Tuesday, October 17, 2017
Monday, October 16, 2017
Sunday, October 15, 2017
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
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!
Saturday, September 30, 2017
& about his 14th
haiku has this to say:
no funny hats
no age-related jokes
above all don't write/read me a poem
just bring ahi-grade tuna & don't stay for dinner
Friday, September 29, 2017
Sunday, September 24, 2017
Friday, September 22, 2017
feed a hunger, too.
The windows here
tell a tell a different story
than the windows of San Francisco.
What shows up is worthy to see.
The same is true of which words
appear on the page. Or which
tasty morsels find their way
on toasted pita this morning.
A bit of cheese is a given.
Wednesday, September 20, 2017
in its folding & unfolding.
Just what a satisfying meal does. That ping of pepper,
a bite of lemon, the saltiness & brine of an olive.
Just like a poem with just the right amount
of twist & turn. The hinge of poem is a line break, of course.
Of course. L'Shana Tova.
Monday, September 18, 2017
The language of succulents is a graphic one. A roadmap to the luminous written upon their bodies with black-tipped pens issuing white ink. Some of the finest writing happens on plants. And on stones, too. In the kitchen, the simple squeeze bottle writes in the language of pesto across a platter of heirloom tomatoes. Or potatoes. Mozzarella included. Or not. There are several haikus occurring the photo above. And below.
Saturday, September 16, 2017
Friday, September 15, 2017
What's the message here, folks? Definitely, some force wants our attention. Grabbing onto our eyes with fervor. I think it's patience for the process. The unfolding. The unseen & unseen. How did this sky-display influence breakfast? Or the writing of the poem? If I were a novelist, I would lean into suspense. I'm not; I'll stay rooted to the non sequitur.
Thursday, September 14, 2017
A rose is both meditation and magic. Sometimes you need to get close. Really close. Close enough that you become what and who you are looking at. So close that you become the hue. So close you step into magic. Why is yellow so inviting? Roses, scrambled eggs, sun and goldfinches. And my favorite: yellow No 2 pencils.
takes a yellow pencil to pen a poem about a yellow rose
Tuesday, September 12, 2017
The mountain behind. What do I have in common with a deer and a birdbath? That same mountain in front of me. What do poets writing in English have in common? 26 letters to create a heaping sack of syllables. What do cooks have in common? The principle of knife, spoon, hand & eye. And often a plate which is the foundation for a mountain of arugula.
Monday, September 11, 2017
makes me crave the respite-shadows that scrub oaks create. Or a morning of deep cloud
that might lift. Or might not. My grandmother always said, "Pay attention to what you can't see."
So, here's a quartet of the unseen -- the table upon which is a cup of tea & a journal & a pen. And on this auspicious day was written
dating the page
Saturday, September 9, 2017
Notice the red dot to the south west of the feather. I wonder how many ladybugs reside within one mile of this patch of grass? And while we're on the subject of questions, whose feather is this? Have you ever thought that fallen feathers by nature are nonreturnable? Do words adhere to gravity? Are fallen syllables nonreturnable? What of a crestfallen soufflé? I'd say, edible.
Tuesday, August 29, 2017
Basil, of course. All type of basil to all type of tomato. Go ahead, eavesdrop. Don't stop there -- listen-in on the whole garden. For what is a garden if not a linguistic wonder.
Monday, August 28, 2017
Roasted for an hour at 425 degrees these eggplants are shrived & charred to the world. Inside, a creamy & sublime wonder. Simply add cropped garlic & fresh red onion. Nothing else. Nothing more.
If we could see the insides of our alphabet (all 26 letters) what poem would be written? How would our speech differ? Would I still love the word "perhaps?"
Ah, when nightshade speaks, pay attention!
Sunday, August 27, 2017
from every perspective. This is the eye of summer looking into the mirror. Abundance is dizzy-making, isn't it. Can one eat too many tomatoes? Can one read/write too much poetry? For sure, it's impossible to hug too many plants. Remember: drink plenty of water, get good sleep & eat your nightshades.
Saturday, August 26, 2017
Wednesday, August 23, 2017
Though not a bad idea for humans to heed the stop sign and look up at this magnificent Golden Rain Tree. Beguiling blossoms and arc of canopy. Is an ode or pantoum the equivalent? In the food world, it's definitely paella. But each to her favorite poetic form; each to her dish. P.S. Please note how the Golden Rain reflects upon itself. Quite the meditation.
of the Landfill. Albany Bulb. Last visit over 1-1/2 years ago and She is as powerful & elegant as ever. Like a memory of the favorite family meal. Like the first poem that startled & inspired. An embrace to the good. You know, She can dance, too.
Monday, July 31, 2017
is a simple box of cherry tomatoes as it dreams of being a large tomato. Or a peach. Or a pluot. Or having it's own plate on which to reside. Is this how one word relates to a page where a poem resides? How far is a poem from the ripe, you ask?
I'm smitten by the name. And the dusty green that always seems in motion. And the size of a mature tree is enough to make you giddy. I think of Calder and mobiles. I think of eucalyptus as grandmother trees. I think of oatmeal. I think of each leaf as a poem. I think of...
beautiful as a ripe peach. Or maybe a pluot? And the dry shall always dream of water. Which is to say, water is another media for reflection. What's for breakfast you ask? Pluots and feta with fresh herbs of a choosing, of course, With a side of reflection. Which is another way to say, poem.
Sunday, July 30, 2017
bringing back to balance. I'm thinking of cooking and heat & alchemy. I'm thinking of words and blank space and why I have an affinity for white dishes. And why I will never give up a love of red shoes. Or a line of poetry that smells of red....shoes.
By the way, who doesn't love beets, red peppers.....