is the phrase in my head
when I fold this ink on paper
into its clever envelope.
And I say it to myself in a clipped British accent,
and a crisp cotton dress, belted, with a
full skirt. Matching heels. Nylons.
I pick up my tiny handbag,
slip on white gloves, pearl buttons at the wrist,
and go to post your letter.
Days like these, this is me
waving to the past
on its huge island,
while everyone else on my ship
rows frantically forward,
hurling electronic messages into
the static filled sky of now
(except you, posting a letter to me).
Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems
Posting A Letter
Plus: Vacation Shadorma
Shadorma is a poem of counted lines of syllables, like this: 3/5/3/3/7/5
Vacation
plus my same old life
plus you, friend–
wine, laughing
long walks, longer talks, good food,
the plain world blossoms.
Hold That
Here at the Office of Catch Phrases, Cliches, Slang (All Types) and Mixed Metaphors, we are always working, Hard at it, No rest for the wicked, Nose to the grindstone, Concocting new expressions for your pleasure and overuse.
This week we are concentrating on new ways to say Be Patient. Wait A Minute. Don’t Rush In. You’ve used our golden oldies since God was a boy. Remember Hold The Phone, Hold Your Horses, Hold That Thought?
Now try these,new and improved—Hold That Boulder, for the deep breath before tackling a weighty problem. Or how about: Hold That Calamari, before plunging into a situation full of strange tentacles that may wrap you up, may drown you.
We invented Hold That Evergreen for you to use before picking up an idea that is sharp to the touch. This led us to many tree analogies. Such as—Hold That River Birch, for water thoughts and white memories. Or, our personal favorite, Hold That Willow, for the moment before you get lost in a daydream, the breath before you step into the cool, green shadows and stand quiet and drenched within the fall of leaves and water.
Thursday’s Tentative Elephants
First, one elephant
climbs on top of
the yellow Volkswagen.
Worried about his weight
and the clash of color,
yellow car, purple toenail polish,
he finds his precarious balance.
Then, one by one, from the long line
in the quiet street,
each new elephant
clambers up
till there’s a tower
of elephants
on that car—
Graceful or
Laughing,
On Tiptoes,
Awkward, or Humming,
each thinking their own thoughts—-
One multiplies fractions in his head,
another plans her European vacation.
The last elephant in line is basking in nostalgia,
remembering the old lion tamer
with his shabby mustache and his
pet monkey who hated all elephants.
And only the first elephant,
the one at the juncture
of yellow car and
gray bristled skin,
only he is Tentative
about this whole Arrangement.
And, honestly,
I can see why.
Darkness and Light
A pregnant teenage daughter,
poem so dark
you cannot find a candle.
Wait.
Three years pass
while the next stanza
Grows.
Now, this laughing child:
All bossy charm
and sidewalk chalk,
asking five hundred questions
while she blows her small breath
at the wind chimes
announcing that when the chimes play,
Everyone should dance–
Pouring light all over this house
so thick you dance slow
just to savor the view
through the glowing windows.
Kitchen Calendar
The green marker dries out
while I’m adding his varsity tennis matches
to spring vacation dates written in pink,
blue for music lessons,
purple for soccer league,red for band practice,
bright orange for prom,senior trip, graduation.
Here they are, the last few months
of color-coded life.
When this last child leaves for college,
the decades of multicolor
kitchen calendars will be over. His and hers,
games and concerts, practices, lessons,
rehearsals, field trips,Done.
I try to remember life with a one-color calendar,
and something shifts in me—-
like the way your mind turns
when you try to read about
Parallel Universes and realize these
scientists are serious, are truly asking
you to consider this possibility.
And I can’t say for sure what this feeling is–
Only that it is huge, like another universe
waiting behind the one I’ve walked in all these years.
Before You Arrive
You’re already on the plane
while I
lay out fresh candles, ready to glow
mop the kitchen floor, ready to echo with laughter
wash the good wine glasses, ready to be filled
polish this mirror, ready to reflect your shining face.
Polite
She answers everything I ask
with few words,
no extra splash of detail,
nothing of how you linger
over conversation you’re enjoying,
that way people have of no longer swimming hard
towards the destination of the other shore,
the end of this talk,
but floating,
showing off handstands and somersaults,
or treading water
just to enjoy the silky feel of
words swirling around in little eddies.
Another Problem With Education
Is that teenagers and teachers
do not care
about the same things.
This week alone,
I’ve heard that Mali
sounds like an island vacation spot,
somewhere near Tahiti.
And not one of them knows who Nelson Mandela
is, though someone hazarded a guess
that he might be a fashion designer.
However, they were prepared to discuss,
potentially forever, the guy on You Tube
who jumped out of a plane,
rushing through the sky
so fast he broke the sound barrier.
Here, at last, was someone they admired,
or at least a place they could recognize.
The Worry Game
There are nights when my worries
choose a game—tonight it’s musical chairs–
To break the monotony.
Rules are understood: Each time I toss,
turn, flip the pillow in search of
cool peace, the worries tumble down
to the bottom of my brain. Unfastened
from their customary order,
they scrap and scramble for a sharp place to settle.
The twist they add, to keep the game
worth playing, is brilliant.
Whoever is left,
the worry without a seat,
wins that round.
Winner gets the place of honor,
the cozy chair at the top of my mind,
a chance to stretch out, make themselves comfortable.
Some night I brew them a mug of tea
while we chat, me and the winning worry,
the one who glows in the heat of all my attention
until the next round.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 