Wednesday, February 21, 2018

A window sees through a cabbage


This is not a dream although it has the feel of memory.  Perhaps, it is the vegetal which looks through the window to find something misplaced.  Nothing is lost, really.  Neither word nor spoon.

Ocean as yarn


and what tales the ocean can tell.  These are water's roots --powerful dream-agents and they go deep.  Reminds me of engaging in a meal where food & conversation commingle.  Where conversation goes deep or skips on the surface but is not trivial.  Or paper where the words shimmer, sometimes are lucid yet dreamy.

Tuesday, February 20, 2018

Gears


But what is this gizmo?  Sometimes, function is foremost. Sometimes not.  That conversation is at the forefront of all cuisines as well as any poem.  Perhaps, grandmother was right when she said a pen is the gizmo and your intentions are gears which make a poem spin.  Do you agree?

Tactile


and plush as space luxuriates in color & texture.   Reminds me of pomegranate seeds on a bed of spinach (with other edible goodies).  Reminds me of the line break you can hear, you can stroke.

Monday, February 19, 2018

Spring is the bursting-time


bursting forth with a great name, "Edgeworthia Chrysantha."  Also known as Paper Bush.  Makes we want to pick up a pen, grab some paper and let the verbs burst forth.  Edgeworthia reminds me that eggs make a lovely lunch.  Yolks beguile.

Really, how far apart are stones & glass?


They speak a language of light & touch.  On a particular Monday one might say, the language of grace.  This is akin to a simple meal prepared and shared with friends.  A poem sent off in hopes
it captures light and a touch of grace.

Wednesday, February 7, 2018

Ankle-bone level awe


Spring does that to us -- every season.  The Douglas iris is a petite gem.  With strident pollen lines to smitten the most recalcitrant insect.  Are there any recalcitrant insects when pollen is near?  I think of paper & pen like pollen-painted petals.  In that state of awe-waiting.  And look-see, out of dried leaves what is possible.  Reminds me olive oil & garlic & roasted carrots & freshly grated Parmesan cheese & a twist or three of black pepper.  Sweetly sautéing.

Felines know how to inhabit space



intuitively and elegantly.  Cats are landscapes which purr.
Makes me ask, is a poem also a purring landscape?
Speaking of food, salmon, snap peas, rice make me purr.  What makes you purr?

P.S.  The elegant feline above is Sweetie.  Known for her delicate paws, pink heart-shaped necklace and the most beguiling yawn-greeting.  Like her half-brother haiku (now in the cosmos), Sweetie has no interest in poetry. But a blanket is different, deserving attention & touch.

Tuesday, January 30, 2018

A mountain anticipates a full moon


knows how to respect; how to celebrate her.  A mountain has ample experience in managing a full moon's luster,  bravado.  But a branch; how does she welcome the moon? How does she learn that the moon is also laser-sharp insightful?  How does a branch manage without snapping?



How does a recipe withstand spontaneous collaboration?
How does a poem willingly invite editing?
How does sadness learn to be?

Reflection: Light is life's collage




of sacred pattern.
Remember, tree's are sacred
and in their patterns, visually sacred.
A cup holds more than the eye sees.  It holds light & dark.
Paper holds every word uttered.  Or soon to be.  Imagine that!
And a well-loved spoon is an instrument of Guanyin.  Because?
Because she is ready to nourish us.

Chartreuse




Broccolo Romanesco.  Chartreuse & fracal.  What a combination.  Mini-kingdoms.  Haiku on a stalk. Break about the Romanesco and roast with garlic & olive oil & smoked paprika.  Unexpected and perfect.  Indeed like a haiku.

A window never fails to edit


yet sometimes fails at protecting a butterfly.
Actually, it's light which edits.  Ask any poem.
Ask a candle how it sweetens and/or makes savory
a meal.

That bug on your head is fetching.




A buggy scarf.  Why not?  No bug is ordinary and this one is pure magic with a tad of well-meaning mayhem.  Conforms to all head shapes and attitudes.  Keeps you warm.  Keeps you dry.  Keeps you creative.  Speaking of creative, when was the last time your poems gave bugs their due.  In the kitchen, what bugs you most?  

Out front and on the sides


January -- yet Northern California flings open the windows to Spring.  To be exact:  Amaryllidaceae.  Embodied as narcissus aka daffodils and jonquil. Cheery out front and lining the sides of the road.  A mini welcoming committee.

What is it about yellow that gladdens.  Which words are gladden words in a poem?   We cooks know lemon brightens a dish and makes a slim knife cut sing.

Go outside;  look down.  Leaf the knife inside.

When you have no name for the ingredient




but you know it's soup time.  When you don't have the exact word (it isn't on the tip of your tongue), but the poem is front of you -- waiting.  Soup's on.  Poem's on.  Unnamed ingredients and elusive words -- unite.

Monday, January 29, 2018

Seek practical unruliness


Swathed in white needles and yet like chalk, like gauze.  Approach with caution.  The same is said of a tender egg or sonnet.  By the way, why is it, few are scared off by small rocks?

A bouquet always talks to itself



I'm unsure why most folks don't know this fact so quickly & modestly observed.  Just look deeply into each bloom, each leaf and the container containing them.  It's akin to savoring a menu.  It's right there looking into the gestures on a page.  Preferably made by ink or lead.  The state of blooming is a seasonal birthright.

Wednesday, January 17, 2018

Every window brings memory to a room


Especially if there's a bed.
Especially if there's a table.
Especially if there's a pen.
Especially if there's been a cat on that bed.

Monday, January 15, 2018

Gorgeously surreal




that was a week ago.  Imagine now with fog cover & time colluding to paint this succulent garden even more vibrant.  More fanciful.  Yup, fog & time as co-editors.  Who are the co-editors of a meal?  Who, the collaborators on a poem?

After the unexpected more of the unexpected


The morning begins in fog.  When it lifts, a single bearded iris appears.  The plant has several buds; that's a promise soil will keep.  Weeks from Spring.  She's a lavender beauty.  The unexpected has given me a taste for subtle pepper.  I taste for words which hint & woo.