Puff Of Smoke Poems

is one rule for writing
but today, I’m full of sunrise
So, reader, close the computer
and I will, too Stretch
towards the light (as if
we were flowers, flowing
into day) Hurry outside
(the best part finishes fast
don’t take time for slippers) step
onto your porch or sidewalk
lacking those, lean far out your
window, look to the East.
There. See there?
Out in the cool early air I hand you
this sunrise, shown
Rules are Rules for a reason
But before you go back to your day,
wave to whoever you see—
neighbor, dog walker, paper boy
It might be me. I’ll wave too,
in case it’s you

wood violets nestle down
planted by no one in my garden
small lavender whispers
Down the road, wild pink phlox
scatters itself drops in thick armfuls
loud and bright across the front yard
of our neighborhood’s most
Dilapidated House
one that sheds broken chairs
trash bags plastic toys old tires
from all its doors and porches
another mystery of the natural world
Who knows how the flowers decide?

A year for sorry you didn’t
move to a hemisphere
where April would behave but
then she pats your arm with her
cool damp hand and suggests
a nap. Who are you to argue?

Travel with the given season.
Prop your head against the
grimy window close your eyes
doze till the train jolts to a stop
at the edge of Spring. Someone
washed the windows while you slept
this world is one lush sweep of green
and April? April’s walking away
without even a wave and you promise
yourself to be sweeter to her
next year.

Before,
Imagine travel by plane
to Amaze new sights faces you’ll
never see again oh, the stories
and then the departure boards
full of cities you may
you could
decide to visit right now
by walking through
a different gate

But every time
instead
it smells stale
the other faces tired and
not looking at anything but
where they wish
to have never left
or dream they’ve already arrived
The journey itself lost on us

five a.m., fat yellow moon
poses on the neighbor’s roof
Waits
while I fish the air for words
Moon yawns, says, I told you
it had to be a short one

 
who knows who you just
Missed
rounding the corner
a second too late?

that keeper of cool
that proselytizer of poems
gone thirty years
by the time we meet

No matter.

Bob bops into my brain
fills me with fine instructions on
the folding of sorrows
Deep inside, my frantic self calms
some thing small but vital clicks into place
just as this morning’s birds begin

being transformed to who knows what
we discover and we wisely cherish
this view—cottage full of women
with our gray hair, aging parents,
emptied nests, non-lethal medical
conditions Oh what comfort for those
young careless girls we were to grow
into this, all our selves
Reflected
in a loud shiny gaggle
of laughing mirrors

haiku and rain meet
in the forest to tell tales
and hear each other

That grizzled tough guy
leather cap
battered Harley jacket
scuffed work boots?
Turns out, he makes
snickerdoodle cookies for a living—
French bread, apple pies, pink
frosted cupcakes too. With sprinkles.
Doesn’t this constant unlikeliness
make you leap out of bed each day?
Life keeps itself lively and full of
alliterative amusement for us all
like today, the day we met
that biker baker

April drizzles by
bad tempered seat-mate
on a long trip by slow train
The local—which stops
everywhere whether there’s
a there
there
or not