Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

Not only light. Birds, too
as particles, perch along
power lines or the barn roof—
long strings of feathered beads.
At the invisible signal
they lift and turn,
tacking against the
bronze breeze from the mountain.
Fluid as white sheets on a clothesline
caught by the wind
another thing that is not water
but streams in the light
Birds lifting as a flock
Birds becoming wave.

Try A Little Tenderness is written in the mud-streaked window of his truck.

On his way to the truck, he sees it. Stops in his tracks. Haunted, again.

He’d been so determined that this, finally, was the day to return all the overdue library books,
the pile of cookbooks checked out after his wife died.

Instead, this other return,
this haunting.

On his way to the truck, he remembers another October when
the world turned gold, illuminated.
How she looked walking towards him—
gold, all gold,
her dog running ahead to greet him, this stranger who the decades
turned to husband father widower
all gold

On his way to the truck, her dog tries to follow because no one wants to be left behind.

So he sets down the books
boosts the old dog up, into the truck
one is limping, showing some wear
and one of them is beginning to rust

He tries to take the advice scrawled
across the window by her ghost
He’s sure it’s her ghost
Try a little tenderness, she hums
so he helps the dog into the truck
and tells himself that rust
is just another shade of gold.

More pebbles in the jar of sorrows
kept in every house.
Place each broken thing,
syllables in tangles
small bits and shattered hearts
add them all
to the invisible jar
whose shape
and size are secret
But given us because
each pebble must be held
must be seen must be acknowledged
until the day—
(You’ll know the day when it arrives)
The time to pour them out
to be the pebbled path
you walk on to the world.

Teenagers, if asked
would say something with
tough skin, pebbled
as an orange.
But they are not.
Even in the dailiness
of our lives together
we —well, I
need Reminders.
Not oranges.
Not even apples.
They are more like pears
tart or sweet or mealy
yellow, brown, red
the one constant is
they bruise as easily as
a teenager’s heart.

The boulders in my head—
deadlines, money, car troubles,
family dramas, all piled on top until
by bedtime, my whole self sank beneath the weight
and I fell asleep with my eyes squeezed shut
against the flash and blare of red emergencies.

When the label has been removed, you must
peel back the jagged metal lid of poetry
peek inside to see what it holds
peaches or sardines or buttercream
all delicious
all capable of being
Savored

It lingers where it is loved.
And though it can be summoned
alone, in stages, it is laughter
as much as industriousness
that beckons.
The ideal number
is three, taking turns.
Two rake the crackled leaves
into a straggly mountain
position the battered
half-broken, mostly rust
trampoline beside the mountain
and the third is
the one to leap.

Last night, I dreamed of you
at three years old in
those green pajamas your
still blond hair curly and
too long. You with a
finger to your lips,
Intent on studying the mouse
in the Have-A Heart trap—
the mouse I caught last night
persistent in his or her efforts
to escape and tell the world
that time is fluid,
movable as a breeze, amazed
mouse who doesn’t know this
goes on all over town, in
the rooms of every mother’s mind
Memories caught with care and luck
then released
back into the wild world of now.

While we remain open-minded
regarding the mention of Literature
we do not confine ourselves
to the topic.
Rather, talk of books is interleaved
with stories in the oral tradition—
what our loved ones did a day
or a decade ago and
What We Thought Of It,
and then we must create time
for cookies and green tea,
wine and chocolate and raucous
rounds of laughter at ourselves
caught as we are
in pleasure and predicament
mid-plot, eagerly turning the pages,
sharing literature, light.

Not that farm field.
Do not stray into it look
how the clouds lower
and thicken, nestled in
for a long gray stay.

Instead, this half-mowed meadow
wildflowers in the grass lay down here
old red-plaid blanket, picnic basket of bread
and apples everything you packed humming
comfort and joy. Stretch out and watch
for them— huge fantastic shaped moods
move like clouds
drift
across your sky.