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?

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

Beyond compare

Exactly what is the comparison in "beyond the beyond".  For instance, what is riper than ripe? Take in these ceramic tomatoes from Yountville.  Huge, more colorful than their namesakes.  As they say in that small state with sexy curves (NJ, of course), never, never slight the tomato.  And who would you believe:  the one who says the poem is in the stem or she who says the poem is all flesh?

Monday, January 23, 2017

You can edit only what you see

Today, she will go for a walk and in her minds's eye see those tulips on the side table waiting for her return. She wants you to know about tulips.  Those mirrors into the kindest places within us.  Grasp the tulip's center, and you will gasp in awe.  As her grandmother reminded her, "To see is to edit.  And remember:  eat your greens; stay with the magic of the spiral."  Grandmother was one wise, nasty woman.  And tulips are sexy beyond compare.

Sunday, January 22, 2017

When was the last time you shared an Opal?

She will.  Share.  But first she buys.  To be precise, to be scientific (and isn't that at the core of food?) -- UEB32642.  The Opal apple.  The melding of a Golden Delicious with Topaz.  Note the russeting around the stem.  She's thinking of all her friends with beautiful aging hands & faces. She slices an Opal.  This fruit, unlike others, unlike what the mirror says, will not brown.  Will not show its age.  The flowers, too, etched in glass -- remain untouched.  Unlike the poems written three decades ago, she now is re-reading, retouching.  At what age, are words ripe for the picking?

Friday, January 20, 2017

The next poem

is in the hands of the folks we love

in the food shared


No doubt about it, sky is the communal canvas.  And yesterday's rainbow, today's communal promise.  Let us be creative.  Bend when necessary; don't snap.  And always spiral up for the next meal, the next poem.

Thursday, January 19, 2017

From the thread of red

Coral maples --the labels says.
So like a meal, a poem, a canvas -- light, color.  Space. Spoon and pen celebrate.

Thursday, January 12, 2017

Red glasses

What if every time she puts on her red glasses with the multi-colored sides, she invites a prose poem to splash across the page?  Will the spoon take offense?