Puff Of Smoke Poems

“We want to stay informed about what’s going on in the world, yet absorbing so much negativity leaves us drained and hopeless…we grow numb and disconnected from the suffering of others….(poetry) helps us dive beneath the surface of our lives, and enter a place of wider, wilder, more universal knowing.”
~from the introduction, by James Crews, to his anthology, How To Love The World: Poems of Gratitude and Hope

In that place, there’s a campfire—
And as we gather, our faces
illuminated,
the scent of happy smoke settles in our hair,
nestles into the fibers of jackets, thick sweaters, woven scarves.
This is the smoke of guitar music, laughter, roasted treats.
Not the smoke of destruction, despair.
Here, Ukraine is not a word for a place
nor is Oregon, Moscow, Edinburgh—
Here, close to the fire someone lit for us,
there is no language barrier,
no theft of land or life, no uniforms.
I hand you the bright green scarf knitted just for you.
Someone offers a blue mug of spiced tea for my empty hands
And we talk far into the good night

another of the many ways
to think of
others, or when we must,
our selves—
How mood shifts
clouds, swift or slow
but moving
through
your landscape and mine
each of us
constantly
in the middle of
our own weather

seventeen syllables
in the continuing now
playing -ing -ing…

Dog toys
Dropped
At my feet
Unnoticed
When I
Am busy
Writing haiku
To capture
A moment

The last tangerine
wrinkled and dry
in the bowl
of its wintered skin

five a.m. dark
three cars
then
none for
many long breaths—
traffic haiku

February—
so drawn to light
even the moon
is a friendly face

pond under the snow
found by sound—
crack
of ice
beneath
your feet

winter
spare landscape, clean desk
haiku weather

boot tracks in snow,
step between the delicate
trail
of cat’s foot prints