It’s all about angles, I said.
From a spot in the grass,
one tiny frog can take on the aspect
of movie monsters.
Your eyes light up.
Before this descends into a talk about Godzilla,
I make the transition—all about angles,
Point of View. Just so, life.
From a certain angle, lonely.
From another angle, rich
with magic and words.
You frown, puzzled. Then your face
clears, you pour maple syrup over your pancakes
and laugh. Oh, you say,
I thought we were talking about Angels.
Bliss: Five Sentence Fiction
Thanks once again to Lillie McFerrin’s Five Sentence Fiction for this week’s prompt. Visit her site to read other five-sentence fictions. Here’s my shot at it–
Bliss can be bought in a bottle, you know, so you Google directions to the right sort of store, an apothecary, as they used to say back when they first started bottling Bliss.
If they ever manage to find the store, most people pass Bliss by because it’s hard to grasp, the bottle is small and slippery, always perched precariously on the highest shelf and of course it’s almost invisible, which is why people settle for other bottles, larger ones on lower shelves, bottles labeled Comfort, Success In Business, Health, Wealth, Self Control, or the Abilities bottles: Mechanical, Mathematical, Culinary, Artistic, Musical, etc. when Bliss is what they wanted all along.
You’ll likely never get there by Google, but someday you may stumble upon the shop beneath the squeaky metal sign. It happens that way, occasionally, and if it happens to you, the secret is to walk to the back of the shop where dusty bottles are stacked to the ceiling, hold out your hands, right where you are, and Bliss might leap down and choose you.
But that way is rare and people spend fruitless years searching for the shop, so I’ll tell you the second secret: Bliss takes itself wherever it pleases and often can be found at your corner market next to the children’s favorite jam, or the mustard your love says is tastiest and there it is, ready to crawl into your arms like a sleepy kitten that’s been waiting just for you, and you can carry it home, for free.
Conjuring Trick
Sudden as thunder,
the mind shifts.
In the midst of perfect August,
instead of summer,
your head fills with February.
February deep with snow and
cozy as a children’s story.
Fire in the hearth, soft quilts,
stew simmering on the stove,
Mozart on the radio.
Tap the window of this scene
and the woman inside
will look up, into the middle distance
as if at nothing at all.
I know what she sees.
In her red sweater
and thick socks, as she stirs
she is picturing August
and both of us smile.
Five Sentence Fiction: Limitless
Response to this week’s prompt on Lillie McFerrin’s Five Sentence Fiction.
Everyone told him it was the wrong time of year for balloon rides, that he ought to wait till autumn and charge twenty dollars for a tethered float at the county fair.
July was too hot, they said, and though the balloon was visible above the corn field, the sign itself was hard to see, obscured by stalks that soared higher every day, so it was unlikely anyone would find him.
But here was this girl, young, with a spark in her eye that should have made him uneasy, if he wasn’t so occupied feeling smug that he’d actually attracted a paying customer.
She handed him one hundred dollars and said to keep the change, which seemed generous until she told him, “Getting ready to leave is like pulling a bandage off slow,” as she cut the rope while he was still on the ground and left him below to watch his balloon sail away over the cornfields.
All his maps tumbled into the air and as they drifted down he heard the pop of the champagne cork overhead.
Lawn Care
Don’t grieve when your eyes age
and details blur.
Now weeds in the yard transform—
tiny white flowers
float
Only if you bend close
do stems appear and
tether the magic floating blossoms
to earth.
So, also, don’t grieve over your shaggy
weed-scattered lawn. Mowed,
those floating blossoms
disappear.
Another Empty Nest
I’ll never know
why you believed
our rickety green table
that’s never been asked
to hold more than a lamp, a phone,
the occasional vase—
Why would you believe it could hold
You?
But, you explain again,
baby birds need to eat
every ten minutes.
You learned this online.
You couldn’t find the step ladder
or we never had one to start with
and the mother was going nuts…
She’s not the only one.
Your expression is as stunned as a baby bird.
I didn’t think you’d care that much,
is what you say, bemused.
You explain to me again
how you saved the bird
certain this time
I will see things differently.
Later, calmer, phone and lamp
in their new home on the floor,
it’s a comfort
to remember your surprise.
Wisdom: Five Sentence Fiction
As usual, I have no idea how I landed on this site, but…today I discovered Lillie McFerrin Writes—Home of Five Sentence Fiction. The clever and mysterious Lillie posts a one-word prompt every week and asks the world to respond with a five-sentence story. Love it! This week’s prompt is “Wisdom”. Almost the moment I read it, Wisdom sidled up and whispered this story in my ear…
Wisdom says she’s done with being wise, done with handing out mountains of calm, clear-hearted advice to dolts who do not listen or listen and then still go off and steal the jewels, quit the job, rush the altar, buy the day old sushi, worse, eat the day old sushi.
“I’m sick of the very sound of my name, which I’ve discovered also means Prudence, as if things weren’t bad enough,” she tells the old elephant over mugs of Earl Grey.
The elephant has known Wisdom a very long time and expects she’s exaggerating when she says ‘Done’ since Wisdom gets fed up, of course, who wouldn’t, but in the end she gathers herself and dispenses herself for free again, like a reliable though battered old vending machine, wise enough to seldom say never.
“Definitely Done for good,” says Wisdom as she throws clothes into a too-small satchel, paints the elephant purple, drapes him with jewels, and climbs onto his back, beautifully bedecked herself in cinnamon scarves.
Now, she says, now is our time to finally leave home and never knowing where the next cup of tea may come from, be Foolish in the world with our names changed to Adventure and Gull.
Just A House
My old neighbor’s daughter says,
Mom’s been gone four years,
Dad even longer. I couldn’t walk
down your street, she says.
Couldn’t go past their old house.
But I scolded myself (my old neighbor’s
daughter is a very strict woman)
and said,
It’s just a house.
So a few weeks back,
I walked by.
Here, her stern eyes soften,
fill with tears.
So we make a plan,
there in the housewares aisle
where we met:
Next time, she’ll stop at my house
Three doors down. We’ll sit
on my porch and drink tea
to soften sorrow
while my house
is still mine,
no cause for sorrow,
nothing to avoid.
Private Practice
These are rehearsals.
Before the curtain rises
on that show about empty nests,
practice solitude–
Ten minutes, an hour, a day
with no one asking
for money, food, rides.
Test the quality
of the air at midday,
at midnight.
Soft as the leaves on maple trees
when the wind dies down,
quiet as nights without crickets.
