Tuesday, December 18, 2018

Tactile



Shredding bark of a eucalyptus, you can fall into their curve & crevice and pick up an old or new story along the way.  Eating a meal is a story-gathering activity; best when shared.  Of course, it's so obvious as almost unnecessary to state, writing a poem is a basket for stories -- storing & sharing.  There should be some food along the way -- especially a persimmon or two.

Monday, December 17, 2018

Intersecting hearts with stones



With a little help from an iPhone app, of course.  
Doesn't the kitchen get help (or magic) from salt & herbs?
Doesn't a line of poem become, because of the appearance of a crow?  
Or the gathering of stones?
Or a walk in a succulent garden?
Less than a week to Winter Solstice -- imagine that!


Saturday, December 15, 2018

Observation as fact


Cats have two speeds -- in your face or aloof.  No criticism here.  Just observation as fact.


The same can be said of spiny succulents.  All milky and prickly.  The same can be said of artichoke tips and yet how soft & sensual their hearts.  Certain words are like that, too.  Visually strident with armor that protects the soft belly.  And as we have agreed before, each word can be a petite poem.  Think of it as a tasty tidbit.

Thursday, November 29, 2018

But of course...

jellyfish.  
Delicate danger.  
Seemingly effortless undulations.  
Cloud-like.  
And all which sweeps into can become food.  
Being open to the environment -- that's what a poem is about.  

What we look through to see out the other side


eyes through glasses.  Now, I'm thinking slots in a spoon.  Pasta water.  I'm thinking how petite poems are not bows as much as petals.  I'm thinking that a favorite ceramic plate can curve with the best of light.  Yup.  I'm thinking.

Wednesday, November 28, 2018

Submerged


The cut tree trunk oozes -- liquid reflection.  And the red? A marker for something now forgotten  or made useless.  Perhaps, a punctuation mark.  Why now am I thinking of the liquid from cooked pasta flowing down the kitchen drain?  Or all the words that bled off a page all these years?  Where do these written gestures end up?

What is this?


Don't know but the unable-to-name intrigues pushes me toward a center -- familiar & unfamiliar.  Both ancient & contemporary. Like words, colors are doors & windows.  What am I opening?  What, closing?  In which direction will the wind blow?