Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Have you ever seen rabbits this still?

There they are -- twins -- in the lower right corner (above). Still as metal. And what are they gazing upon? White bearded irises with a light as if cast by moon. Otherworldly, dream-scape. A quiet hunger.  Because bearded irises are rhizomes and edible rhizomes are miraculous -- ginger, turmeric, lotus.  All three of those words are petite poems waiting to be eaten.

Saturday, April 8, 2017

When what you dream of is right in front of you

Lilacs -- the showy ones with heady perfume -- are the flowers of my childhood.  Magic so far up
almost (almost) out of reach.  And yet a few inches south of the stars.  Like flowers, food conjures up tasty memories.  If nothing else, memory is palpable, fragrant.  Embodied.  Like words high up or low-down on a page.  Can't you just pluck them, smell them?  Syllable by palpable syllable.

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

The dream wishes entry

into the maples.
We've been here
before.  A plate
-- simple as can be --
wishes to welcome
a meal.  Paper --
full of emptiness --
woos words.
And the dream
dreams of
that portal
of maples.

Monday, April 3, 2017

Light persists

One moment on firm ground; the next underwater but light persists.  Light fires up and illuminates what it touches.  Apply this to cooking: if light were lemons, it would brighten the water.  Now apply this to a poem which is flirting with a watercolor.  How tricky to capture water in a watercolor, a poem or a poem about a watercolor.  Tricky capturing flirting in general or in the particulars.

Thursday, March 30, 2017

The magic of shadow

and how to reflect upon it.  Similar to talking about food while eating.  Or reading a poem to get started to write a poem.  To look at a night sky and be pulled into the stars.  To look at the line of landscape and notice shadows.  Thinking about stillness in all things.

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

What do reading, writing, walking, cooking have in common?

every thing
and everything

Always something more to be said

"More to be said" is an act of revisiting.  This image -- a year old at least -- I'd call it "clarity up in the clouds. Or writing in the sky. Or a plate's long wait for great tomatoes." Your choice.  I've made mine -- to revisit breakfast.

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

When is foil compromised?

so easily
let me speak
of this
as words
by beets
And all,
a perfect
piece of jewelry
of course
as often
as a poem.
And let's
is territorial
and quite so
And time
the timepiece
we have sported


Spring.  Spring like asparagus is unabashed.  Cherry blossoms, too, are -- without apology -- short lived. Even light (though pressed to admit) is short lived.  And yes, light is predictable as night will speak its name.  Poems like salads, are seasonal, predictable. And if you haven't noticed -- unabashed.

Monday, March 27, 2017

Spiraling into the center of color

there is a deep and rich blankness.  Perhaps, void is the word?  And yes, the void can be any color you imagine.  This latitude of color is similar to a poem and the hue of its words.  Salads adhere to this principle, too.  Just ask an eggplant.  Or a purple cauliflower.  Or the red cabbage.

The sound of literacy

Above is a bell (celebrating literacy) from Paolo Soleri's Cosanti studios in New Mexico.  I purchased this bell decades ago and only yesterday found a perfect spot for it among stones & sprouts.

Below, is what I imagine the bell hears when someone is reading a book; recalling a recipe; writing a poem.

Sunday, March 26, 2017

Night is a timepiece on color and other such things

You know, that precise moment when the evening sky knows for sure that indigo is about to happen. Or is this a fish's perspective on scales?  Or music's take on its staff?  For sure, night is a spiral of open-ended questions.  I'm thinking this image is paper as a poem is written across the dream.  Or a plate when a seasonal salad is offered upon its bones.  Or the prismatic speech of glass.  Yes, that.

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Imagine the cat as an abstract painting

Yup, here he is.  haiku. At least his leg.  At the center is the rug.  OK, there's a bit of manipulation.  Can't you feel the plush fur. Cats and salads are ripe for abstraction. And both very dear in the particulars.

Don't confuse rosemary with heaven

at least the breath of heaven.  Precisely, Coleonema pulchrum --  the breath of heaven.  But speaking of rosemary, I love its breath, too.  What words smell like rosemary?  Perhaps, that's the title of a poem.  Or perhaps, it's a blink poem.  All by itself. Just like an Asian pear sliced is a blink poem of the fruit kingdom.  Your mouth agrees, doesn't it?

Tuesday, March 21, 2017


Spring is short-lived. Consider:  Daphne.  Imagine a Spring wreath of Daphne.  Delicate & aromatic. Now, think of asparagus and peas.  In my book, not much of a leap from vegetables to words.  By the way, which words are among the most fleeting?  Which words are aromatic?

Spring brings forth the hidden

So like this "salad."  What's in it?  Leftovers, of course.  You wish details?  Mahi mahi, beets both red and golden, tomatoes, Opal apples, and the hidden --  string beans.  And to finish the details -- lemon olive oil, balsamic vinegar, black pepper, fresh basil.  And yes, like with the eating of words, bring your own unique appetite.  Is there anything more Spring-like than an appetite for words?

Monday, February 27, 2017

Space is an invitation

for tenacity and greening.  For a void to be made lush.  What better definition of a poem filling a page.  Or asparagus on a white plate.  Tenacious and greening where boundaries are communal space brimming with healthy surprises.

