Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

Fluorescent light works.
Also, budget meetings.
Sorrow, sleeplessness, sickness
are unreliable. They can go
either way—turn you mute or
turn on a torrent of words
like turning on the kitchen tap.
One never-fail tip I’ve discovered—
Buy a new car. Fret over
the price, the color, the inevitable
dents or scratches. Repeat. Listen
to radio news of wildfires in the west
while you fret and drive.
Juxtaposition with those who lost
every single thing in their house
including their house
is guaranteed to stop a poem.
Continue like this until it’s time
to stop the car somewhere. Anywhere.
If you carry yourself along,
when you arrive
wherever you arrive
you’ll discover—
no poems there, either.

gathered on today’s walk
this bowl of supple leaves in bright shades

this bowl of supple leaves in bright shades
tomorrow’s crumbled leaf dust

tomorrow’s crumbled leaf dust
tonight’s centerpiece glowing in candlelight

last week, walking to the library
in the rain
an angel
sped by on a dirt bike
muddy legs
gold tipped wings
fluttered in the wind
I waved as she or he went by
but who knows
if the angel could see me
buried as I was behind
thick air, books, and worries
Especially the worries.
I read once that carrying them
all day leaves a trail behind,
a residue of gray dust
which dampens the light
and makes you invisible
to all things holy or magical

I’ve given up hurrying for Lent
and I remember enough
of my Catholic childhood
to know we’re nowhere near
Lent. But once I decided
I wanted
to get a jump on it
and begin
quickly
this long process of
slow
ing
down

Oh the Earth, there she goes again
only today, you wrote an ode
to the end of colors
and what does Earth answer?
Here, swift moving flash of light brown
(fawn-colored) crosses the road ahead.
Around the next curve,
sunrise paints the gray road
incandescent orange
So there, she says.
Go put that in a poem.

blue jay, yellow leaf
land together
in deep green
end of season

drink it in.
all this brightness
will give way to
winter

Welcome to
the new season,
one of my favorites.
We used to call this
the middle of autumn
Now, after intense campaigning,
it is officially known as
The Season of Many-Colored Leaves
Throwing Themselves at Your Feet
(Often in Sunshine)

This season will be immediately followed
by The Season of Crunchy Leaves

Oh, help me remember—
What is the name for the season after that?

October second—
nights cool, green maples
hum in the shower
practice scales under their breath
tuning up for the big show

last week we put the gardens to bed
today, the cemetery gates are propped open
wrought iron wedged into tall grass
for the summer’s last mow
the time has come to
turn to quiet

Time. Whole weeks or years
rush by. Sometimes I crave a

Pause

I give this, the Best Gift
to myself. Here—sit back
with a bowl of popcorn
watch the hurrying
from a comfortable seat in the stands

Such relief
that space to rest and breathe
to chew and digest
this vast and rapid world

Smarter than I used to be
is the best that can
be said