Wednesday, May 23, 2018

Flowers have no respect for fences

and that's not taking into account, wildflowers.  But why should they.  Think of paper as a fence. Now grasp a pen.  You get the point.  Think of a knifepoint as a fence.  Consider this as the knife slices an eggplant.  By the way what's the point of most questions?


as in light
as in words
as in scent
of lemon
and iris

Monday, May 21, 2018

Here's how I read the traffic sign:

stop to take a picture.  Who can resist poppies & Angel's trumpets.  Brugmansia, even the word is lush.  Who can resist pendulous flowers with no spine with no fruit.  Speaking of fruit, this season's strawberries (so far) are so near and so luscious.  Yield to them as you yielded to pen & paper this morning.

Friday, May 18, 2018

Yes, Alice, those are clouds in the pond

and trees, growing out of the sky.  Complete with lily pads & lotus blooming.  White like those clouds.  Cauliflower white.  Cauliflower is a most amazing word; how the mouth invites you to pronounce.  What else invites you to pronounce?  Dishes, for food; paper for words.  But of course.
Enjoy the next landscape you encounter upside down.  Akimbo.

Wednesday, May 16, 2018

So much can be traced back to a little red wheelbarrow

and physics of the makeshift.  Like memory, fading.  A tad worn.  But a love of dirt, intact.  A line of poetry here or there; the tongue tastes skinny carrots pulled from New Jersey soil.

An egg for breakfast

Affectionately nicknamed, fried-egg poppy.  Stridently cheerful.  Downright optimistic.  One bloom is an entire garden.  Paper skin -- perfect for a petite poem.  Written, of course, in yellow ink.

Monday, May 14, 2018

Right around Mother's Day

Puya!  She blooms once a year right around Mother's Day at Ruth Bancroft Gardens (& elsewhere). Terrestrial, otherworldly & undeniably gorgeous.  Did I mention huge.  Food for the eyes.  Lest we forget, beauty is a protein.  Build on it.  Every blue/green waxy petal is a haiku.

Wednesday, May 9, 2018


and yet not abandoned.  Resting along the ridge of the ocean.  Slowing the pace for sure -- on a tennis ball.  Once I wrote a poem about a painting of a riderless bike propped again a tulip field.  I believe it was raining.  Raining in paintings is always a graceful mystery.  Which foods are graceful mysteries?Asparagus & raspberries come to mind.

Tuesday, May 8, 2018

Centrifugal force

and the pull to nature.  A spiral in the making.  In the intention.  Forests in the seas. Interconnected and not letting go.  I'm thinking of kelp.  But not for breakfast.  I'm thinking of kelp & a line for a poem.  Begin as I usually do -- with breakfast.  And if there be a line, it will (as most do) curve.

Friday, May 4, 2018

Upon reflection

some reflections warble, some twist & coil.  Is it the thing growing, the thing closer to death, or simply, it is water's magic & mayhem?  Consider this: without water, cooking is limited.  Tea, impossible.  Without reflection, poems can be scant & sketchy.  There you have it on a May day rather early in the month.

Thursday, April 26, 2018

As National Poetry Month winds down

haiku, too, takes a snooze upon some writing about a blessed memory.  Only later the question arises, What's for dinner?

The mountain sees itself for the first time

and admires its reflection.  When a salad looks at itself, what does it see?  Which ingredient does it recognize first?  Is it true, poems are partial to prepositions & the particulars of gender?

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

Eyes & ears

All that's necessary to take in the day.  A conversation.  Eavesdropping, of course.  An underbelly of spinach & a memory of raspberries.  See & hear and words will follow.  And if this is not in an act of eavesdropping, well, you'll find a poem by noon.

The surreal is palpable

yet dreamlike.  It bends to the desires of water.  And memory.  Ask any fish.  Ask any poem.

Monday, April 23, 2018

And a dog in the background

doesn't disrupt or derail the majestic beauty of these bearded irises.  Their composure makes them immune to any barking disturbance.  Fragile & strong commingled.  A perfect balance like the perfectly crafted martini.  Vodka, of course.  With a twist.  Soon it will be a good friend's birthday
with poems aplenty & gestures to grow on.  Perhaps, Goldfish the hue of pollen.  

Carrots have always been stars in any dish

Especially when multi-color carrots are given center stage.  You never forget the first time you cut into a purple carrot.  Rewarded again by color.  A dish of sautéed multi-colored chopped carrots with walnuts, basil, garlic, black pepper, olive oil & the slightest drizzle of Balsamic vinegar.  Sight for sore eyes.  May all poems see into themselves this vibrantly.

Saturday, April 14, 2018

Sky's perspective

and the yucca's four directions.  That sums it up.  Lunch will be outside.  Perhaps a poem will be written -- a petite poem depending upon the hour.  

Friday, April 13, 2018

Sap is the preferred paint of trees

Magical, this circling.  Mother nature arising kinetically.  Wish I could say that for each line of poetry I've written.  Maybe, I'm using the wrong kind of ink?  What can I put in today's salad to pay homage to the quiet rose & that that hearty yellow?  To be determined -- soon.

In shadow. In sunlight.

It isn't usually thought that shadow is as downright cheerful as sunlight.  But look at these blooms.   In light and in shadow they optimistically glow.  Carrots are known to brighten a kitchen.  Lemons, too.  Certain words, too, will brighten or dim a poem.  Color, something you can't quite grasp but it surrounds us -- inside & out.  

