Monday, December 17, 2018

Intersecting hearts with stones



With a little help from an iPhone app, of course.  
Doesn't the kitchen get help (or magic) from salt & herbs?
Doesn't a line of poem become, because of the appearance of a crow?  
Or the gathering of stones?
Or a walk in a succulent garden?
Less than a week to Winter Solstice -- imagine that!


Saturday, December 15, 2018

Observation as fact


Cats have two speeds -- in your face or aloof.  No criticism here.  Just observation as fact.


The same can be said of spiny succulents.  All milky and prickly.  The same can be said of artichoke tips and yet how soft & sensual their hearts.  Certain words are like that, too.  Visually strident with armor that protects the soft belly.  And as we have agreed before, each word can be a petite poem.  Think of it as a tasty tidbit.

Thursday, November 29, 2018

But of course...

jellyfish.  
Delicate danger.  
Seemingly effortless undulations.  
Cloud-like.  
And all which sweeps into can become food.  
Being open to the environment -- that's what a poem is about.  

What we look through to see out the other side


eyes through glasses.  Now, I'm thinking slots in a spoon.  Pasta water.  I'm thinking how petite poems are not bows as much as petals.  I'm thinking that a favorite ceramic plate can curve with the best of light.  Yup.  I'm thinking.

Wednesday, November 28, 2018

Submerged


The cut tree trunk oozes -- liquid reflection.  And the red? A marker for something now forgotten  or made useless.  Perhaps, a punctuation mark.  Why now am I thinking of the liquid from cooked pasta flowing down the kitchen drain?  Or all the words that bled off a page all these years?  Where do these written gestures end up?

What is this?


Don't know but the unable-to-name intrigues pushes me toward a center -- familiar & unfamiliar.  Both ancient & contemporary. Like words, colors are doors & windows.  What am I opening?  What, closing?  In which direction will the wind blow?  

Tuesday, November 27, 2018

A party of some sort


which makes me think of the gap between party & celebration.  Between food & dinner.  And yes pink food -- beets in yogurt for sure.  Watermelon & watermelon radishes.  OK, OK, canes. By the way, when does a list burst forth as a poem.

Hard to tell whether


going or coming.  What weather will be encountered.  Whether or not it rains, determines the soup likely to be made.  The word "likely" is a technical weather-word.  Like "perhaps" in a poem. Yes.
Yes, sometimes images reappear & latch themselves to different words.  It happens.

Monday, November 26, 2018

This reminds me of nothing

but itself.  A life described in a children's picture book -- sans language.  But then, color is a language.  Much as cooking.  Of course, writing. especially a petite poem, is playing with color fields, for sure.

Saturday, November 24, 2018

Language of winged ones

Or the music of Satie.
Or both.
A sound salad
of the most yummy.
For the hungriest
of ears.

Memory


is never truly abstract at least not for long.  Embodied, sensual. seasonal.  Lamenting figs, I slice a persimmon and the mouth reconnects with pleasure almost forgetting the Early Girl tomatoes have
fled.  Slipped from memory as a line of poetry unwritten.

Forming


or perhaps dissolving.  Perspective is all.  But perhaps we can agree on the beauty of the dramatic even when it comes to a pinch of red pepper flake or when we decide whether to add or remove a preposition to a line of poetry.  Forming and dissolving:  principles of editing.  Principles of cooking.

Friday, November 23, 2018

Who doesn't love a spirited game


of peek-a-boo? What a curious phrase, that.  Or flowered sheets?  Or  especially cats?  Cats are poems waiting to pounce upon the imaginary.  Cats lose themselves so quickly to sleep -- that space & time of imagination so deliciously non sequitur in nature.  Like a yummy meal forming from left-overs.

Sometimes the name comes later



This often occurs when a state of being prevails.  It's akin to that need to cook or clean the counter.
The urge to straighten papers, pursue the bookshelf to say "hi" to old & new friends.  Perhaps, this is the family album & one day after the day of gathering, you remember.  You remember.  All the names like petite poems are echoing in your ear.  A good feeling.  Comforting as the taste of turkey.

Tuesday, October 30, 2018

Remembrance of water


We remember in fits & starts and then begin to weave a patch that remembers whole cloth.  Smell cinnamon and you begin seeing scents & stories -- all personal.  All tangible.  You think of one word that suddenly smittens you and you hear a line perhaps of poetry, perhaps the beginning of an exquisite list of favorite words.  There is much to feed us.  Remember to drink plenty of water; the journey will be long.  Dreaming may be interrupted.

Overlapping



Dreaming, cooking & writing a line or two.  Layers, for sure.  Interlocking, interweaving spirit- stories.  Similar gestures performed with spoon & pen.  And mouth.

Monday, October 29, 2018

At the speed of...


Fill in the blank comforts as does list making.  But the image above, promotes spiral-making.  Or swirling words.  Or in the kitchen, swirling cream in a root soup.  Perhaps it all comes down to the speed of a spoon.

When does a narrative become clear?


When hands move the dial to due north?  Or noon?  Or three in the morning?
When is soup perfected?  When is a poem done?  Or a chicken for that matter?
At the heart of it all, four petals, four directions.  And a kind hunger.

Can you hear this bird's call


stretching all the way to Paradise?  Sometimes all it takes is a direct line of communication.  Quite vegetal.  Much like spinach sautéed with garlic.  Like a line of poetry seemingly straight and then
spiraling into itself.  Magical, of course.

Friday, October 26, 2018

Diffused


Scent & word sent into the four directions by a simple twist of a line.  The same can be said of freshly- baked bread.

