Tuesday, June 18, 2019
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.
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?
Wednesday, May 29, 2019
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?
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
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.
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
Wednesday, May 15, 2019
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
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
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
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
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
Tuesday, April 23, 2019
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
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
Thursday, April 18, 2019
Wednesday, April 17, 2019
Tuesday, April 16, 2019
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
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
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
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
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
Monday, March 25, 2019
Saturday, March 23, 2019
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
Tuesday, March 19, 2019
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
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
Tuesday, March 12, 2019
Sunday, March 10, 2019
Friday, March 8, 2019
Thursday, March 7, 2019
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
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
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.
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.