Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

breakfast laid out
pink tray
sunny porch
wicker chair
Do not Savor.
Do not Rush.
Do not Clasp.
Do not Count
how many more.
Look.
Let that be Enough
over and over
one moment
then
the next
flowing past me
or me flowing past it
or
well, who knows
which is moving,
which is still?
What matters is
both of us waving
as we pass by.

In this story, you are
alive and healthy
laughing at something your grandchildren said
tossing a green ball for the new puppy
cooking exotic meals with spices
not sold in our small town
gardening every day
in this fallow period between holidays,
Independence Day gone,
Halloween a distant orange glimmer on the shore,
there is nothing to decorate the house for and so
you have more time for reading cookbooks
as if they were novels
for crying at sad movies
and telling the stories you are filled with,
the good ones you never stole time to tell.
Come, sit on my front porch, rest
your tired feet, your busy mind,
Relax and
Tell me, now.

The colorful names in this poem all come from the gardening & recipe book, The Sage Garden, by Ann Lovejoy.

Wise green wisdom
expected, but garden sage
may send its many cousins—
clary, bee’s bliss, salsa series
indigo spires, gentian, blaze of fire
Jame sage, meadow sage,
Big Blue, which sounds like cattle’s
strong and muddy wisdom.
Names change
the nature of advice.
The flavor of opinion from
bog sage, common sage, woolly sage
differs from what’s whispered
in a smoky voice by
lipstick, Rosita, red arrow,
orange zest.
Pause for teacakes and waltzes
over the advice of chiffon
sage, little leaf, painted maiden.
Nuevo Leon’s sage advice
is delivered in black leather
with a Latin rhythm.
Every morning, choose new advice
as if selecting clothes for the day.
Today, experiment.
See what happens if you listen to the
sure and sultry confidence of
Splendidissima.

Half-baked
Is to be
On the way
Between here
And there
Between raw
And well done
Between cool
Freshly stirred
And
Too hot to touch

Steadies me as it
flows, returns through years
walking meandering miles
                         hill
                    up
where a soft summit shows off
farm fields, hills, three horses,
weathered red barn
Some days a heron
swims strongly through
both of us drinking in
grounded by
our cozy hobbit-view of home.

mountain ash berries
turn green
white then
pale gold
unstoppable
transformation
to the definite
orange
that can only be
Autumn

Found poem comprised entirely of phrases from 3 books: Breakfast At Tiffany’s, by Truman Capote; Home Safe, by Elizabeth Berg, and Summer World, by Bernd Heinrich.

All children know to take the gamble
flying at dusk with their particular talents.
Older, it takes longer before you,
wet feet dripping footmarks to the desk,
Pick up a mask,
a compact mirror, hear
entirely different notes—
flashes of bright crimson,
frayed velvet train station
birches among the blue jays.
Early, later, work steadily
as a mechanic, or a cryptic moth.
It seems a lot to ask for but
This is what life looks like
If we do not clip the leaves.

You know you’ve arrived
when you forget
what the kitchen looked like
if there are blueberries
or if the wind is blowing
in the wooden house
on the distant continent
of external appearance.

You know you’ve arrived
when the phone rings
Both you and the
birches that did not yield
are covered in loopy script.

The whole house turns to look
when you open the door.
Nothing gleams or sparkles.
No breathtaking view peeks
through the windows.
But everything glows, just a little,
in the late afternoon sun—
your shaggy yard and
well-intentioned garden, your
dusty floors and
dishes waiting in the cupboards.
Inside you all
something shifts and settles down.
The couch gives a contented sigh
when you put down your suitcase.

Written in response to a Cooking Poetry prompt at the ever-delicious Red Wolf Poems. 

Every kitchen needs a window with a view of a Maple Tree.
You can cook in any mood: People always need to eat.
The right music helps.
Opera for Parmesan pasta, etcetera…
Garnish the pasta with parsley butter.

No curtains, but plants on the bookcase are lovely.
Ask the maple to stand just so, limbs spread
so you can watch the leaves change.
Bake your own bread—loaves shaped by hand.
Place a bowl of hot water in the oven for perfect crust.

Of course there’s a bookcase.

While bread bakes, mix spread of cream cheese, rosemary, chives.
Robins may build a nest in the maple. When deciding
what to cook, consider what will fill the air
between you, how birds inside their shells will grow
and dream enveloped in the scent of your kitchen.

Cotton tablecloths. No exceptions.

Almost anything tastes better topped with
toasted pine nuts and butter.
Except brownies. For those, mix in cinnamon and cayenne.
Always buy the best chocolate you can afford.
If there’s any bread left, slice it and eat with the chocolate.

Some day next year, a robin may perch in that tree,
and look in at you, head cocked just so, as if remembering.

Keep the windows open
so the other can hear
when one of you begins to sing.

Writing is like building a wall. …The wall-builder erects her wall one rock at a time until she reaches the far end of the field. If she doesn’t build it it won’t be there. So she looks down at her pile of rocks, picks the one that looks like it will best suit her purpose, and puts it in. ~ Neil Gaiman, National Novel Writing Month Pep Talk, retrieved July 14, 2014 from http://nanowrimo.org/pep-talks/neil-gaiman

Here’s to remembering what we need is walls
and more than walls. Humming, go to work,
build this sweet surprise, sweaty satisfaction of story
where there were only tumbled rocks in a field.
But don’t forget the thrill of windows,
view made more beautiful because
it frames friends leaning on the sill.
Don’t forget the necessary doors
where we practice leaving and arriving
both of us mastering these intricate steps,
together, alone, together, repeat and repeat,
if we are very lucky,
for our whole long lives.