Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

The cure
if you yearn
for a whole day
of family time?
Take it.

Every story, every song, must end. Not true.
Logic fails. Longing, never. At dusk there is always
Something more to yearn for
grit of need
raw pulse
wet shine against what we call void but
there is a light reflected in the eyes of wild
Creatures stag, wolf, old house cat
on the prowl in deep night beneath
the trees where parasites need and gnaw
on apples left to fall
O this tree turned to pulp for paper
to writearecipe for strudel made from
those other apples, while it bakes discuss
How Spirit moves our many many lives
legerdemain or enlightenment
Boddhi satva, appletree, applestrudel,
Appleofmyeye thing I yearn for
ever, the next story in
the braid that links the worlds
In this one the horse so hungry
for the world beyond the stall
Giddy with desire he eats all
the apples and then

Voliolence is what you mis-typed
while texting me about Ferguson
last night for one moment Missouri
lit up with this new word, signifying
violets or silent volleyball, or
my favorite
I wish I could wrap up
and send to a whole city, violas
softly playing for a peace we
are in a circle dance
lances laid aside
violets crushed and fragrant
the only dead things beneath
our dancing boots.

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.