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.