Tuesday, October 17, 2017


The loss of figs is the advent of Fuyu persimmons.  Slice them -- 8 petals to lead you to beauty. Even the word persimmon, is a poem.

Monday, October 16, 2017

Yes, temples dream

a kaleidoscope
roof & sky
a fractal web
and just now
you stepped
into that dream
why are you wearing
shoes?  And what
sweetmeats will you offer?
Which poem recited?

Sunday, October 15, 2017

The temple swallows the mountain

No sleight of hand.  Just a delft touch of the alchemical to create a tasty eye-soup.   Poems are like this -- tasty & colorful and always respectful of sky & mountain.

Some food by its shape

is pure comfort food.  Winter squash for sure.  Rooted and sturdy with insides that surprise & beguile made sweet by roasting.  Which is what certain words dish up, too, as poems.  I'm thinking editing a poem tries to get to the inherent savory and/or sweetness.  A kind of roasting, I'd say.  

Top left:  Blue Ballet Squash -- new to me.  Yummy!

Friday, October 13, 2017

Yes, there are no figs left

and yet the seasonal has a way of addressing absence & its ensuing lament.  Pomegranates.  The word itself is a poem.  Even without the thrill of its 613 seeds, the pomegranate is a joy to behold.  Fecund and juicy.  Fall is spilling.  These beauties picked by Bev from her brother's tree.  Wow!

A spin on the chicken & egg conundrum

we know
where the feather
it calls "nest"
the same can be
of spoon & soup
pen & paper.
the frittata --
stridently yellow --
needs eating

Newest best friends from Tehachapi


a litany of blessings
animals are the perfect poem