Puff Of Smoke Poems

time again to walk
away from the world of shoes and wristwatches
and turn towards mystery
step through
the door in the hill
Some other traveler
knowing you’d come this way
has left instructions for you
There are survival tips in poems
clues in seashells crumbled by tides
afternoon shadows through evergreens
garden tunnels dug by moles with their own agenda
Look up. There are maps buried in the stars.

written from a word list prompt at The Sunday Whirl

the cold blue blood of the sky
rises over bare fields, edged with ice
rises over us, teeth clenched against
one more day of winter. Birds try again
to shatter February with beaks,
with songs that crescendo over mornings
of every thing rattling in the wind.
Only the bare trees sense it—
their long deep bodies remember
the electric green jolt of spring.
Still invisible to humans, trees know the secret
slow as honey, what rises through their roots

not continents or country roads
but a map of your days:
When the last day of vacation
feels as sweet as the first
When this body turns quietly towards
school rooms full of sleepy prickly teens
and turns quietly away from southern sun
laughing friends and wide-hipped yoga
When day after day the air is soft
the heart grows generous
remembers to say thank you
then you know:
This is it, the right path
the road you’ve been searching for

The morning? Light
in the dark, dream
to carry you forward,
scent of rosemary and
words threaded through
this whole unfolding day

a poem makes a tiny announcement
when she enters the room but quietly
quietly not because she is shy but
because this is how she begins
If you don’t listen when
she hums her way towards words?
The moment passes. Without words
the poem is quick and gone
on the smallest breeze even the breeze
of your mind clicking through today’s
List of Work To Do, even the breeze of
your breath, asking her to take a number
asking her to wait her turn

bring sunscreen
and flip flops
a new toothbrush
your old soul
and paperbacks
full of pages who don’t mind the damp
sea air and sand between sentences,
loose idle words, whole paragraphs willing
to drift at low tide unattached
broken free,
bindings open to the sun

Today, she said,
Live like the beginning of a blizzard.
Already the snow (which just arrived)
falls faster, gains confidence in its ability
to fall. All those winter hours,
centuries of seen and unseen snow
in open farm fields
on roof lines thatched or shingled
over deep secret forests.
Snow against castle walls,
long ago halls hung with thick tapestries
hunting dogs sleepdreaming by the fireside
Snow above high-rise offices where
expensive views of distant mountains disappear
in heavy snow. Snow with years of practice
like a nervous opera singer
a teacher a student a dancer a conductor
of orchestras or railroads.
Or like you. You, right now,
warming up, clearing your throat,
getting ready, getting better at this
the snowstorm of your life in this
weather driven world.