Saturday, February 25, 2017

Breakfast is meant to be left

over.  As in leftovers.  Vibrant leftovers.  And unexpected so the eyes taste color and the mouth sees the poem.  Look, look -- that haiku-like, star-like poem in the center of golden beets, cherry tomatoes, avocado, walnuts.  And what you don't clearly see -- a sea of cooked black rice.  What could be more forbidden?  More delicious?  Well, this morning's sunrise!

this morning the sky
was shouting your name
I have no reason

Friday, February 24, 2017

Don't tell me, you haven't seen an orange with a blue eye?

When does the I see?
What does the I see
when it sees orange slices?
Do any two people see
a bowl of orange
slices the same way?
How do you slice
a sentence?  Or
a question? And why

Read. Resist

and write!
Cook food;
share.  Laugh
often and boldly.

Thursday, February 23, 2017

This rainbow is prism & shadow

Nothing less than heart. Same with a poem that bends light and snuggles the dark.  Light & dark. For six months, I think we should call it lightdark.  Then for next six months, darklight.  And every month, we should all be rainbow watchers. Of course, keep the penpaper (or is it paperpen) handy.

A table is a galaxy of conversation

a prism where every part of speech is vibrant.  Is heard.  Is written.  And the mountains?  Ancient witnesses.  Elegant eavesdroppers.  And water? Libation & baptism.  Fury and meditation.  

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

What the dream sees as it awakes

She insists the narrative won't become clearer.  She won't put on a sweater.  She won't remove the pearl necklace.  She refuses avocado for the third straight day.  She knows time is never straight, bends away from light.  Bends into the dark.  She mourns that red coat with a black velvet collar. She pines for a persimmon.  She becomes impatience for asparagus.  She knows she will never own another red coat with a black velvet collar.  Now she knows why every dark moon will speak her name as if the title of a poem.

Monday, February 20, 2017

What creates the intersection of image & word?

The answer is simple.  Light, of course. Because a question always begets another, we see the image above and what words are appearing?

And the intersection of image & hunger?  What will you eat for breakfast? And what will the image of avocado on toast inspire in words.  Something green & buttery.

2/19/17  on misreading a line

all else is butter

Saturday, February 18, 2017


a lizard walked into a patio and found the spine of a snail quite comforting.  a good place to soak up the sun.  the spine of the snail seemed to be okay with it.  much like a spoon is okay with stirring soup.  the pen left in the spine of a book soaks up a poem

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

An iris goes incognito

in its next dream.  It dreams itself an abstract so it no longer has to hear everyone who walks by say, "Look at that yellow iris."  In the dream the bearded iris does all the seeing.

This reflects a poem's experience, too.  A poem wants to do the seeing and wants to be seen as as the sum of its abstraction.  Where exactly is a poem's iris?

Now shall, we move on to contemplate beets?

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

Gratitude and grapes

Sure, there's sugar in grapes.  Indisputable.  There's also gratitude.  Just take in that uplighting spirit, reaching for the light.  And if these remind you of kidney beans?  Good.  Who hasn't been grateful for a well-seasoned bowl of beans.

Since it's Valentine's Day, here's a poem -- a tad dark, perhaps?  Let's stretch for the light and call it a pillow poem.

as usual I left
the valentine on your pillow
I no longer believe
the dead can't read

Monday, February 13, 2017


Among the planned, the landscaped, comes the lone volunteer.  I'm gaga for iris, in particular, the bearded ones.  Probably the first flower that captured my delight in the otherworldly.  Speaking of imagination, the iris below contemplates its stem in water.

I'm thinking of lunch and what bulb-like food, which tuber might tempt me.

This morning during a quietly spectacular sunrise, I sketched (with words) a rather darkish valentine. For some reason I want to tell you that.

Sunday, January 29, 2017

Repetition with variances is fetching.

Sometimes it is the simple, repeated.  Enlarged.  Rotated.  Time rotates light.  I've heard it said, verbs rotate meaning and in the extreme can cause a metaphorical vortex.

P.S.  Tonight's stirfry was a fetching confluence of taste & texture.  Color, too.

Saturday, January 28, 2017

On such a morning

the things that time & light pick fall in such fetching pattern. Or did she mean metaphor?
Speaking of breaking, this morning's breakfast was a beguiling green. Avocado on toast, of course. Have you noticed how an avocado splits into wonder.  Much like a poem. Like friendship.

Friday, January 27, 2017

Nothing like a cloud to make the center palpable

On such a night looking up, the eyes are well fed.
On such a night, looking down in the cracks, verbs lurk.
Is it any surprise your grandmother said, "The moon is night's center.  Beware, she shape-shifts."

Thursday, January 26, 2017

Since you asked

the physics of landscape hinge on the absorption of light.  Her proof?  The seamlessness of object & metaphor.  A daffodil.  A favorite lidded, fruit-motif sugar dish. A mirror.  The sea. A breeze. The simplest recipe of noun and verb. Stir. Put out in the sun for breeze to make the center palpable.  

Although you didn't ask, consider the similarities of petal & paper.  Paper, as metaphor for poem.

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Light is the flesh landscape calls home

What does a poem call home?  Paper, of course, which is another landscape.  The voice, too, is landscape and home to a poem. How do landscape and vista differ?  Is her voice a different timbre at daybreak?  Is breakfast inherently different than supper?