Wednesday, February 20, 2019

Sometimes you just go with it


especially if it's spiraling.  Or as a cook might add, spiralizing.  Or a poet watching words acting like tide pools.  Notice the blue eye -- that's the clue.

Spring negotiating with green



Soon Spring's exuberance will be no match for Summer.  Summer will be no match for Fall.  You get the idea where this progression is progressing.  However, the present is no match for time's shenanigans.  Just ask a baker about the necessity of breaking eggs.  Ask paper about its love of haiku.

Monday, February 18, 2019

When the branches of these trees, redden


I am ready to look for spirals in everything straight.  I am ready for the alchemy of Spring, of cooking, of words.  Simply this.


Tuesday, February 12, 2019

Eventually a name will surface


Until the naming occurs, let's say these are chair legs twisted into an unsuspecting narrative which looks like it has a white pleated collar at its core.  The story could go in many directions. What you had for dinner probably won't make the final cut.  Nor the apple you cored to pare with cheese. Neither will your last haiku.  That's to be expected.

Monday, February 11, 2019

Much like flowers, shadows have their growing season


Here are two little known facts about shadows:  one, they are capable of blooming; two, they are ubiquitous as wildflowers.  Much like carrots are prevalent in kitchens; pens on a poet's desk.  

Monday, February 4, 2019

Why do drains fascinate?



Something alchemical?
Something definitive?
Something about here today, gone tomorrow?
Something about reflection?
Something about concave and convex?
Now, consider the above without the question marks.  Have you?
And should you ask, why is there nothing about food, nor poetry?
There is.  Simply consider the concave and convex.

Wednesday, January 30, 2019

Unexpected



to come across such a wondrous patch.  Luscious clumps of daffodils.  It feels like a planned memorial.  Few other wonders blooming at this time.  Sacred.  Like a meal shared with a stranger. Like a stranger being touched by one of your poems.  Wondrous, indeed.  Hopeful, too.

Narrative without title


Is that possible?  Like a meal without food?  Like a poem never spoken, never danced?  No, this is a narrative sans title but with lots of flavor & flair.

Rain on the way or fashion statement?


No matter the weather, grey is always an upbeat color for dress.  Add a pinch of blue.  Consider this pepper.  Or salt.  With food, a white shallow bowl sirens food like nothing else. Consider squid ink pasta.  By the way, have you written poems with silver ink on black or charcoal paper? Quite dandy.  Somethings warrant repeating.

Saturday, January 26, 2019

Present tense


Of all seasons, Spring is the one in present tense.  Immediate & unfolding.  Makes me think of fava beans.  Makes me want to read Chiyo-ni.

Monday, January 21, 2019

Unformed possibilities


That covers it all -- from meal to paper for poetry.  Yup not much else to say but it's important every once in a while to look up.  Stretch the neck.  If need be, squint.  Look deeply where the moon will be later.  Write that down.

Friday, January 18, 2019

Those secret & unlikely companionships


Who would think Delicata (squash) and tulips would be pals?  Well, just look at this photo; they are on the circle together.  Perhaps, not in the contours you are most familiar, but companions nevertheless.  Makes me think of unlikely companions in a dish.  I've been using fruit in unlikely ways --cold & cooked-- to salads, green and otherwise.  Now, I'm thinking, are there words which are unlikely companions?

Thursday, January 17, 2019

Bark, paper & peeling paint


Trees have color so why shouldn't they have peeling paint? Besides, light splashes trees with color, and bark is amazing -- it's properties & tactile qualities.  I think it's from bark that my love of paper sprung.  And in the kitchen, you ask?  Cinnamon sticks, of course.

Wednesday, January 16, 2019

The language of winter


Here rain defines winter -- a healthy winter.  How does rain impact the next meal you make?  The next word put or removed from a poem?  By the way, what's the status of your rain gear?  Aren't you glad you didn't repurpose those red wellies.

Tuesday, January 15, 2019

3 winter berries


Yes, a pomegranate is a berry with 613 (or so) garnet seeds.  A paintbrush for fingers, cutting board & counter top.  Magical.  A bowl of seeds perfectly complements/compliments a salad.  Speaking of salad, what is a poem if not a pomegranate; if not a salad?

Monday, January 14, 2019

The red feather

in calligraphy.  It knows only verbs.  Imagine such a meal?  Such a poem?  Some women dress as if they are all verb; others perhaps, prepositions.  Now imagine shoes.  Red, of course.

Sunday, January 13, 2019

The eye dreaming


of the sea and within modest walking distance, a park large enough to traverse three neighborhoods in a diverse city.  Look, the eye is intent; the sea will make much of the unconscious.  Look again, there is a bench of questionable design, but a bench nevertheless.  It is best to sit-out such happenings. Happy for you, if you packed a tuna fish sandwich, apple, a thermos of tea.  But if you didn't no worries, you never forget pen & paper, do you?

Saturday, January 12, 2019

New Year is liquid, hopeful & mysterious


Much like this beautiful koi moving effortlessly (to me but not to the fish) through liquid memory. What flashy fins to dance in the New Year.  This beautiful koi and its kin reside at Oakland Art Museum.  A perfect place to take in some history, some beauty, some push back against the traditional, and always, always surprises.  Much like being in the kitchen.  Much like a few words forming an haiku.  Ah ha!