Tuesday, October 17, 2017


The loss of figs is the advent of Fuyu persimmons.  Slice them -- 8 petals to lead you to beauty. Even the word persimmon, is a poem.

Monday, October 16, 2017

Yes, temples dream

a kaleidoscope
roof & sky
a fractal web
and just now
you stepped
into that dream
why are you wearing
shoes?  And what
sweetmeats will you offer?
Which poem recited?

Sunday, October 15, 2017

The temple swallows the mountain

No sleight of hand.  Just a delft touch of the alchemical to create a tasty eye-soup.   Poems are like this -- tasty & colorful and always respectful of sky & mountain.

Some food by its shape

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

Yes, there are no figs left

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!

A spin on the chicken & egg conundrum

we know
where the feather
it calls "nest"
the same can be
of spoon & soup
pen & paper.
the frittata --
stridently yellow --
needs eating

Newest best friends from Tehachapi


a litany of blessings
animals are the perfect poem

Saturday, September 30, 2017

Today's gift is 14 years old


& about his 14th
haiku has this to say:
no e-cards
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

Trees deserve stars, webs and jewelry

especially hand-made, hand-crocheted.  The nights/mornings are cooler, you know.  This reminds me of many things including those petite nests that swaddle Asian pears.  What do poems deserve?  Poems deserve to be read; deserve to be heard.  A bit of jewelry never damaged a poem.

Sunday, September 24, 2017

Red is an indicator

attract and repel.
Artichoke has a bit of that, too.
Beets not so much.
Which words both attract & repel?
Which words are red?

Friday, September 22, 2017

Windows frame a story

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

Otherworldly ruffles

Fractally speaking, isn't this succulent magnificent
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

Succulent calligraphy

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

A watercolor paints memory

while a photo relives the present (as memory).

Does the memory of a great dish do the same?
Or trying to remember that line of a favorite poem?
Is the present and memory, time's taste.?

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

Sometimes you need to get close

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

What do a deer and birdbath have in common?

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

Bright sunshine

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
my hand

Saturday, September 9, 2017

Beside the feather...

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 soufflĂ©?  I'd say, edible.

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

Who speaks the language of tomato?

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

Meditation on inside & outside

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!

Fractal sass

Heat wave in Walnut Creek and just looking at these otherworldly dahlias strutting their fractal sass makes me smile.  Cools me off.  Makes me want to eat garden tomatoes & roasted peaches & arugula & walnuts & tiger-eye figs & olive oil & pepper and, yes, a tad of salt.  Will the poem arrive as a bee sipping nectar?

Sunday, August 27, 2017

Aloe tomentosa

say everything
and nothing
and say it
with a rhythm
the whole
or garden
or kitchen
can wrap
a tongue

A banquet is over-the-top generous

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.  

Imagine a banquet of tomatoes & their friends

Where else but in paradise.  7th Annual Tomato Tasting Festival & BBQ yesterday.  Bloody Marys
& friends.  Poems to follow.

Saturday, August 26, 2017

The correlation between good writing & napping

And the dream and the writing began with the same word:  tuna.  And the writing was his namesake: haiku.

Unexpected visitors

or there are no walls when it comes to neighbors. Some bouquets have their roots intact.  Some roots we eat and call them food.  Some words are staples.  And we eat these, too.

Night is a castle for the indirect

Memory & moon.  Spoon & soup.  The simply rhyme -- not too hard, not too heavy handed with pepper; on the slant like the moon's tryst with water.  

What story are you telling yourself?

Who is she
and what is her name?
Is she rising?
Is she dissolving into her ancestor's birthplace?
Which food will satisfy her?  Which poem soothe?

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

I don't think trees pay attention to stop signs

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.

Our Lady

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

Who doesn't love an olive

especially when a fanciful bird delivers such a tasty morsel.  Why flights of fancy.  Now, sit down with a cup of tea and imagine your imagination.  Avoid the pit.

The intersection of store bought and farmers market

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...

A gift from the neighbor

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

@the blue umbrella

sometimes a phrase says it.
Sometimes, that memory of a favorite lunch.
Sometimes, the favorite word -- perhaps?
Sometimes you want to rest in the color of a particular
word.  Yes.

One foot in front....

walking is a meditation in imbalance -- one foot, off center, then the other,
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.....