Tuesday, June 18, 2019

Hexagon


and what supports it?  Night's hands & a memory of sky.  Remember, colors are memories' gestures as much as taste.   As much as a pronouncement of nouns & verbs which as we all know is an international cuisine.

Whippersnapper


Sometimes, the poisonous calls our name.  A ripening nightshade.  An act of benevolent nature. The name Whippersnapper says it all with gleefully anticipation.  All that remains is -- taste.  And the koan -- how many cherry tomatoes make a salad?

When a red thread is involved


language is music and music is language.  At the center, an invisible spoon quietly stirs all the word-gestures of the day.  And night.

Wednesday, May 29, 2019

A passing glance is no snapshot



but impressionistic, for sure. I think of ingredients
before the meal is created.  The alphabet before a poem
created, before the poem spoken.  Of course, this is
a Mother-in-Law plant which I have always called by
its popular name -- snake.  Anyone remember poetry
at Forked Tongue?

Restraint


& the otherworldly.  Similar to punctuation & a poem, don't you think?  Knife to bread as bread gives up the notion of being single.  

The underlying language


Call it subtext.  Call it creative inference.  Call it the poem about to coalesce. Call it supper.  This amount of mango & tomatoes will be yummy.  And look the sky is blue.  The gray?  Just someone passing by.

Saturday, May 25, 2019

I see new growth


might as well be new shoots on the flowering jasmine.  But then again, I'm drawn to black ink, black coffee & an unwavering love of concrete.  Love the surface of concrete.  Much depth there.  Like layering flavors in a salad.  Or arranging words into a petite poem beginning with "thus."  Or ending.

Something old reimagined


Coffee, tea & spoons.  My newest gesturing-meditation -- the spoon.  As object, as metaphor.  Perhaps as the latest in pens.  The paper?  Liquid & very coffee-ish.  I'm realizing, a spoon is a marvelous conveyance for poems, don't you think?

Tuesday, May 21, 2019

Seeing through rock



All you have to do is move your feet.  It's elementary.  Elemental.  Fundamental as carrots.  Cut them -- slice, dice, on the vertical, on the horizontal, releasing veins of carotene.  All of this from just looking through a rock for the inside of a poem.


Wednesday, May 15, 2019

Sometimes the abstract makes demands


just like almost every cat I've met, ever loved.  Reminds me, too, of a new notebook as it awaits the first nouns, verbs, adverbs, prepositions and the traffic signals of grammar.  Or the lack thereof.  And what about the kitchen, you ask?  Well those new black & white luncheon-size plates, of course.

Tuesday, May 14, 2019

Joy of unexpected beauty


My friend Ann saw this bloom high up in a tree.  The tree -- so far unnamed -- laden with flowers.   You wouldn't see this from a car window.  Walking is essential to beauty.  As is chopping to cooking.  As is pen to paper.  Yup, blooming words.

Friday, May 3, 2019

Sometimes the text says it all


And all you need do is make yourself a cup of tea.  Toast would be welcomed.  Grammar will shepherd the poem.

Perhaps through conversation


Perhaps through sharing food, story, images or word. Beauty binds our most gentle parts.  Breath.

also kitchen drawer


also all those filled journals.  Tell me, who wrote them?  Remind me, how a meal gets put on the table?

It's comforting to see the center


All the reaching and all downward flowing to rooting also comforts.  I think of water boiling for pasta. I think of the sea and of magical jellyfish undulating.  I think of an audience hearing a poem, then a communal gulp and release of breath.  And I am grateful.  Is it any wonder, I want to feed my friends?  Do you have the address?

Monday, April 29, 2019

One hope doesn't cancel out another hope



The hope to seed and the hope to fruit don't cancel each other out.   Sunflower & tomato:  a fetching combo.  Think of cherry tomatoes & mozzarella  & basil & olive oil & balsamic served on a platter with design of giant sunflower.  Oh, yes, sprinkle some sunflower seeds on the top.  Have you considered that each recipe is in fact a poem waiting to be made.  Waiting to be eaten.

