Puff Of Smoke Poems

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

mountain ash berries
white to green to bright orange
seasons certain clock

All those years spent
learning how, growing
more skillful, faster
as you mastered the knack of it
Now, one by one,
Learn a new thing learn
to drop the apple, bright blue
rubber ball, the flaming torches,
the swords.
Learn to love the look of emptied hands
Use the sword to slice the apples
arrange them on a plate alongside
a crusty baguette, a sharp cheddar
toss the ball to the puppy
light candles with the torches
savor their transformation
to tools and toys and food

If the world won’t play fair,
then we are under no obligation
to comply. If you wake in the dark
to first frost, wind blowing
hard rain at all the windows
the world Daring you
to like Mondays, Smile.
Brew a mug of tea
for the road
wear bright pink
because you can.
Make your own day glow.

Two roads diverge here, or three, or
say certain wild-eyed scientists
infinite roads. Whatever.
When you reach
an intersection, slow down.
Avoid the fate of rushing.

One day, sooner, later, Too Much
comes to every one shaped
as time or romance, money or quiet,
or even zucchini and black-eyed Susans.
When abundance beyond measure begins
to be burden not blessing, you have arrived.

Choose your road, now. At least one is
clearly labeled so those with bounty
held tight piled high can see the sign over
the top of their treasure, the signpost
pointing to the country of the haunted
the whole place called
Be Careful What You Wish For.

Oh, take your time here
at the crossroad. Open your arms.
Hand flowers and romance and vegetables
to all the others on these roads.
Choose another way.

Movie stars and Jesus
get enormous gold stars
embedded in the ground.
For us, I’ve brought this
packet of tiny foil stars
gold and silver
red and blue
occasional green
to celebrate
our quieter passage.

Here’s another birthday
in the big bouquet
another gift wrapped
exquisite and particular
dinner at your favorite
Middle Eastern place
on the water

Here, the still glowing
circle of our table
Boats glide by
people wave to those
of us on shore
If they knew you
they would all be bringing
roses and cupcakes
to celebrate the gift
of you,
Happy to be Here.

While I drive to work
or stop and scribble
a Ukrainian grandma hides in the cellar
from every loud noise
bomb not bomb

In Sierra Leone six million
people stay home
waiting to be tested
viral not viral

Here on a mountain road
twisted with fog green
garbage truck swerves
round the bend or not
another near miss

Tomorrow we will go back to school and work to stubbed toes and computer errors to leftovers for lunch and bad mufflers and yellow mums and pumpkins and Halloween costumes for the kids but today today we are at Calling Hours.
The name for this is Calling Hours archaic beloved plywood of built tradition where we stand in line counting mourners wondering how our tally will measure up remembering being the teenage grandchild coolness and sullen stare misplaced remember being the smallest grandchild in tight black shoes remember being son daughter spouse in that twilight world of sleepless reheated lasagna and not sunk in yet remember being here among friends and strangers murmuring shock and weather forecasts sliding our eyes towards the casket as we wait in line at calling hours wait together where we will return another day to stand in line for each other’s calling hours calling we are all calling we are just as Seuss said we are calling we are here
We
Are
Here,
Calling

Silver fan blades still.
Wind moves world on its own now
Turns us all fallward