Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

half buried in gravel
mostly gone to road grime and rust
Once a metal bottle cap,
now a message
from the road
a little reminder
of what we’re here to deliver

While busy searching the road
collecting pebbles, you miss this
sky wide view, field of clover
white-edged by
Queen Anne’s lace in the ditches
Remember how you explained
about the single dot of purple
at each white lace center?
So now add this
to all my notes about the world, these
hints about balance—notice the near
and notice the wider world
Isn’t it amazing how the hints
are all in bloom?

Awake before dawn
at the end of vacation
There, the same sweet song
from the trees in the dark
familiar birds still on duty
whether we listen
or not

It’s high summer here
so when you, whoever you are,
drive so slowly ahead of me
meandering along the hills
down country roads passing slowly
fields of corn, soybean, sunflower
grazing cows all with heads nodding slowly
in recognition of a fellow ruminant
passing vineyards where the grapes ripen
also slowly, so slowly, like you,
far below the speed limit
I conspire with cows and corn
to console myself about you
that you if nothing else you
thwarter of schedules you
remind me to admire
this patient panoramic view

Last night’s rain and a family
of snails collaborate
to build a castle with a pool
from a blue plastic bag
you threw from your car

All of us
architects
building some thing
out of this world

The neighbor boy
ties a lawn mower motor
to his rusted bicycle
and putters up and down the street.
August.
Idle hours and daydreams
with endless time to meet again.

Because it can’t be bottled
clover’s scent, something close to
fresh-mown grass sprinkled with brown sugar,
will never be captured, distilled for us
instead
let this small poem
stand in for scent
so when February comes, we’ll remember
this morning’s long walk together
How these late July hills are covered in purple clover
as lovely as any French postcard of lavender fields
But so close you can catch the scent
sweetening our view, softening our air
here, right here, where we live
in this marvelous July

At this hour,
the hay bales
are quiet
resting roundly
in their wide brown field

Perhaps there are more
than yesterday, some
closer to the road
others clustered
near the hedgerow
where field meets forest

The bales could be counted
or locations mapped
small brown whorls sketched
onto the nubby white
of watercolor paper

But so much distracts me
from the task—scent of hot tar,
a scurrying in the underbrush
the strong lines of wood things—
telephone poles, log pile,
weathered red barn

And if they are
on the move?
The mechanism is a mystery still:
Do they roll? Or late at night unfold
thin stick legs hidden all the long hours
of the day, tucked beneath their bulk?

What do they seek? What is the direction
dreams carry them? And what can we make
of their dreams content?
Are they contented, sitting
still in the field?

Who are we to decide—
is this invasion or excursion
takeover or tourists
are they hostile
or merely curious about
the neighbors?

Like much else, we must conclude
this matter as
Unsettled as the dreams we
dream ourselves each night.
Let us continue to watch the world
closely
for any hints it might share.

When you are quiet
enough
by effort or its lack
quiet enough can lead you
to the middle of the forest
where you might disappear
or you might hear a
forgotten sound—this true, deep voice
both you and
(could it be)
some enormous
more?

enthusiastic bits
of beer bottles
glitter the pavement

failed results
of someone’s
ill-fated
well meant
attempt
to capture another summer view
Last night’s sky so big the stars
shattered the container
dreaming in the gutter now
reflecting bits of cosmos