Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

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

Today, she said,
Live like the beginning of a blizzard.
Already the snow (which just arrived)
falls faster, gains confidence in its ability
to fall. All those winter hours,
centuries of seen and unseen snow
in open farm fields
on roof lines thatched or shingled
over deep secret forests.
Snow against castle walls,
long ago halls hung with thick tapestries
hunting dogs sleepdreaming by the fireside
Snow above high-rise offices where
expensive views of distant mountains disappear
in heavy snow. Snow with years of practice
like a nervous opera singer
a teacher a student a dancer a conductor
of orchestras or railroads.
Or like you. You, right now,
warming up, clearing your throat,
getting ready, getting better at this
the snowstorm of your life in this
weather driven world.

on days when the light in other bodies
dims, when their glow is turned
down to a simmer, (almost) hidden—
consider the source

This home workbench
not in a cellar or garage
not sawdust-scented
or filled with mysterious metal tools
No fuse box in the spider-dark corner
No jars of nails and bolts
screws and nuts and washers
Never suited for those jobs,
this whole workshop is tiny,
especially when folded. It is
spider-free and portable
A silver foil cover embossed with patterned
leaves, held together by a brown elastic
to keep the scribbled words from falling

Be cautious of sadness.
It has grown too large when
birds avoid your yard, even
tempted with suet cakes.
If despair wears itself
paper thin, lures you to ignore
the complicated gifts
of age, illness, solitude
then even the birds sense it
and move across the road
where there is only
midwinter grass. So many birds
we lose count.

Static-filled morning:
Static in our hair, sweaters, socks
even our words
(especially our words)
give off sparks.
We walk through the hour
stepping carefully
shocking each other awake

Use every day to
teach yourself or
better, Wake Up
Ready to let
the day teach you.
Oh its lesson plans
are tattered from use
and look haphazard
held together as they are
with bits of twine and yellowed
cellophane tape
pages softened by repetition
This is an old,old lesson from a
teacher who remembers your
grandparents and their grandparents
but as a unit of instruction
a day is the perfect length
And if it is a day when the student
is sick or lazy or distracted
No matter. There is a new lesson
just over the horizon, almost here
Wake up ready to let this day be
The One to Teach you something