Friday, April 26, 2019

Composite


At least two sides put together.  Not quite the daisy.  More like garlic chives left to their joyous
happening. Great on eggs, in salads, on goat cheese.  Limitations are limited.  Not like the alphabet and the composite of a new petite poem.  And yes, these blooms, edible as is every word composed.

Thursday, April 25, 2019

Tracings & erasures


That's where the plot hangs its hat on.  That's where the spoon rests.  That where the poem begins.

Tuesday, April 23, 2019

With leftovers (inspired by a friend)


Roasted multi-colored potatoes & zucchini with red onions are the bed.  And why can't eggs be pillows?  Sun-filled.  Decorated with French tarragon, of course.  On a square plate of a Paris icon.  Imagine this,  breakfast dwarfs the Eiffel Tower.  I'm rethinking the eggs as petite poems, too.(Thanks, Kim).

Saturday, April 20, 2019

A name is never static


Although you might not suspect the direction it will take.  Nor what it gathers.  How it might reflect more of its journey than you imagined.  Is this a metaphor for friendship & the sharing of food?   Is this the mouth & ears ready to name a poem?  And to edit?  Why not name it yourself.  

Friday, April 19, 2019

Gone


How can such lushness be so fleeting?  Can the taste of a perfect meal exist only in memory? How can unwritten lines of a poem fall like cherry petals?  How can a name slip the tongue?

Thursday, April 18, 2019

A prism seeing itself in the evening



Sometimes you need a title to get the gist.
Sometimes you need to see the entire recipe to get a feel for the dish.
Sometimes you need to read only one line to love a poem.

Wednesday, April 17, 2019

Spring's eye candy



Rhododendron.  Showy as dahlias.  Profuse.  Seemingly unstoppable.  Reminds me of colorful food from a happy kitchen.  Poems from daily prompts, continuing to scent National Poetry Month.

Tuesday, April 16, 2019

A moment of supreme contemplation


Indeed, supreme.  Attention always increases attention.
Like eating the perfect salad and knowing in the pulling together the salad will be the sum of its perfect parts -- perfectly.  Poems haven't quite caught on to a salad's ability; however, attention is required for salad making, poem making, and kitty loving.  P.S. This supreme meditator is aptly named Sweetie.

Monday, April 15, 2019

Bark as medium


Each cluster on the bark of this redbud is a spot worthy of lingering of saying "wow." Like in the kitchen when alchemy's mayhem happens.  As when a few words on a page coalesce to make a dandy, petite poem.

Friday, April 12, 2019

3 instances of promise




A trio of hope.   Spring is the fullest palette for hope.   Perhaps, this year the Meyers lemon will produce fruit.  Maybe not.  By the way, what do an empty notebook and a favorite wooden spoon have in common?  Promises served-up.

Thursday, April 4, 2019

Mecca



for poets, poetry and those who love to listen.  Gone but always, remembered like the taste of Spring asparagus.  Like a favorite line of poetry recalled, recited.  On the fourth day of National Poetry Month & with gratitude to Nancy Keane.  

Thursday, March 28, 2019

Even in paintings, flowers are never quite still



Irises may be silent, but not stilled; too much pollen for that.  It can be exhausting to be in the eye of Spring; make sure to linger over a second cup of tea.  Stare out a window, don't be alarmed by surprise.  Tuck surprise into a corner of a pocket.  A snack for the journey ahead.  Time is always a journey, isn't it?  Remember, it only takes 26 letters in some-such combination to make a poem.

Wednesday, March 27, 2019

Brushes



Organic Spring brushes. Handles made from Manzanita bark.  Sufficient pollen to feed a tribe of bees, butterflies & hummingbirds.  Food for a poem -- a petite one, at that.  Comes with its own carrier.

