Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

this world of old hills
lumbering gently into the distance
horizon propping up the clouds
this scene visible all day, every day
the Purpose
of this world
may not be
to lighten hearts or
widen our perspective
perhaps this hill view
is only
a side effect
of a world with
another goal altogether
perhaps this vista is
a lovely bonus
a free gift with purchase

Ignored to tatters
blown into corners
winter’s leaves settle
Crackled, unignited
and waiting
for a breeze
or a broom
or a flame

Imagine a town
without shovels or plows
a small place,
just a village really
where they wait for snow
to melt in its own good time
write to me and tell me about
where headlights on a snowblower
is the stuff of story, too bizarre
to be believed. Write to me
about this tiny world where
there are no instructions on
how to pierce the world’s
thick skin with Haste.

But winter’s best gift is
this forgotten space
which only craves color.
When months keep bringing white
only white, then this secret door
Opens–orange scarf on green chair
purple mittens dropped in snow
on the desk this canning jar
filled with colored pens
is enough to hold it open
Enough for now

Inspiration: The Child and The Fox, illustration by Hsiao-Ron Cheng

In this fairy tale
the only things hard or clackety
are buttons and birch trees.
For the rest,
wind and shadow
breath and silence
sleeping fox would never
lie so still only
death can wait
so patiently see how
small and so soft
beneath, and beneath
the slow falling snow

This takes either
effort
or relaxing
I’ve forgotten which–
clouds on horizon,
snow on everything else
become
islands far out at sea
mountain ranges
carved out of reality
by the smallest shift

One day of snowstorm
making soup being quiet
alone soaking in sunny
unfamiliar hours of the house
a stranger in these its loveliest
hours I seldom see, the hours
usually devoted to earning
in the world I go back to today
armor of worker armor of good cheer
armor of
ignore this yearning
to be Home.
Meant, I meant to write
something about snow
when there is too much of it
mounded above the car tires
drifted to your waist and how
you carry it, one shovel full
after another, looking for
a place to set it all down.

All night snow
throws itself
into the headlights
dashes hard
towards grille and glass
We squint and curse
its mad determined drive

By morning exhausted
snow has fallen
asleep its last trick to
knit its own soft blanket
then turned tender snow
pulls itself close over the
car’s cold shoulder

by one tough teen critic
unimpressed with the latest
ParanormalRomanceSeries
soon to be
a MajorMotionPicture
“I know it’s a fantasy,” she said.
“But I thought it would be more realistic.”

Starbucks got the idea
from observing this fact
some days are built
for sips of
the elegant
small and strong
Espresso, Haiku.

Other days
for huge gulped
sweet swallows
Venti Macchiato, Russian Novels.