Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

They say you should be
Open to New Ideas,
he said (begrudgingly).
And so I am
open to the
idea of being Open
to New Ideas while not
exactly, not precisely,
not definitively,
actually, open
just yet.
However,
thus far, I can say
definitely,
absolutely,
unequivocally,
as far as
the idea
of being
open,
I am.

And not just them—
Teachers and Jugglers
will tell you the same.
There must be a balance
between all things
Apple, orange, thin air
the chair and the podium
the pen and the hand
talking, not talking
listening and being heard
the desk and the forest
clamor of midday, quiet of night
vast brown ocean, deep blue sea.

beer cans, bottle caps, paper cups
our discarded attempts at
drinking in the whole world
Here and there, a nail from
where we tried to fasten
everything together
into a shape that would hold.
And almost always among
all these and the dandelion blooms
a pencil stub
dropped there for you
to pick up and write

In today’s mail
keys to your cottage,
your letter and the keytag
in familiar handwriting.
The tag says Lake
as if one small key could
open that hugeness
and I thank you because
it will come in handy
for opening the cottage door
though
all the important locks are sprung,
their doors opened wide
Doors to summer
to happy, suntanned kids
to naps in hammocks
to kayaks and bonfires
to laughing friends, arms wide,
who say, Here, this is all for you.
For these, there is no key.

My boy smiles
A rueful smile
At you, the dog he loves.
I recognize that smile
Which says
He knows all your faults
And quirks. The way
You are afraid of
Everything
Scared of other dogs
Ducks
Little kids
Men with facial hair
Water
Cats, of course
Bald men
Guitars
Teenage boys
Cars
Most women
And plastic bags.
Your ideal would not
Be this guitar-player
With a beard but
A twelve-year-old girl,
Who recycles, quiet
And not at all musical.
Instead, my boy.
So you nuzzle him,
The one you get,
With your furry face
And smile your own
Rueful smile.

One day you look up
discover this whole world
turned green in the rain.
Simple, says the world,
Go be thirsty, too.
Tilt your face
to the sky
Take the rain
inside
and like lemon,
apple, pear, plum,
pecan, like all before
you,
Ripen.

II.

          That brain tumor? Benign. Excised long ago. The only damages? Your grin is slightly lopsided, and you’ve lost the meanings attached to certain words— thunderstorm, ketchup, hammer. Also, you can no longer identify many dog breeds— beagle and Newfoundland are lost, and most of the terriers are vague. Oh, and you can’t remember whether or not you like cauliflower, or jazz.

blueberries
deep purple beads
Beloved of bees and bears
who we, being wary,
warn off with bells and loud voices
our natural loudness turned up
to let them hear us
climb the hill
down the dirt road
where the best blueberry bushes
hide inside a quiet thicket of green
berries dreaming dark blue dreams
beneath the summer sun who bathes
us all—berry, bee, bear, berry pickers
warming us all to sweetness.

Last of the school year
oozes by, spring mud
warm and slow every moment
catches and slows
world blossoming
outside the sealed windows,
while we grade essays
give tests
attend meetings
more meetings
say our goodbyes
waltzes play in the background
measured music
for the mudstuck
wading, all wading
towards the flash flood
of graduation
to wash us unprepared
so sudden after all the buildup
some of us still clutch
red pens, books of sonnets.

To All The Women I Know,
If we come back,
Consider returning as poppies
Bright orange and loose
Inside your magnificent skin
Like women in paintings
By an old master— Manet
Maybe or maybe it’s Renoir
Who painted those women,
The ones who said Yes to
A second piece of cake, a third
And licked the frosting
As they reveled
In their silken selves, even when
The artist turned away and
Those women could break pose
Luxurious, languid stretch that
I would wish for all of you
As if we were a field of
Orange poppies in the sun.