Thursday, April 30, 2015


Perry.  99 Perry St. in the West Village.  I didn't grow up there, but I grew there. On the right is my friend Nina.  I'm on the left capturing memories.

It's not only food but photos and poems bring forth memories.  And, yes, precisely -- food.  Thinking of butterfish dipped in buttermilk and coasted with sesame seeds.  Sauted -- gently.

Back in SF, reading Broken Land, poems of Brooklyn which Nina gifted.

From a specific address to butterfish to poems about Brooklyn.  How?   Because friendship matters.

Thinking of Judy G and Ron.  Where are you?


I think we see what we want or need to see.  Perhaps, what needs to see us. Three kitties in a row in Manhattan each full of a question.

When are you coming home? Below, haiku is the maven of such a question.

And the next question, what's for a late breakfast? No doubt, a salad.  Because if a salad, there's sufficient color to prompt a poem.


without people.

Contemplative pocket park at 53rd, NYC.  Loved this park when I worked at the Harper & Row buidling (gone) though I lamented all the people during lunch hour.

Nirvanna.  Here on a late Sunday afternoon on an otherwise sunny day, the perfectly beautiful grey of a city comes forth  (NYC or Paris?).   I saw what my mind-eye always did.  People-less beauty and yet footsteps & voices rush as waterfall.  Harmony.

And, yes, the lunch -- lovely Chinese eggplant & prawns (spelled pawns). A lunch with Bob,
Cin, and Karen.  Those chairs beautifully sat upon.

And, yes, overspilling with laughter.


Think of any place.  No doubt, it's food-specific for you.  For me NYC is bagel-land.  Bagels outside NYC and it's boroughs, aren't.  So, on a train from Grand Central to Croton-on-Hudson, there was this very edible bagel.  I ate it.  I accomplished much in each bite.  And soon there will be a poem or two.

Perhaps, my next salad will include sesame seeds.  Perhaps, not.  Happy noshing, travelers.

Friday, April 17, 2015


Breaking it, as in breakfast.  On the balcony with toasted baquette, a smear of goat cheese, and sauted fava leaves with garlic, walnuts & cooked golden beets.

Sun to appoint.

Reading to enliven.

And a poem, tucked inbetween the scrubjay's beak.

New Jersey

I am remembering the garden state -- corn and waiting for it to grow, knee-high by the 4th of July. Here, in the banana belt of San Francisco, I await the Russian kale to grow a bit higher.   Soon, very soon.

A salad, of course.  It's the poem to accompany which will be the surprise.

Meanwhile, the farmers markets are flush with fava leaves. Yes, leaves of the fava.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015


tree with a void of crow.  Lush ice plants.  Pond, vibrant with waterbirds, including an unseen great blue herron.  And sun to frame.  What the crow eats for dinner is chance & the fancy of wing.  I'll go for a salad and poem.  Decidedly about a crow.  The poem, that is. And you?


Photo by Ann F. Biderman

A day of good luck
with a gathering of
lady bugs. Eight on one bush. Here's a loner.

Such wonderful lucky parcels. Petite, portable poems on a
sunny day ripe for a picnic in Pacifica.


Cut-off and a dance of light.  Curlicues & straight lines.  Take this geometry into the kitchen & create a salad -- texture & intention.  Your mouth anticipates.

When the meal satisfies, a poem buds.

Cow parsnip

From an otherworldly bulb, who could anticipae, crowning lace.  I love parsnips -- roasted.  Don't you.  I love Spring's myriad of green.  I think cow parnsips might be an American sonnet -- otherwordly.  


& outside.  Contrary.  Sometimes birds are best seen inside.  On the outside of water, but the water, accessible.

Sometimes tea is best sipped outside.

Poems like birds/like tea are best when both enjoyed inside & out.

Now, consider daffodils, poems & picnics.

And always, yellow.  Yes.

Wednesday, April 1, 2015


hidden among the wild roses.  A 6' x 6" foot prickly pear
and this shiny & optimist nopales.  Not something I will
tackle to prepare although the fruit treasured.  I love the prickly
pear's otherworldly presence.  It's profound & biting sense of

I grew up with wild roses & have fondness for that memory
& their first sweet smells of spring.

Here, wild roses & nopales make a keen friendship --
believable, and slightly not so.

And the next poem -- what unlikely combination?