Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

February thaw
uncovers leftover leaves
skittering ghosts rise
from new green, the hopeful grass
shaking off fall’s memories

Lucky for me
on the mornings
no poems come
there is another way

I keep emergency supplies:
bunch of bright green onions
box of mushrooms
fresh ginger
in its plain brown wrapper
so I can make soup

Later in the day
far from this sweet
quiet morning
I’ll remember this soup,
forgotten in the day’s rush I’ll
spoon it up to warm and
feed and brighten
the rest of the day
Which is a different flavor but
exactly
the taste of a poem

Someone made a lot of money today
Who was it? Select from the following:

The children slept in, then played video games all day

The teachers spent the day in an Educational Workshop. Students again, they dozed or texted, checked for sales, graded papers on the sly. Some took Diligent Notes.

The Educational Workshop presenter used clever strategies to say it was Important to Identify Critical Information for students. Her suggestions included speaking in A Loud Voice and Waving Your Hands in the air.

If teachers needed more clarification, her advice was also available in book form

Written in response to this lovely list, from the site Sunday Whirl

Rose knew some things. She knew there was a spare spell under the old bridge. And she knew how a human could get it. The spell, marked by no sign, had wedged itself tight into the right angle where bridge met ground. In high summer, a wide flair of purple loose strife hid it from view. In winter, the spell was plainly visible, tarnished gold and glowing, for anyone to see. But since the trouble a few years back with the goats and the bridge troll, humans were scared to come down here. Rose knew that had been a different bridge, clear across the county and besides that, that old troll was long gone. But humans stayed away. And the others wouldn’t come here. There were some lines even royalty did not cross. This bridge was one such line.

So the spell stayed, hidden for half of every year. Rose tried to tell the humans who jumped from the bridge, usually late at night and always ending badly, that this was no way to retrieve the spell. Magic didn’t work that way and following the only logic she knew, Rose thought they jumped to get the spell for themselves. They never listened. So Rose waited for the right human to come along. She knew for sure—the only way to find the spell was to fall from the bridge. Jumping didn’t count.

In this story, the amateur sleuth is a poet
everywhere she goes, this dame,
with her silk stockings and bobbed hair
her wise mouth, rhinestones, heels—
instead of murders she uncovers
metaphors in the drawing room or train car,
country estate, vicarage, village or
Speakeasy. Our sleuth keeps at it until
the reader is convinced—
every single day
is chockful of mysteries waiting to be revealed
Waiting for any of us, poets all, to notice

My favorite poems
are the ones that drop
into my head
like ripe raspberries
juicy and complete
tumbling themselves
in happy haste
onto the page as I
scribble and hope
to Not Be Distracted by
Practical Clocks before the
poem is done. My paper notices
first and then the rest of me sees
these poems are much more energetic
than a bowl of berries
Now that I contemplate that metaphor
for—well, not for very long
but the picture in my head isn’t
Quiet glowing berries at all but
little girls at their dance recital
or a bundle of tussling puppies.
More like that, please.

Whoever that is, talking all the time
inside your head when you talk to
yourself? Whoever mine is, I’ll tell
you this—she has a limited range.
When not shouting, Be Alarmed!
she mainly whispers, careful now
or on her very best days repeats
Oh fragile, fragile, no matter
what I’m looking at my
favorite days are the days
she’s asleep, or at least so tired
and quiet I can look around
see something of the world
with out hearing what I think

Back home each night, unpack lunch box,
backpack, briefcase, and the day’s gathered
bag of images tumbles out swims into
dreams rolls beneath the couch
settles into corners like feathers
dust and crumbs all for you to write down

Every day an image sticks, often a thing
I’ve never even seen glowing bright
a story from someone else today
what stayed came from icy roads
where we talked to distract ourselves
from the perils of unsalted roads
She told me about her childhood
in Germany the stalag became a summer
camp with wide lawns for dancing
and sports. The army barracks
became a school. When the
weather turned, children hung
their coats on the gun racks.

Is there only one question and it’s an essay test?
Is the question What are you waiting for?
Or is it a million million choices on a multiple choice
quiz where if you eliminate the clearly wrong, totally unlikely
and the answers put there just to trip you up all other options
boil down to one correct response and that is
always, Amazement
sometimes written as
Huh. What do you make of that?