Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Mouths & draught

Every tree has at least one mouth and a dream of water. True of every sentient being.  True of words.  In draught, all mouths are thirsty.

Figs, pens & dreams

Figs are stars
in a bowl's dream.

Does a pen dream
of paper?

Does my mouth dream
of figs & poems?

Sunday, August 7, 2016


This is an elegy for our local hardware store which burned last month.  I purchased this red sorrel over a year ago from that community resource.   The sorrel is thriving. The plant likes its place on the balcony.  Just the right amount of sun and daily misting.   I imagine it likes the company of oregano, too.

Tart and bright.  A bit lemony.  If you don't like the taste or sorrel, oh well, you can love the names of its kin -- rhubarb, buckwheat, wild docks, rau rum and, of course, knotweed.

Language and food are perfect spoon-sisters.

Thursday, July 28, 2016

Shadow painting

Shadows are unpredictable brushes.  Or maybe shadows adhere to the properties of ink-paintings. Shadows are spoons to a cook.  The ingredients stand-alone;  it's the combining that produces the
meal.  Words are like that to a poem.  And sometimes the space between words in a line says it all.
P.S.  The table is the canvas for a shared meal.

Wednesday, July 27, 2016


Ice.  Time.
And the opposite of melting? Rising.  And love is on the rise.

Where does the line of a poem melt?  Where does it rise?  The eye of a poem is the mouth.

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

White table

A white table has much to say to blue.  To a blue vase.  To blue agapanthus.  To evening.  What will the poem say to this dance of color.  Which foods are blue by color & emotion?  I hear Ella F. Do you?

Sunday, July 24, 2016

A rose isn't delicate

Neither is childhood.  My childhood brims with memories of the backyard.  I learned early-on that wild roses are delicate-looking but hardy and prolific.  Later I learned there's far less than 6 degrees of separation between a flower and a weed.  Alas, there wasn't a bench in my childhood backyard.  Life isn't perfect; though childhood is a layering of textures surprisingly hardy, robust & delicate.  Quite the mix.  Just what I aim for in a meal.  And a poem.