Puff Of Smoke Poems

putting on mascara
in the hurried
morning mirror

through the open window
roar of a motorcycle
putting on speed

both of us
preparing
to race up the hill

don’t replace the broken-handled
colander. Just so, shake out
the last frozen mukimame
hidden in the corner of the bag.
Let every thing be of use
not tossed aside the hidden one
grew as greenly as all others
tucked into its edamame
shell of itself

a cart full of home, ingredients
for soups and stews and
pasta sauces cozy comfort
I long to wrap around you
tied with childhood’s long strings
a too warm blanket you can push away
so you don’t smother
while you’re eating

our sleepy old cat
pushes his head
into the palm of my hand

the only poem
in my head today—
on the phone, the sound
of your happy voice

world echoes colors
you chose, green grasshopper perched
on purple shamrock

Still talking, my dear one
steps onto the tracks
explaining in her calmest voice
how everything will
Be Okay.

We both pause, not sure what to say
now, not sure how to calm or comfort
each other with foolish piles of words
nothing but damned words
So we grow quiet
turning towards the rumble
coming closer
every day.

For the last few days, life has pushed away anything as ordinary and comforting as poetry, or even thinking of the first day of school. But it’s on the calendar, so it must be here. I can’t gather enough words around me to write a poem.  But here is the poem I wrote last year for the first day of school.  I was proud of it then, because it said so clearly what I wished for my students.  What I wish for them this year, too.

All the books you never read
are stacked against you
one tall precarious tilt casts
a long invisible shadow over you
Shadow you will not admit exists
However
like gravity and oxygen it is Real.

This is our year.
I didn’t know you when you were
turning away or turned away
or never brought near the
world’s foothills and mountains
of board books, picture books,
easy readers, chapter books.
But I know you now.
I am offering now I am
handing out climbing gear and in
this world both
tools and mountains
are made of Words
Somewhere up there are stories for you
every thing you need to scale
any height you choose.
Here’s a great book.
Start climbing.

count and concentrate
on season to write haiku
concentrate too hard
and
even the smallest hummingbird
will startle you out of
syllables,
darting away
with your careful numbers

one or both of you
ought to be laughing by now
which saves the whole poem

at the edge
of the sunflower field–
a bumper crop of
clicking cameras