These days, the fabric of Time
is thick burlap that chafes
and snarls itself into knots
even as it unravels at all its
Edges. It stays awake all night,
watching for Summer.
There are stories Time heard, oh
long, long ago now, of what
will happen when Summer arrives—
Tales of transformation, highly
fanciful, hardly credible, nothing more
than fables really, myths that promise
Transformation.
but so the story goes that Time itself will
Change, become bolts of green silk,
unfolding in luxurious swathes
over this whole world, swaying free
to the music of water and wind chimes
till it covers the ground
in smooth, soft waves
for Summer to float on.
Or so the story goes.
Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems
Fabric
Green Is A Color
now
green is all remember
those bare trees of winter
though I do know
they lived
I cannot
conjure them again
meaning
Spring, at last.
Graduation Gift
“Roofs are easier to fix than roads,”
says the historian in her dry, reedy voice
which explains covered bridges
and opens the possibility of
the perfect graduation gift.
Along with that Irish
Blessing
about roads rising to meet you,
knowing they will roll their eyes
at your choice,
after much consideration
The Perfect Gift
for setting out into the wide world
may be
an umbrella.
Late, Again
Welcome back to the tightness in the chest, the almost-frantic voice demanding, Hurry, from between clenched teeth. Hurry means wrong again, means miscalculations in the intricate morning mix, ingredients that must be layered in particular order, precisely measured, a cake that never rises, a dance the whole household knows and nobody greets with joy. Hurry means measured wrong again, one shower too long, or shampoo in somebody’s eye, lunch boxes left on yesterday’s bus or we’re out of bread. Again. No one can find a pen for the permission slips that appeared in the night and so they pile up, years of field trips, from zoos to Shakespeare festivals, signed in crayon or eyeliner or not at all. But there are shoes on every single foot and each delivered to its proper place to spend the day. By the time you reach the office, someone should be there to greet you with a medal, a fanfare, at the very least a gold star and a mug of coffee, crowds applauding all you’ve achieved before 8 a.m., followed by space inside a quiet room with a soft chair where time stops sprinting towards the finish line. This room is yours for as long as you need to breathe, to settle your racing heart, a room where absolutely nobody ever says You’re Late.
Again.
Memorial Day
I never survived anything like war
Not even a single, ruthless battle.
Instead, this whole cold holiday
Spent sick in bed, those battle-earned
Hours squandered on sleep.
This year, the day’s miracle is sunlight
Filigree of tree shadows through lace curtains,
Peace in the streets,
My lap full of oranges and poems.
Grateful, grateful to be here and free
In a place where gratitude is personal,
This tiny town,
Where the War Memorial is etched
With names they remember
With names they know by heart.
Field Guide To Poems: Location and Storage
Hidden as strawberries,
mysterious as the moon
shadowed by thin wisps
of clouds. Floating
through your head, abundant
as the spring sky full of dandelion seeds.
Sudden as the gleam
of wild eyes on a midnight road.
So many times.
Missives sent long distance
on fire, streaking tales of light
landed here in drifts and
overflowing drawers and
musty attic trunks accumulating
year by year, these ordinary wonders,
these letters addressed
to your invisible singing self.
Advice From My Redbud Tree
Flower first
before you dress
in green and
practical leaves.
Why wait
when this very day
can be spent
covered in pink blossoms
and fat bees,
every single one of them
drunk and busy,
lopsided with joy
just to be near you
at the height of
your beauty?
Flower first.
Flower now.
Extravagance is Everything.
Benediction For My Town
Tonight my town
sleep nestled in your hills
blanketed by stars.
Dream of the sweetness
that walks through
your streets —
all I love about
this small town:
Friendly dogs, flowering yards,
neighbors who wave
and call out to each other, sidewalk visits.
For background music, the high school
band practices as they march and
Listen–cheers from the ball field where
tonight is t-ball and small,
small children eating hot dogs
and learning the rules of the game
while crowds cheer them on
and then take them out for ice cream.
Gatsby World
I’d forgotten how it is here–
In this Gatsby world of excess,
all champagne and fur coats,
drenched in Opulent smiles
to match these enormous estates.
Perfection, except
no matter how white,
smiles never reach those eyes.
Joe is still there, in his grounds-
keeper’s shed, the best place
to hide. He is much the same,
with his paycheck and normal
warm eyes. His smile remains
small but true
as he tips his hat
and leaves each night
to return to the real world.
Rule Breaker
Last night the dream was children and books
making it much like the rest of the day.
Except for one little girl
in a white cotton dress, printed with pink roses,
who cried and cried
because she broke the rules.
She sobbed into my damp shoulder
as I knelt beside her trying
to bend myself to her height.
I kept my voice calm,
patting her back, murmuring nonsense
while the fury in me built.
Me, Queen of Following Rules,
wished them to be tangible
so I could do them harm
wished I could push them
down the steep wooden stairs
for making her so sad.