Monday, March 25, 2019

The time of swirl


Spring:
tulips
iris
cherry-
blossoms
asparagus
& soon
fava beans

P.S.  The poem?   Always in the swirl.

Saturday, March 23, 2019

From the insect's perspective


the grid curves.  Prism refracts.  See the buzz of vibrating wings.  Each wing a mystery of spirals & stories, intersecting at the center.  You wonder, what was the insects last meal? Sticky & satisfying?  You wonder, will your next poem be such -- satisfying & sticky?  

Friday, March 22, 2019

Who doesn't desire


to be held in the curve of a vibrant plant?  Who doesn't want the feel & curlicue spirit of a farmers market?  Who doesn't love the gentle curve of a "p" or "o" or "e" or "m?"

Tuesday, March 19, 2019

Insects are impartial


to rain yet very fond of carrots.  Perhaps, that's a secret that we may wish to protect.  Also, insects love ink, how it leaves the insect's signature everywhere -- in swirls, in smudges.  Science is finally proving that insects can be traced in the hinge word in petite poems with at least six legs.

Saturday, March 16, 2019

Spring and the spiraling of its energy


Can't you see, can't you feel Spring's turbulent growing?  Each compression of each spiral, you sense soon it will reverse and everything which is budding will burst into bloom.  Similar to plating fresh tomatoes (soon) with fresh basil & mozzarella, a drizzle of olive oil, a twist & turn of pepper.  Stand back for the poem to spiral onto the page.

Wednesday, March 13, 2019

Wishful thinking


It's asparagus time and yet I am wistful for persimmons.  There's the mouth trying to summon the taste of Fuyus.   Much like trying to remember a line of poetry you crafted while walking in the farmers market.  The line is gone by the time you reach for those carrots.

Tuesday, March 12, 2019

When the entire room becomes a wreath


Braided & swirled like all good soups.  Like a poem.  Remember in all of this, there are windows.  Poems are especially smitten by a good view.

Sunday, March 10, 2019

Alphabets


Letters.  Colors.  Textures.  Smells.
What is seen is what is tasted.
What is seen is the poem.

Friday, March 8, 2019

What flows in


what flows out and who witnesses these occurrences.  Much like stirring soup.  Much like stirring a poem.  Now, where did I put the ladle?

Thursday, March 7, 2019

Not what you might expect in the kitchen


Perhaps not what you might expect in a poem.  Graphic arts?  Could happen.  Coming into the silence of snow which others call space.  Have you noticed, no lack of words for what you can't describe? Probably that's how recipes & the paring of wine have become so poetically complicated.  So poetically complicit?  Oh somebody, just hand me a haiku.  Right now.  A spoon, too, to stir something.

Tuesday, February 26, 2019

Two eyes


Taking in every aspect of a room from inside and outside.  That is precisely what food does when it is lovingly cooked -- although I've never read that in a cookbook.  And why not?  Two eyes also edit every poem.  Once eye on what's there.  One eye, looking at what's absent.  With both cooking and writing a poem, a reliable window is a good thing.

Vacillate


between knowing this place like my left hand and having no memory even a hint of ever being here.  No question, this place about to reorganize.  Most likely to move in a circular manner. Ceiling fan? Wooden spoons in the kitchen stirring large pot?  A pen writing icy words across noncommittal paper?  Probably as much as your dream as anyone's.  Hold on, I feel a shift about to occur.

Monday, February 25, 2019

At least once


you have been here.  See, they saved your signature.  The pen you thought you lost.  Your favorite wooden spoon brought back from Paris.  Not by you.  Much is not by you.  More by the confluence
of light & water.  Spirals aplenty.  But of course.  You would almost be comfortable if you found one of your footprints.  Fingerprint.

With five pairs


how much land would I cover in one hour? That presupposes that the shoes are not in conflict. One path, one direction.  Much like a recipe but then again you can tastefully derail from any recipe.  That's a given.  You can tastefully derail from any line on a page -- any string of words -- whether pink or not.  Check-out the strawberries at anklebone.