Puff Of Smoke Poems

Turn off the staticked radio.
Suddenly
through the opened
window
you can hear
birdsong
already in progress

What will the aliens make of this?
Each May spent haunting junkyards
for wreckage, hauling the worst
to the freshly green front lawns
of our high schools hours spent
arranging crumpled cars as
wishes and warnings
warding off worst things
Will the aliens recognize
our primitive totems against
all the dark possibilities?

“Buddhism says we are all students of reality— whatever that is.” Gary Snyder

Today’s reality:
A fat, foolish robin
built her nest
in a bad, bad spot—
too low in the hedge
too close to the fence
where the black cat
naps away most days
No eggs yet.
Somebody needs
to knock it down
or let nature
take its hard course.
I talk you
into being that somebody
because I am In A Hurry
Late Already

And here’s the thing
about poetry—
these words the only way
to move hard facts
out of my heart
and set at least me free.
You never mention it again
and the robin will be
too busy today
to think about freedom.

Crows, blackbirds
stay the same
stolid dark
but pigeons
lifting off
from gray asphalt
shed their shells
blossom open
into sudden
white feathers

white caught on branches
flowering dogwood
fluttering plastic
both
blooms and bags

It took to heart
the message
to bloom. It
leans into light
opens tiny umbrella leaves
closes them each evening,
like a shopkeeper pulling
the metal grate over his door.
Telling time for
another day, reminding us
when to open,
when to close.

Early spring in these hills
could be easily mistaken
for late autumn
except for
birdsong
and the thin threaded
red hum rising
from every bare branch

Among the things
I taught you too well is
how to
rein in and keep tight hold
of Emotions
so they never
gallop away
down the beach
salt wind in their hair

Among the many things
to admire
about us:
This endless capacity
to begin again
This eagerness to pause
right in the middle of the journey
to say (eager or grateful or desperate)
This is where I am,
a little bit lost,
but moving
Between stories and snacks
Let’s try this—
I’ll describe my surroundings
and you listen.
Look,
We are all deep in this forest, somewhere between
trees and bonfires and
boulders blocking the road,
listening hard and calling out
offering each other
cheers directions advice sturdy boots
and recipes.

If springtime were a girl
she’d be the kind
fond of drawn-out suspense
in all her romances
Will they or Won’t they on and on
Listen, the rest of us would tell her—
You can only be giddy and gay for so long
Because now we are reduced
talking back to the screen the page
the window the weather
Shouting at the players—
Get on with it already
as we dig out mittens,
pull our boots back on.