Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

As if his life
were a weather pattern
there was an
unexpected
stretch of calm
with intermittent sun
but the wind shifted
he’s overcast again
gray clouds to his horizon
occasional crashes of
swearing and thunder

here, again
but no longer surprised
(after years of this)
at the winter urge towards haiku
The same impulse drives me to clear my desk,
coffee table , book bag. Holidays are gone
once our decorations are packed away
I learn
(again)
to love a room, a desk, a page swept bare
Once cleared,
I scatter a few
petals,
stones,
words
across this plain surface
and watch it transform
see space and spareness
become
beautiful

yesterday, a flock of small children invaded
with all their gear–crayons, Legos, picture books,
stuffed animals scattered everywhere–
a fluffy inanimate zoo, with a tendency
towards unicorns

Luckily, it was a day awake enough to choose
from the river of images rushing by
to remember the trick, and pluck from the river
which image to hold (the one that builds
a tiny joy cathedral in the mind)

Long gone, the invaders
left behind crumbs, juice box carcasses,
and crooked bits of paper taped to the walls,
waist high, white, red, pink, vaguely heart-shaped
on one, Charlie had scribbled “Cute!”

At this pace, we’ll never get there
wherever there is
but take
one slow breath
and consider
our fast-paced, frenetic selves–
Despite our breathless hurry,
we managed to create
slow dance and cursive writing
and bread recipes that require
rest and rise and rest again.
We dreamed up so much slowness
here inside the houses we built,
the castles and schools,
hospitals and hovels and highrises
all these shells that cradle us
shells covered with rain or blossoms
tree pollen or ice or heavy snow
while we dance and write and
cook up something delicious,
slowly.

Next to the last
unbroken candy cane
a stack of red construction paper
ready to become
a garland of paper hearts but
someone
glued the calendar
open to
January.

Last week’s vow–to look,
listen and write it all down
Final grade? Incomplete

In praise of Amanda Gorman

a woman
who
once struggled
with sound
and how to
shape
her words
to be heard
has spoken

for the sleepwalkers–
who can blame you,
some days?
Some days are better
your way. So, if you
put your head down?
If you hummed through days
so unmusical and disjointed
that probably we should have
offered you a prize for
being able to hum?
We’ve all tried it, your way.
There are no prizes for humming.
You were, we were, after all,
ignoring life and there is no
true prize for that kind of nonsense.
But you’re here now, and I am glad.
Whatever woke you–the scent of lilacs
out of season, the scent of fresh baked
bread, the sound of leaders praying
in complete sentences–
Whatever it was, welcome back.
Look around. I am glad we all
made it here, together.
Let’s stay awake.

The evidence is overwhelming
though we each
arrive at our own conclusions.
Each minute, we are free
to decide oh so many things–
to eat carrots, sleep late,
be cruel, buy a dog,
choose the purple socks, knowing—
Knowing
that in the midst
of all our choices
Absolutely Anything can happen.
See that boy, there?
He carries a shovel through the snow
not trudging, but running
with a puppy at his heels

Kitchen counter mint plant
leggy stalks, crumbling brown leaves
spent last winter, tipped over
frozen, roots up, in the garden
only to revive in a new clay pot, to grow
lush and green in summer

Many days, I remember to be thankful
for the big gifts–lives, breaths, vaccines,
I keep you, wilting one, for the other days
And am grateful for you, tiny reminder