Puff Of Smoke Poems

ten days before Christmas—
in primary schools
small children make ornaments
of popsicle sticks and glitter
industrious as elves and
unaware that they are in business
creating treasure troves of
memories and priceless gifts

lovers of language,
Stop. Or at least slow down some—
our huge feasts, all those
piled polysyllabic words
overwhelm our students’ ears

on another day
rushing, I step on the cat
Can’t that small cat see?
Impatient with the living
is stamped all over my skin

again, the moon wanes
or waxes, who remembers
which? It was twilight—
fingernail moon topped the pines
and I said to you, oh look

dark winter again
when wide awake in the cold
empty and ready
we fill the nights with stories—
this is what winter is for

not just car crashes
and winter weather forecasts
there’s quiet news, too.

Here, in this small town
tiny miracles each day
fall from the gray sky

the girl who dropped out
found her spark to try again,
came to tell me so
And Reader, I swear she was
Smiling—her shell cracked open

another looked up
paused in searching for his path
took a breath, and learned
to play the saxophone, loud.
In this bright world, new music

At all our abandoned email addresses
I picture piles of tiny white envelopes
accumulating on an invisible doorstep
somewhere in the universe

Sales at dress shops and book stores and bakeries
deep discounts from car dealers
announcements of concert dates in cities
where we don’t live anymore

Virtual or not— once in a while
don’t you too feel the weight of it?
The whisper sensation that all those offers,
greetings unclaimed, unwanted, unacknowledged
are huddled together, shivering
in the snow @ that abandoned address

is this where we dreamed up
the idea, this long custom
of holiday tree-toppers
shaped like angels?

because actual angels
prefer pine trees above
all other varieties and
have been known to perch
for hours nestled in
mountainside evergreens

prickly green needles,
sticky sap, and
needless to say,
heights
do not deter angels

They so enjoy the view
from down here amid
treetops and the tickling
sensation of evergreen—
of touching this thrumming life,
of holding on to something so
deeply rooted to this—
this fleeting, flying world

turkey-heavy morning—
across the road, I know
someone’s awake because
the television is flickering
Over here, candles
do their own flickering
sunshine comes and goes
on the walls, greening
the deep graceful green
of the rescue fern.
Your cat stretches, sighs,
turns in her half sleep
on the warm radiator cover.
Come in—here
on this busiest shopping day of the year,
let’s rest…. Rest
not in remembering what we had
or imagining what we’ll acquire
to bring out that elusive and fleeting
Flavor of Joy. Rest.
Here it is,
come round again. Peace
amid strife. Calm
in the middle of craze. This moment
this small sunny oasis in the hours
of this, our given day.

all of us, strivers
training for something—
the big race or the
cook-off, 100% compliance or
garden club best of show,
weight-lifting contest or
quarterly projected sales.

We are all in training. The gift is
we each decide what it is
we’re training for
Today. May we train to be joy-filled
Let us begin with the snow
how it falls
how it sculptures the ground

Today two new recruits arrive
at our local training ground
beautiful black skinned boys
from Florida. They arrive stunned
by travel and by so much whiteness
in skin and snow surrounding them.

Today, joy is handing them passwords
to our school, all the access codes I have
to wide-open rooms where they may
Choose for themselves
what exactly they want to train for
Today. Let us begin with the snow
how it falls
how it sculptures the ground