Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

tree thoughts crowd the sky,
drift above these blue gray hills—
drink in these green dreams
now, before they wake
Another delight of early spring

When I feel bad
about homeless cats
I remind myself of
Worse Things—
mass graves, tsunamis,
plagues or fires or famines,
other disasters man-made or
natural. A list that
horrifying but true
could go on for a long, long time.
Halfway through the seventh stanza
most of the homeless cats have grown bored
and wandered away to settle their own fates.
Except for you. Only you linger,
ready for any story I want to tell,
as long as my voice stays soft and I remember
that one part of the one story you care about—
the part where I scratch the perfect spot behind
your always-wary ears.

Yesterday’s birthday?
My mother’s. I know for sure
what choice she would make.

In my quiet house
endless choosing for others—
Syllables, and weight
so many, so much.
Responsibility pounds
on my closed front door

Oh grow up, I shout.
So I did. What did I get
for all that effort?
Rooms, roads, and choices
and Responsibility
humming in my head

Late March, trees still bare
All their wiring shows—they are
stretching for the green dresses

trees in our town
held a long, slow protest rally
roots cracked all our roads

Gardens in late spring, lush with blossoms
A little girl sent to bed, crying
The best cappuccino you ever had, served with strawberries that tasted like nothing at all
Phone that rings in an empty house, how it echoes
A fight at a family dinner
All the old details crossed out in your address book
Catching an early morning flight, the almost deserted airport
Another magic mirror—this one reflects the childhood you wanted to give your children
A glass of cool water when you are most thirsty
The suitcase you never unpacked
Busy signal every time you dial her number
A striped beach blanket abandoned in the sand, as night falls
The list of things you wish to say, if she answered the phone
A candle burning
How eyewitness testimony is notoriously unreliable
Standardized tests, the way they fan the scent of anxiety
The last call before your phone dies

You May Circle All That Apply

this seashore, off season
shared by the faithful—
puppies, big dogs, toddlers,
spry elders, frazzled families
looking for a cheap vacation—
all these, and the gulls,
these own the beach now—
the beach reclines, sighs out to sea
here, in its cool and peaceful days of rest

trees once—
spikes line this road
through the forest
deaf now,
like many of us

whispering forest
gossips in the wind
mourns lost cousins
utilized

late winter—bare trees
stand ready to dress in green
move from march to dance

failing memory,
jangling pocketful of coins—
loud, but worn by time