Puff Of Smoke Poems

The neighbor boy
ties a lawn mower motor
to his rusted bicycle
and putters up and down the street.
August.
Idle hours and daydreams
with endless time to meet again.

Because it can’t be bottled
clover’s scent, something close to
fresh-mown grass sprinkled with brown sugar,
will never be captured, distilled for us
instead
let this small poem
stand in for scent
so when February comes, we’ll remember
this morning’s long walk together
How these late July hills are covered in purple clover
as lovely as any French postcard of lavender fields
But so close you can catch the scent
sweetening our view, softening our air
here, right here, where we live
in this marvelous July

At this hour,
the hay bales
are quiet
resting roundly
in their wide brown field

Perhaps there are more
than yesterday, some
closer to the road
others clustered
near the hedgerow
where field meets forest

The bales could be counted
or locations mapped
small brown whorls sketched
onto the nubby white
of watercolor paper

But so much distracts me
from the task—scent of hot tar,
a scurrying in the underbrush
the strong lines of wood things—
telephone poles, log pile,
weathered red barn

And if they are
on the move?
The mechanism is a mystery still:
Do they roll? Or late at night unfold
thin stick legs hidden all the long hours
of the day, tucked beneath their bulk?

What do they seek? What is the direction
dreams carry them? And what can we make
of their dreams content?
Are they contented, sitting
still in the field?

Who are we to decide—
is this invasion or excursion
takeover or tourists
are they hostile
or merely curious about
the neighbors?

Like much else, we must conclude
this matter as
Unsettled as the dreams we
dream ourselves each night.
Let us continue to watch the world
closely
for any hints it might share.

When you are quiet
enough
by effort or its lack
quiet enough can lead you
to the middle of the forest
where you might disappear
or you might hear a
forgotten sound—this true, deep voice
both you and
(could it be)
some enormous
more?

enthusiastic bits
of beer bottles
glitter the pavement

failed results
of someone’s
ill-fated
well meant
attempt
to capture another summer view
Last night’s sky so big the stars
shattered the container
dreaming in the gutter now
reflecting bits of cosmos

ask for what you need
and you will get
Something
a key to the deep end
delivered by firework light
Spangled.
Look, the necessary (safety) pin
peeked out beneath the dresser
waiting to be claimed

yesterday’s black crow
strutting across the gravel
parking lot diva

drink your little cup
of necessary poison
every morning
in the shape of
phone call, email, text
news report, status update, post,
Pandora’s box

Let it fly out at you
sticking to your shoulders
knotting in your hair
sifting into your lungs

Sip it
over ice
or from a shot glass
blended in a shake or
tossed back with strong coffee

Experiment with dosage:
Do not drink enough
to send you back to bed
or howling into the street
but enough
to help you appreciate
Everything Else—
bright or cloudy sky
damp or desert air
So much light illumined
against the darkpoint of
a poison stirring finger
If this tiny, daily dose of bitter
does you no other good
may it heighten the flavor
of the rest of your day
all
the sweetness in this world

after the thunder
a siren in the distance
fades, watered down

This rain won’t last
It doesn’t need to
One cool drink of water
can carry you far

after the thunder
turns dark over this parched place
rain falls at long last