Wednesday, April 11, 2018

No height restrictions to beauty

25 feet but who's counting?  Yucca treculeana.  Showy, over-the-top gorgeous.  Reminds me of a salad that becomes bountiful by the use of leftovers.  Like inserting a line of an existing poem into a new one. Yup, no height restrictions to beauty and beauty is in the leftovers.  And here's the phrase from that poem, steadfast fragility.

Monday, April 9, 2018

A lilac reflects on National Poetry Month

April can and can't be the cruelest month but without question, April is National Poetry Month.  Like beauty, words are a reflection and they know how to sail. Words also absorb light.  Continuing in the purple vein (as in prose), consider the eggplant & how deliciously it absorbs olive oil & crafts a perfect sentence with tomatoes & basil & garlic & feta & walnuts.

Thursday, April 5, 2018

Memory is precise as liquid

and sees straight-away into rocks.  While trees may have spores, rocks like potatoes have eyes. So the next time you dream, put on your rock-eyes; relax and let memory wash over you. Don't be surprised when you encounter an old woman with the shape & scent of rosemary.  Dreams are like this.  So are poems both in the writing, editing & reading.  So is making a meal for people you love.
Grab some rosemary, the potatoes await.  Your friends are hungry.  Yup.

Thursday, March 29, 2018

Something is about to happen

Spinning, I think.  Definitely some activity which is kinetic.  Spring, of course.  Green encountering redbud trees.  Light, as synapses.  When the energy slows-down, will there be a poem?  

When the twig leaves the vine

a few grapes linger.  Or perhaps an eager hand who carries a familiar face has left just a few for you.  Akin to a poem with mostly cross-outs.  Always, always look for glacier blue.

Tuesday, March 27, 2018

Spring is liquid color

Spring is jejune.  Fluid.  Liquid energy.  Drawn to the spiral.  Centrifigal force.  The earth's life force
rising up.  Imagine your favorite ten words and three verbs to which you don't gravitate.  Use them. What haiku have you created to siren spring?

Fleeting and worth their wait

Consider, the weight of cherry blossoms.  Beauty imbues weight & dimension.  A regard for seasons, too.  A cherry blossom festival around the corner & down the hill.  They will stop you in your tracks. Feel the rhythm, cadence, the memoir in their petals.  If one word could summarize: haiku.

Saturday, March 24, 2018

A glass bowl is place for light, stories & sometimes it sees itself as a starfish

Magic & alchemy.  Like what can happen in a kitchen when a kitchen is being true to its nature.  Much like what a poem dances on a page or echoes in an ear.  Yes, magic & alchemy.

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

Ever wonder what's at the center of the four directions?

Pure lushness of a feathery sort.  And full-on color.  Verdant touches, of course.  Reminds me on the inverse of a beet salad.  Reminds me of the last line of a poem when it springs open with greening.  Guess it's time to cook some beets; finish that poem about recipe & place.

Monday, March 19, 2018

Otherworldly as an artichoke on legs

and dazzlingly beautiful if not surreally gorgeous.  An amazing performance.  All feather and strut.
Dragging wing -- who knew the music of love is the sound of scraping feathers.  Makes me think of jagged line breaks in a poem.   Or the tips of an artichoke.  Ouch.

Saturday, March 17, 2018


and shape-shifting.  Carrots are a prime example.  Perhaps you have always considered carrots to be rather "straight."  But now consider the sweep of carrots -- rounded, embracing the concept of a circle.  Not to be confused with a bunch of baby orange bananas, of course.  Not to be confused with nonsense.  There is much sense in no.

Returning to shape-shifting, I think of language expressing what doesn't appear obvious.  What doesn't make sense until you consider the opposite.  Shape & the shifting of is the circle of paradox. Yup.  Wake up; eat carrots for breakfast.

In Spring everything wants to bloom including paper clips

I have always welcomed Spring as it replenishes winter's farmers markets.
Carrots with robust tops perfect for chimichurri.
I have always been fascinated with paperclips, especially brightly hued.
I think of paperclips as petite fingers holding whatever you wish.
Like a line of poetry holding one word to another.  Or Spring binding bloom to stem.
Hand me some paperclips, will ya?

Friday, March 16, 2018

Doesn't need to be complete

to be finished.  But it does need to be started.  Consider a meal.  Consider a poem.  Consider...

Cara Cara oranges & company make me want

Good food is a bouquet.  Nothing else.  Nothing more.  Makes me think of friendship.  Makes me want to cook zucchini with feta tonight.  Makes me want to edit that poem that's simmered long enough.  Makes me want.

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Big bird contemplates water

Grevillea petrophiloides nicknamed "Big Bird."  What happens when you see yourself for the first time.  Really see yourself.  Perhaps it is like eating a raspberry for the first time and really tasting that gem.  Or re-reading a favorite poem.  One from Chiyo-ni, no doubt.

Tuesday, February 27, 2018

Reflected gestures

The capture reads:  glass bowl on woven runner.  I like to think of each word as a prism available to both reader & writer.  Have you noticed perspective is never singular? Have you noticed the same rings true of salads?  Of friendships?  Of snowflakes? Of words in a fragment?  What glass takes in; what glass reflects.  All fragments.  All gestures.

On the nature of a fence

The golden mean:  whatever is being kept out an equal whatever is being kept in.  Who remembers the spectacular hail then cloud-rainbow yesterday? Another instance of natural drama. Also, the kitchen is a natural landscape for both drama & alchemy as is a pen etching a landscape onto paper. Whatever(s) prevail(s).

Sunday, February 25, 2018

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.