Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

Soon, this year of firsts
will roll into peach season
filled with velvet skin
and sweet juice
O, suddenly I am
eager
to eat a peach
with you—
Sincerely

before morning rain
robins hunt in the green lawns
until some signal
that’s invisible to me
calls them to lift and scatter

At the floral counter, amid the wreckage
of green stems and discarded leaves
she pulls gently at brown-edged peony petals
Pink and brown fall and fall to cover the surface

Soft pink, deeper pink, white—
no longer clenched buds but not yet
umbrella-opened to fullness of fragrant flowers
caught like a woman at the beginning
of a delicious morning stretch

The florist shakes her head, frustrated with
fact—the grower, she says, picked them
too soon. Some flowers bloom no matter what
no matter where
Not peonies. Once cut, they don’t open further
Once cut, they are done

We are quiet together for a moment
watching the soft pink, deep pink, white
edged brown petals fall and fall
She looks up, puts on her retail smile
says, How about carnations?

There’s poetry, and then there’s not—
You text something funny and inappropriate
So I set the poem aside to reply

Back and forth we volley, batting words lightly,
two teachers reveling in what we’ve earned—
luxurious free time and a friend who thinks we’re clever
Clever?
We’re fucking hilarious, you’d say. This devolves
into a shared fantasy—the chauffeur
we hire to drive our elderly parents around town
to all their errands and urgencies
doctor appointments, morning Mass
All of it, with a few caffeinated texts,
becomes the job of the Handsome Chauffeur.
We make him incredibly sexy
because, why not? He is our spur-of-the-moment creation
so let’s make him hot
Hot, but expensive, especially
on public school salaries.
How will we pay? is what I text to you.
With sex, you answer immediately, adding—
You should be good at it by now since
you’re getting so much practice

I stop texting and call
you
answer, laughing already
or laughing still, saying,
I knew that would get you.

Our smoke-filled days unspool from there
roll after roll of silken time

This Catch and Release Poetry Program
is what we’ve named it, you and I
together
is what we’ve named it
this catch and release
program where I catch you, poems,
mostly with a net or several nets
of varying dimensions
the largest big enough to scoop substantial, hefty fishes
the lightest airy enough to snag words from thinnest wildfire smoke air

Catch and release is closest I can come to
naming what best fits my way with words

(or words way with me)

Maybe I don’t catch you after all.
Maybe it’s not the swoop and swing,
sway of my net scooping you up
spreading you on my blue table where I sort you
quickly, quickly
as you dry in the sun
shaping you this way and that into
a poem

Maybe it’s all you,
snagging my sweater along with the burdocks
clinging to my bare feet with the damp pink and white petals
one from a snapped-off geranium,
one from a peony gone to raining wind,
one from who knows where

Maybe I don’t catch you after all.
Maybe I’m not even the one holding the net

Last night, in the rain
I propped the tumbling peonies
tethered them with tomato twine
These flowers planted
In hopefulness
In a different, solitary spring
Now grown tall,
roots threaded with whispering voices
telling them to burst into blossom
The thrill of anticipation in every stem
so heavy-headed with possibility
So strong
It threatened to topple their whole bodies
Till I came along with my twine
And gave shape to all this promise

Springtime, senior year.
The whiteboard I usually
scribble with questions that have easy answers—
Best Disney villain,
Marshmallow peeps—yes or no,
Marvel? DC?—Now, one smart, anxious senior
has taken it over.

Each morning
she updates the board with how
many days till graduation
erasing yesterday
and its number
with the side of her left hand
stained green for hours—
With her other hand she writes
the new number in fluorescent green

Some days
she writes while complaining about us—this school
full of teachers and students she has outgrown
Other days, she writes on the edge of tears—sentiment
or fear of the future, that translucent figure
hiding on the far side of the board, the blank side
where changes hover
those possibles the future is holding,
ready to hand to her
Its arms capacious enough to hold a future
for her, for all of them, for each of us

We gather
beneath the sign
that tells us to

We arrive
as we are
deep in the wild bush
or manicured lawn
sparse ground
or bare

We talk
every kind of talk

We cry
every kind of tear—
deep
grief,
frustration,
exhaustion, and
laughing until we cry

We laugh
How can we not?
rueful or goofy or joyful
we remind ourselves, we
remind each other
there is so much to
laugh about

rain, almost all the time
watering the world
for the season to come

Then once again, our gathered selves
return to our spots on this green world
heavier on the scales than when we arrived
but lighter in our hearts
All of us singing
or humming or at least
whispering the words we know
All of us, the same song—
grateful and grateful and
blessed to be known

some days, the words
don’t
knock at my door.
Some days,
silence.
Some days, other words
arrive. His, today.
Some days, someday,
yours too

“…poems are a testament to the process of noticing. A single moment can open a door to an experience that’s bigger than the single moment implies. Sometimes, that opening is a challenge. Sometimes, it’s a comfort. Other times, a question. Very occasionally, it’s an answer.”
from: Padraig O Tuama, p. 4, his introduction to the collection Poetry Unbound: 50 Poems To Open Your World, 2023, W.W. Norton & Company.

last weekend’s candles
burned up—
lasted, lit and luscious
through wine and olives,
Easter chocolates, lilies,
laughter, love, long nights

On Wednesday,
I remember—
Throw away
those foiled spent wicks.
Fill the glass holders
with creamy unlit white
waiting for Friday
and you at the door
with a match