Puff Of Smoke Poems

is one new thing I learned in this heat wave

here, instead—
wind and maple tree
sing their green summer song
cooler than jazz
cooler even than the oscillating fan
rattling away indoors, humming to itself

last night, 8:30,
dusk
the dog and I sat on the front porch steps
he leaned on me and we watched
the moon rise over the treetops
on our quiet street
where everything whispered, evening

landscape as rolling as a Rubenesque mama
Nestled is the only word for
how these houses fit
into these hills
Around the next bend
a front yard wizard carved
from one enormous tree
In his raised hands
nestled—
a carving, perhaps of a wolf’s head
or the face of the North wind

A poem in haste,
puppy anxious for a walk

do not grow that tempting
impenetrable shell
do not bury yourself

Let the world
have its way with you

if you let it
and if you are
one of the lucky
this world will
crack you open

not only ghosts and the living.
Objects speak, too

Sometimes, I stop listening
they disappear or fall asleep

Other times, more persistent objects
throw themselves at my feet—
Like you, plastic Ken doll torso
headless, arms and legs gone
at rest in the funeral home driveway
I see you, forget
see you, forget again
After days of this, you’re muddier
and more battered
but still there so I eventually choose you,
write you down on paper,
Here You Are—no cheap joke
about a blind date (Because you’re headless, see?)
Just this—my thank you note
for your steadfast reminder
to notice the world

Inspired by a line in The Five Spot, a poem by Billy Collins which appeared in the May 2014 issue of The Atlantic. This was one of the luscious poetry prompts suggested by someone in my wonderful, hilarious weekly writing group.  The line: “as the waitress lit the candle on my round table in the dark?” (Collins, lines 20-21)

The waitress lit the candle on the round table in the dark.

She’d had worse jobs. For weeks now, she has been working nights as a walk-on in poems. Often as a waitress or a young mother pushing a stroller. Last night, she was an old Italian man selling vegetables beneath a red striped umbrella to protect her from the sun. She easily played the part of man or woman, young or old, but in every situation she had sensitive skin, prone to pink.

She wasn’t always human. She had been a dashboard Buddha, enigmatic and serenely plastic. Nights before last, she had been a red squirrel, a sea turtle, a mermaid. Then, she’d been a sailor lost at sea, and the dolphin who saved him, and the palm tree closest to shore where he washed up on the beach.

Her feet hurt at the end of every shift. She often envied the poet who got to sit around, sipping tea or whisky, feet up, writing.

The poet had it easy. Nothing but dreaminess and words tumbling out of dictionaries.
But, on the other hand, more than once she’d been a dragon, breathing fire, flying. No poet could say that, could they?

because their voices—
exotic
saturated
subtle
or shouting
are nets to catch our gaze.
Science explains color shape scent
were built for pollinators
not for people
But people are
snagged on beauty
slowed down for a glance
or an hour—
flowers
sunsets
laughing babies
poems
Growing things. Fleeting things.
Made for a different and particular purpose
but with energy to spare—
Side effects may vary

lone gunman and
troubled youth
and unobstructed
access and policies
and lobbies and
legislation and
control. Control.
Inside each mother’s
heart there is a dragon
The dragon’s roar builds
deep in the chest
before it spills out
into this world of words
and children. You too,
if not a mother,
you can wake that
dragon buried deep
inside. We need
enough dragons
that nobody
can ignore
their roar

nobody mentions it—
dried corn cob in the yard
half chewed by dog or chicken or
some mysterious other
Step over it
but bend to pick up
skein of pale pink yarn
nestled in the grass.
Laugh.

Words left, again.

So keep reading poetry
in all the little crevices of the day
and breathe. Notice weather. Pet the dog.
Look up when strident birds insist.
Pay attention to faces, postures, see who laughs,
who is quiet, bent over algebra homework, smart phone, sketchpad.
Notice what people hold in their hands.
Oh, and breathe
We should all breathe
while I wait for a poem to arrive
And you wait for whatever it is you’re hoping…