Puff Of Smoke Poems

“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.

Drenched
is when
the best ideas
come somewhere
between lather
and rinse. Plans and poems
float over the plastic curtain
looking for me.
Quick write them
down before they dissolve
and rinse away.

Say that
In the shower
a cascade of poems
fell all over me
soaking my hair
mixing it up with
the lavender soap
washing clear the
mind’s secret compartments
(the trinkets those corners hold)
so odd locating the soapy latches
and springing them open

not that we could
He was big—
not hawk, owl, eagle
certainly not crow or dove or robin
cardinal, blue jay, chickadee
our entire, combined, list of
Possibilities.

He lifted up from the forest’s edge
circled once above us
then a slow, slow glide away
As if he heard us wonder
As if giving us time to know

No matter. We were not clever
enough.
And though we watch
that patch of woods
question itching each time
he hasn’t returned which
despite the itch
may be the better gift—
our own particular mystery.