Puff Of Smoke Poems

More pebbles in the jar of sorrows
kept in every house.
Place each broken thing,
syllables in tangles
small bits and shattered hearts
add them all
to the invisible jar
whose shape
and size are secret
But given us because
each pebble must be held
must be seen must be acknowledged
until the day—
(You’ll know the day when it arrives)
The time to pour them out
to be the pebbled path
you walk on to the world.

Teenagers, if asked
would say something with
tough skin, pebbled
as an orange.
But they are not.
Even in the dailiness
of our lives together
we —well, I
need Reminders.
Not oranges.
Not even apples.
They are more like pears
tart or sweet or mealy
yellow, brown, red
the one constant is
they bruise as easily as
a teenager’s heart.

The boulders in my head—
deadlines, money, car troubles,
family dramas, all piled on top until
by bedtime, my whole self sank beneath the weight
and I fell asleep with my eyes squeezed shut
against the flash and blare of red emergencies.

When the label has been removed, you must
peel back the jagged metal lid of poetry
peek inside to see what it holds
peaches or sardines or buttercream
all delicious
all capable of being
Savored

It lingers where it is loved.
And though it can be summoned
alone, in stages, it is laughter
as much as industriousness
that beckons.
The ideal number
is three, taking turns.
Two rake the crackled leaves
into a straggly mountain
position the battered
half-broken, mostly rust
trampoline beside the mountain
and the third is
the one to leap.

Last night, I dreamed of you
at three years old in
those green pajamas your
still blond hair curly and
too long. You with a
finger to your lips,
Intent on studying the mouse
in the Have-A Heart trap—
the mouse I caught last night
persistent in his or her efforts
to escape and tell the world
that time is fluid,
movable as a breeze, amazed
mouse who doesn’t know this
goes on all over town, in
the rooms of every mother’s mind
Memories caught with care and luck
then released
back into the wild world of now.

While we remain open-minded
regarding the mention of Literature
we do not confine ourselves
to the topic.
Rather, talk of books is interleaved
with stories in the oral tradition—
what our loved ones did a day
or a decade ago and
What We Thought Of It,
and then we must create time
for cookies and green tea,
wine and chocolate and raucous
rounds of laughter at ourselves
caught as we are
in pleasure and predicament
mid-plot, eagerly turning the pages,
sharing literature, light.

Not that farm field.
Do not stray into it look
how the clouds lower
and thicken, nestled in
for a long gray stay.

Instead, this half-mowed meadow
wildflowers in the grass lay down here
old red-plaid blanket, picnic basket of bread
and apples everything you packed humming
comfort and joy. Stretch out and watch
for them— huge fantastic shaped moods
move like clouds
drift
across your sky.

Chinese Lanterns
Physalis alkekengi bright
orange shine
arranged in my mother’s handmade
vase deep pine green,
next to the bed, first and last
sight each autumn day
Oh, the farm wife tells me
they grow like weeds.
She bundles strands, fastens with
a battered red twist-tie and sells them
75 cents a bunch.

deep cold scent
wrapped around a
secret packet of
the world that was