Light as mask


How many masks does a person put on during a lifetime?  How many somber?  How many gleeful?Mischievous?  How many masks does a person take off?  I might as well ask, how many ears of corn does a person consume in a lifetime?  How many tomatoes (please differentiate between heirloom & cherry)?  How many times does a person begin a poem with "because"?  Or plot that word in the middle of a line?

Wednesday, October 17, 2018

Slowly, slowly


a book
is turning
itself
into
flower

Layer upon layer


and only the surface is seen.  Dazzling rays & haze commingle.  Behind every ray, there is a tree. Behind every tree, a story looms.  The stars are grateful for your admiration.  And gratitude is the impetus for any meal shared, for any poem prompted by a friend.

Is it seeing or feeling


that brings the narrative whether it's a meal or a line of poetry?  I don't know but this is tickling my imagination and palette.  And, yes, palate.

Tuesday, October 9, 2018

What if



there are two centers and each whole & complete?  How does that change the next sentence you will write?  The next, you will read?  How does it change the taste of the next and probably last fig you will eat for many, many months?  There is marvel and there is sadness in the cosmos.

Saturday, October 6, 2018

Sometimes the novel is outside the book


Look up.
Tell me that isn't a confluence of words?  
Now tell me, what's for lunch?

Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Eucalyptus celebrating morning sun


Yes, this is eucalyptus bathed in morning sun.  What a glow. Or perhaps it's the buzz of insects unseen but present.  Does it matter?  What does matter?  Simple seeing.  Simple cooking.  Simple writing.  Simple, yes.

Who doesn't move toward the light


Moving at such speed, we would fall over if we were aware of the influence on us.  But we do our balance/unbalance act of walking until we do reach a match, a lamppost, a cheap lighter.  And why is this talking to me this morning?  Because the light is dramatically beautiful and the shaggy eucalyptus are glowing.  It's time for tomatoes & arugula.  Time to hear a friend read her poems.

Sometimes not knowing



is the way to know.  I haven't a clue what this might be; I don't care.  She's gorgeous.  There may be some wheat involved & water.  Perhaps a rose petal and a word I've never spoken.

Monday, September 10, 2018

Red without hesitation


Nails, lips, intention, passion.  All winged ones drawn to and words for gusto.  Food, too.  Tomatoes, for sure. Yes, tomatoes.  

Coming or going?


In the journey, does it matter? Movement, intention & mediation.  Knife, fork, spoon.  And, as we all know, the plate is pure paper.  Food like a poem begins small.  Close to water; perhaps a harbor.  A cove for sure.  With food as with foods -- passion aplenty.

At some point in my life this is what I will do


embrace the potter's wheel.  Perhaps, instead of clay, time.  Or color which is another way to embrace the energies of food.  Or words.  I can feel it all.  My hands are the perfect translators.

When the showy is more than showy or Dahlia time in San Francisco

Sometimes beauty is over-the-top showy, bragging to bees & people alike.  Don't be fooled, these blooms are food for many.  If you want an honest assessment of these blooms, just ask fog. Perhaps you didn't know, that fog is a friend of poetry, a mentor really.  Fog, organic & ubiquitous -- the perfect eraser comes in handy from time to time.

When the straight, spirals



can you feel the pull toward center?  Can you feel the pull of basil to taste a tomato?  Can you feel the pull of sunrise to find the apt word?  Can't you?

Advanced mourning


for the end of fig season.  Caramelized Parmesan cheese with figs, walnuts, tomatoes, basil on a pita -- toasted & topped with arugula.  A forest; a a canopy to protect the day.  For the promise of a word or two.

How important is it to know what is liquifying


what is spinning?
How does this affect the texture and color of the next meal?
What's the impact on the next words set down on the page and shared with Jane?
Take comfort, the center is visible.  And the journey inward & outward is just that -- a journey.

When was the last time you considered the essence of chard?

And why don't you do so more often?  Look the red vein goes right into the center, into the core?  Into its flower.

But then again, a leaf of chard imbeds a red tree.  Magic and alchemy:  soil & cooking; meanwhile, imagination harvests poems.  Yup.

Why are we always looking for a blue sky?


Something from childhood, perhaps our first forays into reading picture books.  Perhaps, we were fed on optimism instead of reality:  the beauty & delicacy of fog.  Perhaps, secretly we are lovers of orange food -- persimmons & such which we all know pares beautiful with fog & petite poems.  Just look up fog's sleeves.

Thursday, August 23, 2018

Where is the source of light


and where will it return?  Will it be changed by the journey?  Changed by who sees it and is smitten?  Changed by the words spoken?  Or marveled at by the one in the corner eating a tuna fish sandwich?

Who knew, flowering mint has a moth named after it.


Mint moth.  Flowering mint also attracts a particular butterfly called a Small Copper.  Also, as you can see bees are partial to this culinary plant.  For sure, mint is a green hub of activity.  Much like a haiku concentrating so much feeling in a small verdant patch of words.

Wednesday, August 22, 2018

Solid as a rock


Except when water is thrown into the mix.  Think of it as spontaneous dreaming.  Spontaneous memory.  Portals appear like eyes in a potato.  Like words in last night's poem.  Quite watery, too.


Peeling


Skin -- human & tree.  Much in common.  Also trees take on the look and feel of a torso.  Suddenly, I'm thinking of broccoli with torso resembling trees.  Leaps are like peels -- real, imaginary or potato. Speaking of peeling, once I wrote an ode to a martini.  It was not potato-based.  Oh, yes, it was a very cold ode.

Tuesday, August 21, 2018

Bikes are more than transportation


Every object is more than its use.  Think of a bike and the many miles each one travels.  Even in the store before they are bought, a bike dreams of the journey.  But how like a flower is the bike. Pedal to petal.  Words, salads & dreams -- that's the journey.  A bit of sun here and there, too.  A spot of rain.  One needs water, you know.