Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

haiku hold the world
in seventeen syllables
tiny nest of words

pattern of our days
my neighbor revs his engine
drives off in the dark

birds start to gossip
in bare trees, in the still dark
possible robins

though what do I know
about bird calls? It could be
anyone at all

what I can tell you
is this world wants to be seen
be here to see it

In the memory care doctor’s office
the sun shines in hot and bright
We call it the Florida room,
says the nurse who asks my father
when and where he is
Later, the doctor closes part way
the window shades
also called blinds
words for those things that soften the light
as the aging doctor, tired and patient
tells his ever older patient
again and again
the same bad news

three in the morning
world gets its heavy work done
but it’s noisy work

the sound that woke me?
a surprise of geese, night flight
carrying springtime

Right now, I’m taking an online writing class with amazing Natalie Goldberg, and rereading in little sips both her Writing Down the Bones and Clark Strand’s Seeds from a Birch Tree. I bought the Strand book from a used book store for $5 long ago, read it, loved it, tucked it onto a shelf. This early morning, I just reread: “Haiku…its purpose is not to convey information, but the feeling of a particular place and time.” (p.90)

today I’m the pen
that hiccups over a dry spot
shaken, scratched hard against the paper
And ink begins to flow again
deep and rich and effortless
but never smooth–random
occasional ink blots
add mess and joy

“We must allow a little space within which to compose a poem…no need to be frantic or hurried. There is always plenty of time.” (Strand, p.94)

one more wonderful
book fact–
words stay on paper
waiting for us

a year, ten, twenty-four–
no matter.
Here, open it
It’s for you–

sometimes my winter phone
lights up with beach pictures
sent by my sweet friend
from the Bahamas

here where I live
late winter is a dare
a challenge to take up
day after snowy day

an island in the Bahamas
might as well be Mars

but just this morning
I watered the shamrocks
a row of pots by the sunny window
lined up on the radiator, lush
flourish of green and purple
and then I can picture
every lounge chair, every beach,
every memory of being warm
all the way to my bones

what I love now is
candlelight, electric light
strings of fairy lights

because before dawn
my world is black and white, snow
and melted absence

not tree trunk, field, road–
until sunrise or snowfall
or springtime sweeps through

only the birds know
world’s about to change again

so I fret my way
through coffee,
and my drifting,
inefficient mind
I write about managing
Time
better,
as if my mind
is a puppy to train–so I
chop yellow peppers,
scallions, scramble two eggs
breakfast for today and
tomorrow. I congratulate
myself on
Becoming
Efficient
two breakfasts at once
I rinse the bowl–get caught
on the moon high up
framed by the kitchen window
here, where my daughter
once sang and washed dishes
A bird soars between me
and the moon.
time passes
And I’ll only be late to work
If I stop to write this down.

march first, as if certain
sleep
is just down the street,
easy to reach.

Go empty-handed.
Sometimes, I carry a long stick,
jab at the ground
or poke the air ahead
demanding to know,
How much further?

Other nights, I go barefoot
amble along in cool grass
at the road’s edge. Why rush?
Consider how often
the dream destination
involves wild animals,
murder mysteries, or me with
no lecture notes, on the stage
in a crowded hall.

Instead, for this new month,
walk through insomnia,
whistling.
Drop the stopwatch, the printed
itinerary–just breathe and walk
till I reach the threshold
and enter that other world

I don’t know what we’ll call this
later. “Living through a war?”
Too elevated.
Your grandma would call this
putting on airs.
Mostly I’ve gained weight
become quieter while
witness to other people’s
despair dressed in illness
or money crisis or death

I always hoped if I lived
through a war I would
do it with a certain aplomb
like the Russian aristocrat
whose Berlin diary I read–
walking to hat fittings
through rubble of bombed streets
plotting to assassinate Hitler
then planning a party
with oysters and champagne

at least, tucked away and cold,
there is a bottle of champagne
just waiting for a thing
to celebrate

dusk
this grocery store parking lot
tree-free but
still
filled with sparrow chatter
birds hidden in one scrubby bush
rooted in concrete and trash
surrounded by tired cars,
and shopping carts
loud invisible birds
discuss worms and weather
or like the rest of us
dinner, and some rest