Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

I who hate heights
climb
your
garage
ladder
while
you steady it and
hand me lightbulbs
to change
in the cobwebbed rafters

Sudden illumination

you guide my backwards steps
down with hand, with voice
call me
a brave little toaster

which does its work
of distracting me enough
to laugh
and there I am
back on the ground
with you

This morning I jumped
At my own shadow and yours
Our dark followers

You bark only at
The truly terrifying—
Headlights
Skittering leaves on pavement
The long black shadow of
The small black cat
The one who is the rightful heir
Due to inherit the kingdom
Of our street to rule semi-benevolently
As the last cat did before him

Some are born to royalty
Me —I think I was a peasant
And you were a peasant’s dog
Both of us happy with small things
Good scents to sniff in the wet grass
And a dark warm morning when
We don’t need mittens to lose on our walk

One house in the dark, still
light-strung
We pass three joggers
then three once-Christmas-trees waiting
at the curb

But time moves on
All along Main Street
they’ve taken down the wreaths
that hung from each lamp pole
Our whole town, except for that one hold-out house
plain and simple
again

because every thing
on this earth
looks
different
when covered in snow

Winter is built for shelter
designed to fall in the dark months
weeks our bodies remember who they are,
mumbling mammal,
mammal to these hibernation hearts
beneath the blue down comforter.

Scarves and hats of many colors,
thick gloves,
sturdy boots
delight and distract
But soon
night knocks
to remind us

Wind is a favorite word of the weather
but pressed for an answer,
Winter, like us all, yearns—
It peeks through our lit windows
And chooses shelter
as its favorite word

After we read the poem Teleology by Willie Lin last night in my wonderful writing group.

All I understand for certain about this mysterious poem
is that it snows in Nebraska
Imagine all that cold, the wind-driven snow
as it blows across wide fields gone fallow

Here, far from Nebraska, it’s a mild winter so far
Instead of snow, darkness is what falls
early and stays long. Still dark at 6 a.m.
Dark already in the late afternoon
which may, on different days,
become a symbol—
cozy view from indoors
thrilling view outside of
lights at every window
Or it may
on other dark days
be a loneliness, be a sound like bereft

We shape the snow
We shape the darkness
We shape Nebraska,
those of us who never lived there
Tune it with our own turn
towards melancholy
or joy
Remember today in the snow in the dark
That there are people giddy with love
of the dazzle of lights in windows
and someone somewhere is throwing
a loud and happy party out there
in Nebraska

snow and the street lamp
shadow dance across our path
Only you and I
are outside now
We stand in the middle of the road,
tilt our faces up
to taste the dazzle
of white
then down
to let our eyes trace
snow’s quick gray shadows—
a game we never tire of playing.
One of us
so excited
at all this dashing around
that we begin to bark

on the dog’s black coat,
my red mittens, grass, porch steps,
rain turns into snow

Next to the old orchard with its windfall apples
beloved of woodchucks,
crumbling roadside barn
slowly collapses over long years—
wood sides soften and fold inward

My father’s walls are ramshackle now,
surrounded by windfall trip hazards—
what was once solid caves in upon itself

Once upon a time
my father lived inside a fairy tale
deep in the forest, which he knew
for certain held talking animals and danger
mostly danger
Obstacles, yes—
But he believed obstacles were only
scattered there to overcome,
believed back then he would emerge
into the sunlit meadow
Victorious, there among
the singing birds and
possibly some dancing livestock

Those woods now?
Plowed for open fields
where the hardscrabble farmer
installed headlight on the tractor
so he can work early and late in the dark
The next nearest forest
is now the high school football field
where invincible young
play under the lights
While my father is deep in the dark
of his righteous proud self
deep in the forest of what was
once upon a time

“I know the world is bruised and bleeding, and though it is important not to ignore its pain, it is also critical to refuse to succumb to its malevolence.” Toni Morrison quote, as heard on episode 707 of The Slowdown, with host Ada Limon.

Do the dead speak?
Do our dead speak to us?
Ever?
I am not certain. But
I am certain of some things—
unbreakable love for my children.
sparkle and surprise of new love—of
you on the phone, telling me—
I can feel you near,
your cheek resting against mine,
even when you are not here.

Are our dead near?
Despite Gaza, despite Ukraine,
despite yet another mass shooting
adding weight to the mass of us
left behind who ask
these questions about their dead
Despite that Toni Morrison quote
Despite you, dying right now
in the middle of ordinary October

You finished early
Done with hospital beds, with loss,
with memories—
Remember when? No.
No is the answer.
you and your memories are gone.
Do our dead speak? Oh, likely they are all
too happy to stop talking and stop listening to us

Despite so much,
I know.
I am certain of some things—
These words, and my human children
held loosely
will return
do return. What else returns?
Last year the eagle’s nest near the pond
fell in upon itself from its own weight.
Last week you died and the weather turned
hard rain and the wind
brought down the once beautiful
Autumn
left the world brown and dull
with sharp sticks of bare trees
scraping at the fog but
Today the gone leaves
reveal what their green hid all summer—
Eagles built a new nest, near the past
and this same morning, in November dark,
I passed a blond woman in a parka, walking
from barn to house with an empty plastic tub,
her head down, on the way inside
to the warm kitchen, having gone out in the dark
to feed another animal. We are, I am certain,
here to feed each other