Puff Of Smoke Poems

This morning it’s gone again,
Leaving while I slept
Swept off by dreams.
It comes in waves,
Like dirty laundry and car repairs
Which makes me wonder
About the nature of the negative—
Is it always moving this way?
Building momentum out of sight,
Cresting, crashing, washing itself away again
Leaving me walking the shore
Breathless and relieved,
Amazed at the shells and odd-legged creatures
It left behind—
Horseshoe crabs and calmness
Such sweet and strange-shelled gifts.

is the name of the test
on paper and in flames.
Before you,
I never thought about
how people have to learn
to run towards burning buildings,
to put on gear and walk in fire.

This is not a metaphor.
There are classes, days
and hours in rooms at
the local college, the fire hall,
at fires set
just to put them out,
all these tests on paper
and in flames.

Everything can catch fire,
even those tests on paper
can end in flames I pray you pass
with flying colors.
So study hard.
Study very hard.

He said he grew up in Disneyland
and I spent the rest of the day
picturing it: Breakfast with Goofy,
walking to school with Minnie
(who only talked about boys and clothes)
Fireworks every night,
the neighborhood full of tourists
while you played hide and seek in
Cinderella’s castle.

Now, I want to find him and ask:
If you rub against it every day
common as cornflakes and pencils
does magic lose its shine?

And also, since we all need magic,
did you create it from the ordinary world?
Did Walmart and a blank night sky,
lit only by stars,
become magical?
Did it turn you into a boy
entranced by ordinary life?
Amazed by the world most of us
sleep through?

Windowless, of course,
Though it is unclear whether
This is a precaution to
Prevent our escape
Or a screen so the children
Can’t spy on us
While we eat and weep and wait.

Most days, it reminds me of
Backstage at the theater—
Performers pacing or practicing
Their lines,
Waiting for their cue
The bell that says,
Enter stage left.

Did I wake myself up?
Can a person do that?
Or is it the world,
always stranger than we think,
sending us small, startling thoughts?
The thoughts are shaped like benevolent gnomes
the kind you see in gardens
peering up at you
with their red or blue caps
holding a lantern or a basket of flowers.
Maybe they wait in the yards,
one or two per neighborhood
ready for the next person
who wants to wake up
and see the world fresh.

Here’s the path forward.
murky as a winter pond,
dark as that forest.

When winter is here,
brittle and dried into
a shell of ice on every stair
and all you remember is
how slippery life is–
how things you counted on
slide away fast,
how likely life is to shatter
sharp pieces flying everywhere
piercing eyes and hearts
till the world shifts
and you are traveling with the Snow Queen.

When winter is here,
listen to that other voice—
the one you pray to never stop hearing,
the voice that says
The ice that coats our hearts
is thin. Remember it only takes
one firm step
in any direction
to crack it open
and give us firm ground again.