Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

small spider in the apple bowl
at ten, you would have named it
at ten, I would have screamed
for someone to kill it

Now, I take a different apple
drape a paper towel
over the smooth edge
of my grandmother’s bowl
and——where I would have ended
this poem, sudden spider !!!

!!!

crawls up and across
the laptop screen
Spider who travelled
table length of apple bowl, tomato basket,
yesterday’s mail, bakery bag of orange scones,
to participate in creating this poem
only interrupted by departure of one of
the co-authors, moving fast
over that same paper towel to celebrate
or escape
carried onto backyard’s green weeds

from the road look
across the open field
to the edge of the woods—
wild phlox, purple, white
blooms in deep green shadows
under the trees
Quiet
then fast between trees and road
a tiny dash of black cat

Every spring, the same direction:
Slow down. Look around
at this world. Open
Wide
Or at least
Wider than this stare
straight ahead at the long highway
hands clenched on the wheel
eyes in a permanent squint
to see the double yellow lines
through rain
and dark
drifts of brown leaves
drifts of snow
occasional scurry of opossum
fox
or something unfamiliar, swift and dark
The squint against bright headlights
in the opposite lane
Look
heavy yellow lines turn to
Dashes
to dots, then spirals then
Disappear. You and I
Can pass into
another lane can breathe, slow
down and look at the close roadside
trees, sirens, high-rises, deserts
Neon all-night diner.
We can stop, you and I
We can get out of our cars
And go on foot

Across the street, kitten
in the window and
over here, puppy
and me, two ends
of the leash
all three of us
Captured
rapt attention
on the robins
low and clumsy
and the other
nameless
birds
soaring high
swooping onto
maple tree crowns

At the corner of Prospect and Dove
they put down their bags.
I think I can breathe here, she said
and took a deep breath to prove it.
That was good enough for him.

So they settled in
dog
kids
vegetable garden
piano music through the open
window daisies and
forget-me-nots in a wide row.
Years went by and when
kids were grown and gone
forget-me-nots still bloomed
amid the daisies and she said,
Sell the house to someone who
plays piano because the whole
street is used to it now.

“For most of us, awake isn’t even a quality we look for. We are busy with earning a living, getting good grades, anticipating spring break. Awake is another country.” Natalie Goldberg, The True Secret of Writing, pg. 113

all of us are natives
coming home once and again
wondering why we don’t
visit more often when we
love it so, scent of honeysuckle,
the wide porches, fireflies
lighting the evening air

Nobody lives here year-round,
though small children, animals,
a few old monks linger
after the season ends

There are other tourists,
but it never feels crowded
since most visits are brief,
there and back,
there and gone again

People were frugal
back then, she said
as we walked her rows
of potted saplings, shrubs,
fruit trees.

Now it’s all, Throw a granite
countertop on it. Back then, they
made do with what they had, she said
as she rang up my purchase,
last of her redbud trees,
$129.95
plus tax

It’s like this:
the corkscrew inside
wound tighter and tighter
each compression (skipped lunch,
rushed phone call,
held breath, cancelled joy)
each twist made me
smaller not enough
time not enough
space surrounding
minutes and objects
and the corkscrew broke
and breaks over and over
until even sleep is too tiny
and again, I remember —
wake up
breathe deep
stretch and go
slow through all
the curves
ahead

Red-winged blackbird
perches on
speed limit
sign
splash of Bright Color
within all the
black
and
white
Rules

would have missed the moon
if it wasn’t for this dog
crescent through the pines

would have forgotten
if it wasn’t for this dog
when busy,
slow down