Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

not all art requires
red
This morning, for example
gray hills white fields
flecked darker gray brown
gravestones, cornstalks
From the west, blackbirds
Come settle over the field
Color enough

Then the road,
always heading towards More
adds a shock of fluorescent yellow
Wordless, the mysterious black arrow
points at the artful way birds descend
or it points to all the curves ahead

Inspired by a word list at The Sunday Whirl

She wired the stars in the silence of deep space, she who was named The One In Charge Of Storms. The air was fried with static, her hair wild and electric, marring the view of the Milky Way. There were complaints from others.

 
Oh, this was only my first draft, she said. I thought they’d like to look up at night and see lights, to show them when a storm was passing.

 
With a shrug, she let the stars fall everywhere and dreamed up a new idea about space, or maybe it was about time.

 
Instead of sand, let’s fill every hourglass with stars, she said. It will be so beautiful, they won’t even cry that it’s passing. After all, minding manners, taking turns, they can flip the hourglass over again and again.

today, I am in a Mood
floating in a tiny boat
christened Irritation
tossing crumpled up dreams
in my wake. From shore,
life watches for me, life
dressed in red draped in flowers
Mindfulness taught me this—
Stop paddling so hard. Boat and shore
are in the same ocean. Breathe.
The view changes one moment
and again the next as
clouds drift
across an enormous sky.
Who would try to capture them?

Luxury: $2.99 at the grocery store and you carry home a pot of budding tulips through the blizzard.

pink tulips blue bowl
petals open soft snow falls
on the outside world

time again to walk
away from the world of shoes and wristwatches
and turn towards mystery
step through
the door in the hill
Some other traveler
knowing you’d come this way
has left instructions for you
There are survival tips in poems
clues in seashells crumbled by tides
afternoon shadows through evergreens
garden tunnels dug by moles with their own agenda
Look up. There are maps buried in the stars.

written from a word list prompt at The Sunday Whirl

the cold blue blood of the sky
rises over bare fields, edged with ice
rises over us, teeth clenched against
one more day of winter. Birds try again
to shatter February with beaks,
with songs that crescendo over mornings
of every thing rattling in the wind.
Only the bare trees sense it—
their long deep bodies remember
the electric green jolt of spring.
Still invisible to humans, trees know the secret
slow as honey, what rises through their roots

not continents or country roads
but a map of your days:
When the last day of vacation
feels as sweet as the first
When this body turns quietly towards
school rooms full of sleepy prickly teens
and turns quietly away from southern sun
laughing friends and wide-hipped yoga
When day after day the air is soft
the heart grows generous
remembers to say thank you
then you know:
This is it, the right path
the road you’ve been searching for

The morning? Light
in the dark, dream
to carry you forward,
scent of rosemary and
words threaded through
this whole unfolding day

a poem makes a tiny announcement
when she enters the room but quietly
quietly not because she is shy but
because this is how she begins
If you don’t listen when
she hums her way towards words?
The moment passes. Without words
the poem is quick and gone
on the smallest breeze even the breeze
of your mind clicking through today’s
List of Work To Do, even the breeze of
your breath, asking her to take a number
asking her to wait her turn

bring sunscreen
and flip flops
a new toothbrush
your old soul
and paperbacks
full of pages who don’t mind the damp
sea air and sand between sentences,
loose idle words, whole paragraphs willing
to drift at low tide unattached
broken free,
bindings open to the sun