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.....
Food for bees and hummingbirds. Eye-food for me. Amazing to watch a hummingbird hover and sip. Similar to reading a lucid writer -- well feed on the color & taste of words. Reminds me of roasted peaches with goat cheese. Nectar for all.
It's not always a favorite pen that
finishes a poem?
Sometimes. Sometimes not.
Tuesday, July 11, 2017
It's unlikely you've considered the centrifugal force of baby eggplants & tomatoes & olives & bulgar. But why not? Or to change the direction of the question -- why am I considering this right now? I'm unsure but this I do know: words are gleefully centrifugal on a page.
P.S. Aren't you smitten by the basil dark lady and the salad burnet on the edges of the top plate? And how do these two herbs flavor centrifugal force?
Monday, July 10, 2017
Saturday, July 8, 2017
Three weeks -- you're joking!
For the second time in his almost 14-years, haiku has a head covering. This time it's a fetching blue cloth not that ecologically-iffy plastic cone. Can't call him a cone-head this time around. Here's the backstory: haiku had surgery for an ear-tear. He's fine, healthy & impatient. When he's not eating or miffed at his head-gear, he does want you to know he's grateful to the staff & Dr Ellis at Civic Feline in Walnut Creek (CA) -- a cat-only vet practice.
Thursday, June 29, 2017
The deeply vegetal is a close kin of the dark. Except at its center -- where the dancing spirit haunts. You feel as vibration, as music. When the body dances, what does the mouth taste? How many words in a poem make a meal? How many chairs fit the table?
Soil and a fence collaborate to tether this profusion of star jasmine. Such a heady fragrance; it dizzies the nose. What's the equivalent in food? In poems, fragrance can be dicey. A touch goes a long way.
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
Does it see the seeds of its parents?
Or its children? Or the fire
of being alive?
The same can be said of the flower
of the fig which I ate this morning.
The poem that needs writing today --
what is it reflecting
as do dreams.
A simple line goes a long way in the dark
and in a poem, line breaks curve;
the brakes, disassembled.
There is no thought
of summery salads --
haphazard & giddy
Perhaps, simply said,
Tuesday, June 27, 2017
Thursday, June 15, 2017
Roast me with balsamic. Of course. What a bending of stalks. How their skin shines. Shimmers. Just what a poems is seeking -- a shiny skin and just the right touch of vinegar.
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
Wednesday, June 7, 2017
Tuesday, June 6, 2017
Can you hear that yellow bird singing to roses, wooing them to life? Can you see the roses beckoning words to bloom?
Can you see the roses seeing themselves as an abstract?
Now, picture a salad. Perhaps, with tomatoes and fava beens, mint, roasted yellow & orange peppers, feta. And, of course, arugula. A mountain of arugula. Enough arugula to inspire a haiku. Imagine.
|desiccated roses seeing themselves -- abstractly|
Thursday, May 25, 2017
What was once -- moments ago -- green is now a healthy straw-brown hue. How a mild yellow sets it off. You can hear the gears of growing. Worms pushing aside dirt for grub. You don't need to imagine a human in the seat of control. All is not still here. A meal and a poem stir. Upheaval is imminent.
Loving the fragment is the finest way to celebrate the whole. Because a fragment is whole. And holy. Now, think of soil as fragment. Think of carrots; consider their tops -- delicious feathery fragments waiting to be gathered into a whole dish of pesto. This is to be savored on bread with fresh tomatoes while reading Sappho.
Fragments are your friends.
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
Or is this a rustic keyhole?
Or a goddess with arms above her head in the shape of a tear drop?
This for sure, nature is both thread and needle. And keyhole. For sure, goddesses abound among the trees and metaphors.
Now think of the seasonal -- fava beans and petite poems abounding in farmers markets. Yum.
Tuesday, May 23, 2017
Sometimes the answer is one word.
Sometimes the question which needed to be answered wasn't asked.
So, why would you link iris & onion?
It's in seeing. Perhaps, a subset of self-reflection.
Yes, water is circular. As are dreams.
Thursday, May 18, 2017
because tomorrow our local farmers market opens for the season. And I mean local -- as in walkable unless seasonal purchases too heavy with bounty. Life can be sweet, can be healthy, can be non-toxic. And life unfolds as roots dictate. Soil -- believe in it. Believe in the roots of words. Love your Latin.
Wednesday, May 17, 2017
Tuesday, May 16, 2017
and a star appears. A carrot-top based chimichurri. Perfect when the carrot greens shout "FRESH." And always, always good olive oil. Have you noticed when a verb, a noun and a few of their friends show up on a page, a hue-ful poem might be ready to be served. Might be ready to be savored.
Saturday, May 13, 2017
in more than one way. Actually -- a succulent remade most luscious by the spin of color & chance. And water's magic mirror. Is that a byproduct of editing? Or the processing of pairing tasty leftovers?
From the sliding door window, looking toward Mt Diablo. If I were an eagle soaring, I would zoom in on the Mariposa Lily (or butterfly tulips). Those showy Calochortus. Three blood spots in the shape of hearts. The winged feasts on beauty.
Which words are eagle-like? Which like Mariposa lilies? What beauty shall I taste today?