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.