Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

It took to heart
the message
to bloom. It
leans into light
opens tiny umbrella leaves
closes them each evening,
like a shopkeeper pulling
the metal grate over his door.
Telling time for
another day, reminding us
when to open,
when to close.

Early spring in these hills
could be easily mistaken
for late autumn
except for
birdsong
and the thin threaded
red hum rising
from every bare branch

Among the things
I taught you too well is
how to
rein in and keep tight hold
of Emotions
so they never
gallop away
down the beach
salt wind in their hair

Among the many things
to admire
about us:
This endless capacity
to begin again
This eagerness to pause
right in the middle of the journey
to say (eager or grateful or desperate)
This is where I am,
a little bit lost,
but moving
Between stories and snacks
Let’s try this—
I’ll describe my surroundings
and you listen.
Look,
We are all deep in this forest, somewhere between
trees and bonfires and
boulders blocking the road,
listening hard and calling out
offering each other
cheers directions advice sturdy boots
and recipes.

If springtime were a girl
she’d be the kind
fond of drawn-out suspense
in all her romances
Will they or Won’t they on and on
Listen, the rest of us would tell her—
You can only be giddy and gay for so long
Because now we are reduced
talking back to the screen the page
the window the weather
Shouting at the players—
Get on with it already
as we dig out mittens,
pull our boots back on.

Drenched
is when
the best ideas
come somewhere
between lather
and rinse. Plans and poems
float over the plastic curtain
looking for me.
Quick write them
down before they dissolve
and rinse away.

Say that
In the shower
a cascade of poems
fell all over me
soaking my hair
mixing it up with
the lavender soap
washing clear the
mind’s secret compartments
(the trinkets those corners hold)
so odd locating the soapy latches
and springing them open

not that we could
He was big—
not hawk, owl, eagle
certainly not crow or dove or robin
cardinal, blue jay, chickadee
our entire, combined, list of
Possibilities.

He lifted up from the forest’s edge
circled once above us
then a slow, slow glide away
As if he heard us wonder
As if giving us time to know

No matter. We were not clever
enough.
And though we watch
that patch of woods
question itching each time
he hasn’t returned which
despite the itch
may be the better gift—
our own particular mystery.

Sky of course
below that
a frayed garden glove
Dentyne wrapper
Bud Light can, pristine
Red Bull, crushed
Pennysaver delivery box
decapped by
a rogue snowplow
Used cap gun circles
Ordinary blue list

But the road wants
to make a poem
Road says Here, let me—
Beneath a mailbox
discarded magazine
still in plastic so
the cover shows
through winter grime and damp
blue title, the words cloudy
but legible—
Happiness Digest

Willingly or not
I am a student of Teenglish—
perpetual translation
in a class that never ends

Today’s phrase is
Awesome Sauce
for no reason except
a teenager
was carrying it around
all day long
and kept dropping it
over and over
and over
into my brain

He is suddenly
devouring them as if they
were sweet as sports
and sunny days spent
somewhere far from school
This formerly
recently
decidedly
uninterested in books boy

So though, like prayer, my only
words should be, Thank you,
Instead I ask
Kwame Alexander
Sharon Creech
Ron Koertge
Jacqueline Woodson
all of you, authors of spare
and perfect lines
leavers of huge comforting
margins of white space
I know
(I do know)
this is much harder than it looks
but
could you
please
write faster?