Wednesday, July 11, 2018

from light & dark #7 the dream erases itself

but the pillow remains, witness.  Like a spoon after all the soup has been ladled.  Like a poem whittled to 9 words.  The everyday brims with minimalist epics.  

Tuesday, July 10, 2018

Summer bonnets

and peach ice cream.  Always in this season shady poems were in demand.

from blue & black series #10: not your usual Summer

And yet, and yet there were ripe (very ripe) peaches on the counter within fingers' reach.  And, yes, there was a soft hum of jazz and the occasional hummingbird sipping at the pomegranate yarrow. All this contained in the blue and in the black.  Petite poems, too.

Thursday, July 5, 2018

Holidays are like any other day

They include a certain amount of resting & a vigilance to see awe in the everyday.  Also, to cook with a wooden spoon in the spirit of curiosity.  The same is true for stirring a poem.

Thursday, June 28, 2018


the inanimate isn't.  Full of sap & wind-wiggling branches.  Roots a plenty.  Seeking water & sun & the cooling of evening.  She's a beauty, isn't she.  More reliable than a guard dog, too.  Let's have cold soup -- vibrantly blueberry-ish -- for lunch.  We'll serve in small clear glasses with petite spoons.  Let's send a poem out into the world which may or may not include the word "blueberry." There you have it.

Wednesday, June 27, 2018

A river flows into the vegetal

Or what beets dream about.  The confluence of ripening.  Much like shaping a meal. Or shaping a poem. Pay attention to the tributaries -- real & imaginary.  Learn to meander.  Take up whistling.

Monday, June 25, 2018

Night is a color unto itself

Night shadow-izes plants.  Converts their green leaves to shadows.  Night offers a dream-state of a palette.  Muted yet vivid by an absence.  Or a lamp left on.  The same can be said of editing a poem.  The same is true for a subtle dish, perhaps beans.

Sunday, June 24, 2018

Vicia Faba & nightshade

with basil.  What's not to like when fava beans, tomatoes (yellow heirloom & red cherries), olive oil, salt, pepper hang out with basil.  Your mouth is happy speaking the language of Spring into the first vowels of summer.  Eyes & mouth concur:  a simple colorful salad is a petite poem.  Yup.

Monday, June 18, 2018

The stars are waning

but not the fragrance of the jasmine.  In fact the allure is waxing for bee & hummingbird.  A galaxy of poems ready to be experienced.  Inspiration for many a meal.  

Sunday, June 17, 2018

Bars, bees & hunger

Space between bars are like open windows to a bee.  Seems a slim meal but sometimes it's what you don't see --
herbs in a sauce; all the words removed from a line of poetry.
Absence is a conveyance for lushness. What is our bee sipping on?
Agastache Kudos Mandarin.  A perennial hyssop.  Honey-mint-scented plumes. Pinkish orange.  What's not to love? What's not to be smitten by?  

Saturday, June 16, 2018

Sometimes a face, sometimes a fan

The color pink & rosy with a stroke of red and the hue of loam to ground.  Who shall we call her?  How does she spin?  How does she turn a salad into a poem?

Friday, June 15, 2018

Ears bending to conversation

Eavesdropping is a critical skill to hone.  Listening-in is especially useful in cooking & in the creating of diminutive poems.

Thursday, June 14, 2018

The slant of shadow & the stories they wish you to hear

Mute the color & still the vibrant, rainbow-hued stories are there.  Don't ever think otherwise.
Although most times thinking otherwise is a good thing.  By the way, what's a non-thing?
An additional "by the way," even in a b/w or sepia photo of food, the imagination is so hungry colors
vibrant & subtle appear.  Silence does this to poetry, you know.  But of course. And should you step on a shadow, nothing is broken; nothing cracked.  

Monday, June 11, 2018

Tutus: organic & otherwise

kodiak wearing a classical tutu designed by Carmencito L.

For the record, a peony is the matriarch of tutus.  Speaking of tutus, there are two types:  Romantic & classical.  The one above is classical -- short, stiff material and extended horizontally at the waist.  (The Romantic can reach ankle-bone & is made of softer more flowing material).  Right now, I'm thinking of raspberries.  Right now, I'm wondering what haiku lurks under the tutu.  Oh, tut-tut.

Friday, June 8, 2018

Sunflower as a verb

When light & shadows are spun, you can find yourself in a state of sun-flowering!  It's as simple as a wooden spoon stirring soup.  A pen unloading Pandora's box of gestures.  See, I know you'd understand.

Wednesday, June 6, 2018

Monumental beauty & the properties of willow

also known as sallows or osiers.  Soft, pliant, tough wood.  A strong, vibrant life-force.  And here in Walnut Creek, CA ten tons of willow imported from Vermont by commissioned artist Patrick Dougherty.  (  A must see.  Like a meal with friends and conversation robust yet intimate.  Like a new notebook with first gestures -- bold, skyward & deep into the earth.  And always as with poems, meals or sculpture -- a window to see in, to see out.

Thursday, May 24, 2018

The desire to bend

The straight dreams
of spiraling.  Simple.
Inevitable.  Necessary.
More than even
the center needs
to embrace water
& honey, intention
& cloud. Drop
your favorite word
into the center
of a pond & see
how time bends
to the gracious
how next the taste
of raspberries
in particular

What's the demarcation between abstract & figurative?

Figuratively speaking, of course.  You might as well ask, "What's the difference between roasted carrots & carrot pate'?" Or an epic & a haiku?   I recall, I've never had carrot pate'.  Epics and haiku -- plenty of.  Though I never tire of haiku -- in all forms.

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.