Sunday, December 29, 2019
The end of the year signals the beginning of the next and almost always involves a window. Liquid art. What frames intentions better than a window. If you be lucky, a cat, too. Also, a piece of proper toast with olive oil will do nicely and coordinates well with any poem which may appear. Ring a bell for good measure.
Friday, December 27, 2019
No gesture can quite capture (nor should it) a center. Nor what flows from it. Mystery is just this
-- small as a sky, large as a pebble, and the source of each haiku. Think of this tonight, as you pour your best friend a glass of wine.
Some can only be named in the abstract and yet names & details are sources of beauty. Something to consider as you eat breakfast, as you place the next gesture to paper.
Wednesday, December 25, 2019
for this time of lights. For the time of moving inward. Now, you are ready to give up the waiting, the stillness. Your feet have never given up on their love of imbalance which leads to the great dance. Put on that silver bracelet with the garnet chip. Savor a spoonful of pomegranate seeds. Read a favorite poem before leaving the house.
There's something about trees in winter. Leafless. Vulnerable. Raw beauty. And yet, and yet, here are winter persimmons for the picking. And for the birds. Persimmon bread & cookies. An haiku unfolds in the highest branches.
Thursday, December 19, 2019
Soon, it will be Winter Solstice. That time to make time to center inward. Then, time to move outward. Much like a spoon does for soup. A pen to poem. Nothing happens before a still moment. Perhaps, beauty. Perhaps, grace. Yes, to both.
Sunday, December 15, 2019
Bark reflects the seasons as dramatically as new buds, as snow. Holds both tenderly in balance. Much like simmering red sauce does with steaming pasta. And always like that pristine black notebook waiting for the first gestures of a poem -- bark & all.
Thursday, December 12, 2019
Tuesday, December 10, 2019
whatever you wish it to be and/or become, it will. You can feel it unfolding. Like tasting a favorite sauce after taking-in its delicious smell. Like seeing words coalesce on the page into meaning that surprises, that delights. The fresh dance of what is and what will become.
Friday, December 6, 2019
Thursday, December 5, 2019
Is there any difference? The distinction between red radishes is putting a fine point to finger food, don't you think? Perhaps this is a reintegration of a red fox? Or the first line of a poem that you will edit well into the morning? Only the red fox knows, and she's moved on out of rain's hearing. And furthermore, has no interest in haiku.
Monday, December 2, 2019
It's enough to simply like something. To stop, look, smile. Or in any order you wish. Don't fret, the name will come as surely as your hand will reach for the perfect spice to season the dish. Yes, just as a pen trusts ink. Now, I remember, the name is "persimmon."
Wednesday, November 27, 2019
Sometimes it's looking down between your feet that inspires, that tosses you into the cosmos. And you are gleeful & grateful. Tomorrow is the Day of Gratitude. The turkeys are strutting unafraid, oblivious. And that's another blessing.
Tuesday, November 26, 2019
as pens. And clouds as ink. At the same time, trees can be knives slicing through a yellow heirloom tomato. Right now, I am missing heirloom tomatoes, are you?
Monday, November 25, 2019
everywhere, somewhere. In focus & sometimes slightly to the left of clarity. Reminds me a meal that didn't quite soar, didn't have the requested pizzaz. Or a line of a poem that only called in dried leaves and the withered. And yet, I have with relish harvested dried magnolia leaves this late harvest while remembering lush roses.
a life, a story splayed upon hard surface. I think of the hard surface of raw buttercup squash and a knife as its equal. I think of a fountain pen etching into fine rag paper. I think; I walk; I cook. I write.
Sunday, November 24, 2019
blue/violet Mid Season bearded iris. Unexpected this late in November. The unexpected brings beauty. I remember last night's citrus pie. Unexpectedly, light & fresh. I hope to be caught up in an unexpected word frenzy later this evening.
Saturday, November 23, 2019
Friday, November 22, 2019
Thursday, November 21, 2019
Wednesday, November 20, 2019
Absences of all kind fascinate me. I think of it as kin to convex and concave. Two sides of a spoon. A pen writing; a pen resting on a desk. Do you think benches hold the imprint of people? Is the same true of a pen, a keyboard?
Saturday, October 26, 2019
That's the reason for walking. Seeing things at eye level. Sometimes stooping is required. Pretend you are a pretzel but stop short of pain. When I walk, I pass into and through light. Not a shabby place to be. Much like cooking; always like writing a line or two. Here's the irony, I go outside to be inside.
those we eat & those from whom we build a bench. We sit and are given the opportunity to marvel at the simple, the organic. Who can explain the physics of why a simple wood grain can spark memories of family or can be the catalyst for the title of a poem?
Imagine walking in fond shoes, wearing a leather jacket with giant magnolia buttons or simply emptying your mind in something so otherworldly, it stops you in your tracks. What will you make for dinner? Which words become the next familiars?
Tuesday, October 22, 2019
especially a refrigerator. Stainless steel -- ah! the stories it can tell. Consider, the refrigerator as an alphabet. So tell me, what's for dinner? Are you editing in or editing out the carrot in that petite poem?
Sunday, October 20, 2019
is a canvas for interesting bric brac, for the unassimilated. For nouns of all sorts. Memories, too, including favorite recipes & phrases. All the disparate can be pulled together in a sentence, in a recipe. To be shared. To be served up.
Saturday, October 19, 2019
What else has dawned on me this morning?
The intrinsic beauty in what I see and say "lovely."
Playfulness of word order.
Joy in the non sequitur.
That persimmons have arrived. And are not at their best. But will be.
Friday, October 18, 2019
above ground. Calligraphy. What is being written is open to interpretation -- gnarled or gone underground. Reminds me to edit that poem -- again. Reminds me it's time to roast root vegetables.
Serve on a plate in evening light.
Thursday, October 17, 2019
Autumn is time's hinge. At it's center, you can see the moon working out the arithmetic -- necessary & beautiful. No different than baking squash. No different than editing a poem. In all instances, look toward the moon; herein lies wisdom. A tad of mischief, too.
Wednesday, October 16, 2019
what is being measured? Do nouns and verbs understand equidistant in a poem? How would a wooden spoon related to these conditions? The air is shifting; time, falling. Pens might just be the corral to hold us together.
Monday, September 30, 2019
from northeast to southwest? Or southwest to northeast. Which way will it be swiped? How does time influence this movement? Is weather involved? The advent of persimmons? The lessons of plums and pluots? How many poems will be read this morning?
Friday, September 27, 2019
Thursday, September 26, 2019
Wednesday, September 25, 2019
Tuesday, September 24, 2019
Silence is a blessed parcel of time. A gift of the journey inward. Like the meditation of cooking. Or writing one word then the next not knowing when a period might manifest.
Monday, September 23, 2019
Something are meant to be vibrant and some with a softer lens. Flowers are prime examples as they speak with light. When cooking, consider the light each ingredient offers. When writing, consider releasing the light on the page. Of course, reflections are a library in-and-of themselves.
to "belonging." Computer programs aren't soulless, are they? Think of a feather about to embark on another leg (or leaf) of its journey. Now consider the pit of a peach as a heart. Or consider a blank page as the canvas for conversing. FYI: the nickname for this bush is "the breath of heaven."
Friday, September 20, 2019
to brake can bring you closer. An invitation for a deeper reflection. When you were first learning to read, you knew this. Reminders along the way are to be encouraged. Consider, a favorite family dish. Or the first poet who spoke to you personally. Go ahead, make that dish; read that poet. Out loud, of course.