Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

On this high shelf, place
the boxed problems
you have not
Solved.

For a season,
desist
Let them stew
and scheme

Let them march
themselves in
tight little circles
on their shelf

Let them wear
themselves out
waiting let them give up
hope of your return.

On the page
of our hearts

Through the hours
of this world

In the closets
of our minds

In the deep forests
of our souls

We do not
get to know
each other

until we do.

Our whole lives,
yours and mine,
page-turners
adventures always
in the now.

Because
in Sir Pelham Grenville’s world
everyone is merry, or clever,
amusing or, at the very least,
affable and well-groomed
with a gift for understatement.
And among these charming
obfuscaters, fabulists, rich fops
and con men there is never
any serious talk of a world
which includes Buffalo, New York
where, according to the morning news,
it snowed seven feet in one day and
the absolute last straw was the
sound clip of the plow driver
who said,
It’s too much snow for the plows.

Each time pause before
this particular answer
How to survive the Long
Cold ahead don’t balk
or break or bother
hiding
Snow Will Find You
Travel with your baggage
packed, your sorrows harvested
Stop emerald spring dreaming
Sing the season you’re given.

The first of winter’s snow, and turtles holding us up.

Turtles all the way down
and every one of them
prepares for the coming winter
in layers of quiet nights
and knitted scarves, all colors,
all the way down,
to muffle the chill

Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms, like books written in a foreign language. ~Rainer Maria Rilke

The questions themselves
never leave
only grow quiet
from inattention.
Some wander off,
vague as old aunties.
They become pliable,
easy to tuck away
behind the door,
easy to forget.
You can do this too
with practice. It’s
that same way we forget
where their rooms were
in our house those rooms
the questions live in
Locked doors, those
keys we keep throwing away.

We spend it all
every day
whether we intend it
or not. Hoarding is
Impossible. Like coins,
Hours wash through us
and are gone. The last
of autumn’s warmth
passed while I was in waiting
rooms and hospital gift shops,
or stirring soup in the kitchen
or talking on the phone.
Gone is gone. But
that hour I hurried outdoors
while soup simmered
and caught the last of the light?
That was a good hour.

Instead of quinoa and organic
this and locally sourced that
maybe today I’ll be the one who
eats a frosted donut for breakfast
to see how those anonymous
Others start their day,
trying on someone
Else. My heart ached, I’ll say,
but that donut
fixed me right up, I’ll say,
and reach for another.
I could do this all day.

I tell you ostracize begins
with “O”. Distressed, you say
you were sure it was “A”

He tells you Romeo
never loved Juliet
tells you it was all
a mad scramble of lust.
I never knew that, you say.

So I say
Stop. Just stop listening to us.
Except, of course,
when we’re Right
which we will
tell you
Almost Always
we Are, in Capital Letters.

How could it be
Otherwise
when your loud
uninformed opinions
so different from mine
rub everything
the wrong way
like fur brushed back hard
raising static sparks
which is Bad Enough
but
then
someone asks you
to play your clarinet and
slow warm caramel jazz
flows from your same mouth