Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

at the yoga studio
there is a red box on a shelf
that says it holds Wisdom
says it in all capital letters.
WISDOM.

skeptical at the start
by the end of class
my body believes it

driving home from yoga class
loose and relaxed in the dark
we talked about our parents
and their failing mental capacities
talked and drove until we saw
the lights of a city and realized
we’d been traveling in the wrong direction
for half an hour.
Laughed, drove home.
What else is there to do?

It was in the middle of the ordinary dark,
ordinary cold. No bombs, nobody
died, just the accelerated ticking
of So Many Clocks—
I arrived to find a package on my front porch
a huge caramel apple
covered in chocolate.
On another day, another friend,
A different friend (yes, I am
bragging in a poem right now.
I have two friends
like this. Truth? I have even more.
I have Excellent Friends)
This friend made me
a sweater in every shade of autumn
left it on my porch with a
jar of apple butter,
loaf of dark and spicy bread
laced with ginger and molasses
I ate the apple, ate the bread, wore the sweater.
Some days I come home to only mail
on my front porch. Some days
nothing at all. But then, these other days
days that are an invitation to say thank you
To say, How did you know I was staggering
under the week’s weight?
To say, friend—I see you too.

(Transcript of an actual conversation in our school library on a recent dark and rainy late October morning.)
J: I wanted to go to the haunted house this weekend. But my brother says, don’t bother. He says it’s not even scary.
R: I went last weekend. I cried twice.

outside the pop-up
Halloween store—
sign says, We’re Hiring

mostly the pumpkins
are gathered
beneath the farm market awning
but out in the field, still
a few dozen huddle together
mud on their thick orange flanks
They move in close,
tell each other stories
through the rainy afternoons
and the long dark
as frost creeps close
they wait for what comes next—
a hollowing and a swift flare of light
or slow collapse into this field
In some of the stories, but not all
there are seeds
and luck
and a fresh crop come spring

lady unlocking a Lexus—
maroon cashmere
tall leather boots
black umbrella
and tucked under her arm
one skeleton and a
glow-in-the-dark scythe

gold leaves in the rain
falling bright
wipers clear them
from the windshield,
toss them aside
dirt road
where I can stop
right in the middle
(middle of this road
middle early in the day
middle later in my life)
I can stop
and scribble down words
on this back road
before all our words
are carried away or rinsed away
by the rest of the day
(just as the rain
just as the gold leaves)
Look, here—
when I stop moving
leaves settle on the hood,
on the windshield
we all pause for a breath,
rest and wait to see
what words come
next

yesterday morning’s full moon
pale and insistent
wanted to star in today’s poem.

I nodded to acknowledge
that I heard the moon,
jotted a scribbly note to myself
went on into the long day of
rain and teenagers,
books and research and
sneaky craft projects that
only exist to make them
talk to each other away from
all screens

I forgot the moon.
So the moon rose over
my street last night, just as
I turned the corner
to remind me
it wanted to be
a star
Some moons are like that

another reason for all these words
is so I don’t forget
how yesterday a blue jay swooped
beneath my moving car, under and
out again or the junior high boy
with long red hair and a notebook
full of pencil sketches
he wanted someone to see
or how that jet contrail caught
sunlight and carried a
gold thread of connection
across the blue sky
threading together
all these pieces of a day