An open diamond
blinking slowly at the world
waiting to be amazed.
Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems
American Sentences: February
I.
Sky spits snow I wave away, tired of the same old conversation.
II.
Patch of snow melt shows sweet brown dirt, where old sage bush whispers—Garden, grow.
Tillie’s Gone to Texas
Sounds like a lonesome country song
about a cowboy crying in his beer
over the fickle girl who left–
blond curls and an old Ford truck
rattling down the highway
and out of his heart.
She let her apron
catch the breeze and blow away
so now you’ll have to cook
for yourself, cornbread that will
never taste the same,
which brings the chorus back to you,
there on your barstool, all alone.
It makes me almost sad
to remind myself that
Tillie’s gone to Texas
was what the neighbor said
when I asked about his funny dog
who used to keep me company on walks.
But he promised
she’ll be back come spring
unlike your Tillie, cowboy,
who is gone for good.
American Sentences: After the Valentine
American Sentences is a switched-up version of haiku invented by Allan Ginsberg. He defined it as one single 17-syllable sentence instead of the 5-7-5 syllable, three-line format in other American interpretations of Japanese haiku.
Valentine’s Day over, time to take down paper roses from the door,
and past time to put away that basket of glittered pink hearts you kept.
Sweep the floor, and open into shamrocks with the wide green spring ahead.
Be True To This
When you stumble into a poem,
life—your life—is suddenly
Lit Up. Exactly what it was—
only the angle
shifts, and tumbles you
into a brand new world.
All day, you can open this drawer in your mind,
remember the lamplight before dawn,
scent of morning coffee,
the cat anxious to be on the other side
of any door, while you write.
Later,during ordinary gray
bits of the day, find yourself
Smiling, the air filled with lavender.
Translitic
According to Steve Kowit in his wonderful book, In The Palm of Your Hand: The Poet’s Portable Workshop, “a translitic is a poem ‘translated’ from a foreign language by paying attention not to the meaning of words but to their sounds.” It’s a way to shake loose when words feel dull or frozen.
Translitic based on Jorge Luis Borge’s El Guardian de Los Libros
Here the gardens, the temples, the temple
Of wrecked music and wrecked palaces
The sense of seven, four-sided walks,
The right to be summoned, amicable, in unison
Before the opening night sky and the crowds
That decorate the blue-water emperor
Cued to serenity, fueled by reflection of the world
And especially the compass, dabbling in the fruit,
Torrential respectability at the margins
And the unicorn herd, parting with their fins
All their regrets.
The secrets layer eternally,
The concerts orbit
And each house of memory stands free
in custody of its own world.
Crossing Worlds
We cross worlds each night inside our dreams,
but the images we carry back are garbled.
This is intentional–
Its job is to remind us which are real
of all the worlds we wander.
Ladies Who Lunch
Ordinary women with long-braided pasts, feasting on Greek salads–
heads bent over dishes thick with feta, dolmades, falafel.
Someday, I picture us eating this exact meal by the Mediterranean,
in sun dresses instead of wool, the water out our window a
wide blue sea salty as Kalamatas
instead of this narrow gray canal, dotted with ducks.
But here today, we make our own warmth with stories,
listening to tales of deaths, diets, miracle lotions, far flung dreams.
Eyes fill with tears, and clear again,
like the water glasses our patient waiter refills
as we recite the litany of our losses, which are many.
Look at us. Look at our bags laid down, at rest after being carried so far.
Look how we laugh, funny and hope-filled,
dreaming of beaches and Europe, wine country and cottages.
How beautiful we are–the way we dream those futures
but brush our hair today
and put on mascara we know will
be cried off before dessert
chances equal that our tears are from sadness
or laughing so hard we cry.
Either way, our hearts crack open over
this gift, this day of being ladies who lunch.
Roses In Winter
When my world feels pinched
And dry, I look at the roses you sent.
They arrived like messengers
From a far-off country
With urgent news–
Two dozen sweetheart faces from dark red
To pale pink, yellow, orange, peach,
And a soft cream the color
of vanilla and old lace.
Every time I see them,
Relaxed and blooming now that
All their traveling is done
Their soft faces urge me
To take a deep breath and remember
I can relax and bloom too
Having read their message:
There are places in the world where beauty grows
Even now, in the middle of winter.
Warming Trend
Late last night, the angel in the backyard
spread his wings and nearly spoke.
Today, all that’s left is an odd pattern
where the world is melting beneath my window,
as if the barn spent all evening practicing
snow angels on the ground.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 