Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

I see you, intent on getting somewhere—
birds, cars, occasional cats, hurrying by
this wide lawn striped sun and shadow
green on green. Me, I am all attention.
July schedules us—
grateful for this quiet assignment,
I watch on behalf of the whole street—
certain you’ll do the same
when your turn comes around

early rain
thunder in the distance
robins sing in the shower

next to the potted lavender
One dandelion blooms
(because) no one ever told her
she wasn’t a flower

this morning’s experiment:
wish Good Day to every crow you see
especially the one perched on that roof line
Mark the missed things tumbled into your path

Here: a wooden Popsicle stick
covered in ecstatic ants
reminder that we are all filled with
Invisible Sweetness even when
we think we are empty

Here: a fallen branch in the road
imitating a monkey
because even the withered
are capable of whimsy
and wild jungled dreams

Here: a Luna moth
elegant and feathered
in her everyday leaf disguise
not a reminder of anything else.
Pure marker of amazement.

One of the many scattered.
Who knows if you open
your own eyes or if
(as I prefer)
this is all a gift from the crows
A nod to your greeting, Part Two
of every day’s courteous exchange

Banish the word enough
Banish its dark implications,
the you standing in shadow
clutching a measuring spoon
(not even a measuring cup!
a measly spoon! Oh, that one,
she is not your friend)
Too little or too much is hidden
in everything she notices.

Banish the word enough
Love this:
this moment,
these words,
that particular robin
gliding, landing soft,
grazing the grass nearby

You might think the quiet is
the first thing you’ll notice.
Wrong.
Colors jump out and grab at
your ankles, your rumpled sweatshirt,
your yet to be combed hair.
Damp and freshly rinsed, the pink peony
green maple tree deeper than
the fresh green of your untrimmed grass
and look there, the red enamel spout
on the watering can in the hands of
your neighbor in her lavender silk pajamas.
And last of all, the surprise of the dark purple
blueberry, the one you dropped in your coffee
long ago, before your morning walk, and forgot
busy with colors.
Go ahead, drink it in.

another gift
of aging:
That abandoned basketball
half hidden in the weeds
behind the lilacs?
Just wait.
When you’re old enough,
it transforms (for a moment,
from the upstairs window,
in early gray light)
It becomes a fresh bloom
Of rare orange lilacs.

Early May, early morning
wet snow on adventure road
She waves, taps the horn once
and drives away
car roof covered with damp pink petals.
The softest guardians keep her company
till they dry in the sun and
take to the road themselves
Picture her then—
petals streaming behind her
flower girl for her own future

rolled up snow fences
along the Eastern edge of all the fields
they wait, curled and quiet
brown sticks sleeping (furled instead of un-)
like creatures about to bloom
Winter’s last crop

“Writing is, by definition, an optimistic act.” Michael Cunningham

Then write in the white rapids and dangling from parasails,
bungee cords, high-dive boards, a crocodile’s jaws.
Write in the middle of the jungle even as night
falls through small rustles awake in the underbrush
and a not too distant tiger roars (if tigers do,
before they pounce, about which I’m none too sure
but who will argue it in those dire, possibly final moments?)
If instead, a nightmare
wakes you in the deep dark
turn on your light and write.
If you find you can’t write, at least read something
Written by someone else, someone who felt
optimism like a chant, a spell on paper,
an invocation to bring it back
once upon a time and happily,
ever after…