Saturday, October 19, 2019

Time is best seen at daybreak


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

Seen in normal light


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

Pumpkin time


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

When pens become triangles


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

Where is this going?


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?

Never forget the edges,


the margins.  Or the shadows.  This is true with cooking.  You taste what you don't see.  This is true with a poem -- you taste what has been editing away.  Fragrant, not fragile.

Friday, September 27, 2019

Glass, light


 & ink.  Delicious trio.  I've never been one to favor squid ink.  Are you?  For me gestures in black ink inspire.  Much like a  favorite wooden spoon darkened by use stirring a favorite stew.  Or those black rimmed appetizer-sized plates.

Thursday, September 26, 2019

Imagine this pond


from the goldfish's perspective.  Or the rocks's.  Or the flowering lilies.  At home, consider the meal from a fork's perspective.  Tell me, is a poem under the surface of a blank page and the pen needs only to sculpt away until all which is left is essence?

Wednesday, September 25, 2019

Grain & face


We see the tangible in clouds, too.  Or in the landscape of food on a plate we remember where we've lived.  We read the fingerprint of the author in a poem.  Makes me smile.  How about you?

There is light in everything


& at the same time, dark.  Not 50-50, perhaps.  Why am I thinking of salt dissolving in soup?  Why am I remembered words removed from a poem?  Yup, light & dark.

Tuesday, September 24, 2019

Some bells ring to a different timbre


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.  

Not what but whom


If we padlock the cooks...
If we padlock the artists...

Monday, September 23, 2019

Subtly in drama



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.

Autocorrect "blogging"


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

Everything wants


to be touched.  To make contact.  Even at the points.  So whole cloth is spun even by its parts. Look, too, for the beginning of stars.  Others may see fields of crops with water sources within reach.  Does it matter.  Know this:  there can be food & words enough to share for all.

A signal to stop


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.

Friday, August 30, 2019

Unadorned


exquisitely
vibrant
quivers
quickens
startles
the breath
& gives it
back

the beauty
the eyes
take in
feed us
give us
words
for a life

Thursday, August 29, 2019

Same thing -- differently



It's a poem about mussels, about sensual love, about shadows.  About the forbidden.  Two visuals on the same text -- a softer approach and a rendition spoken from shadows.  Of course, salt has been added to the latter.

Tuesday, August 27, 2019

Tomatoes speak summer eloquently


in all her aspects, in all her shapes & colors.  Even the stems step up for the party.  Perhaps, I should write my poems in red ink. Perhaps, too much?  How about writing petite poems with an orange pigment?

Everything happens at night for a reason


just ask the light.  Just ask the spoon stirring the familiar nightly cup of tea.  Or the writing which happen at night for no particular reason.

Wednesday, August 21, 2019

This dream is remembered by its 4 parts



part metal
part water
part light
part movement

"& every preposition accounted for as is the copper pan," says the dream

Monday, August 19, 2019

Each story has some light


to tell about, to encourage the next step into.  Much like a spoon energies that which it stirs.  Like a pen making petite circles over a page to conjure the word; one pebble abutting another.


Sunday, August 18, 2019

Some ears are meant to hear


beauty.
Seasonal food --
tomatoes & corn --
mentors to teach the tongue about beauty.
A pen is a bud waiting to unfurl pollen on a page.

Saturday, August 17, 2019

A bud paints the flower


and titles it, "from the inside, out."
Write a 1 lines poem in pink ink which can be read left to right or right to left and which feels like a minimal epic.
Construct a meal where the desert tastes like an appetizer.


Thursday, August 15, 2019

Standstill is only a construct




Flux is the measure of time; the measure of one's life.
The measure of a favorite dish made with sweet carrots & onion
and the reason why the same poem tastes differently with each reading.

Wednesday, August 14, 2019

Not every precipice is striped red


Precipices are interesting how they command our expectations.  For isn't a precipice a vast, deep, steep falling off spot.  Now, consider the curb, i.e., a manageable precipice often with a color-coded warning.  Makes me think of carrots -- manageable sweetness.  Or the word "perhaps" in a poem:
a very, very manageable emotion.

Tuesday, August 13, 2019

Light is the constant ephemeral

Like salt dissolving in a dish.
Like a hyphenated word spicing a poem.  

Monday, August 12, 2019

Spiraling to center


Perhaps it's a meal coming together with the lush bounty of the season with intriguing parings of spices & herbs?  Or paper inviting just those apt mix of words to mend or upend and please the ears.  Palpable.  Pick up a spoon; pick up a pen:  just get out of your own way.

Monday, July 29, 2019

Detail


A microscopic approach versus the whole enchilada. Perhaps, not a dichotomy.  Consider, a dish that captures the spirit of an entire culture including its music.  A poem which incorporates the hand & heart of the writer.  The spoon which can trace the heart-line on the palm of the cook.

Overwriting


Or is it over-gesturing?  Someone familiar with fog will let me know.  For this is fog creeping into a page of gestures.  Much like red pepper flakes cropping up into a dish that looks -- before tongue tastes -- mild & even-handed.  The one who loves fog taught me to add red pepper flakes to poems.  I'm grateful.

Sunday, July 28, 2019

Set sail


yet tethered by sand.  Every conundrum under the sun.  Nothing like a good book to launch you on a celestial journey.  Or stay home:  roast vegetables, write petite poems.

A growing love of pink


and all its shades.  Also a growing love of root vegetables, especially beets. Carmelized. Makes me think of the beat of poetry.

Friday, July 26, 2019

Beauty in all things


in everyone.  Words are spoons to stir the spirit.  Especially older much-loved wooden spoons.

Sunday, July 21, 2019

Lights & rope


tether vaulted space.  Think of this: a page tethers words; a spoon, sauce.  Simple.  Words & sauce find they share a common physics in their desire to be tethered.

Saturday, July 20, 2019

Anticipation




The table will be set for you & your notebook.  The pen will be poised as the kitchen is poised to create for you a fig salad with beets.  You will not be disappointed in any aspect of this evening.
Including the walk home.

Friday, July 19, 2019

This is how a flower feels


when you rabbit-ear the page of book.    Flowers & books have so much in common.  Light, of course.  Appreciation, too.  And rain stirring thought.  Next, we should consider, stems.  How they resemble, pens.

Thursday, July 18, 2019

A jungle of letter As


waiting to be finished.  Waiting for the final stroke.  For the imbedded triangle.  Makes me think what carrots need to be finished.  Any vegetable, really.  Or any poem -- just that final stroke. Shaped beauty; shaped meaning.  Shape as form & function.

Wednesday, July 17, 2019

Just what it is


and nothing more.  Nothing less.  Satisfying as scrambled eggs on a white plate.  Or eight words on a page which shuttles time as best it can.

Tuesday, July 16, 2019

Erasure

or is something meticulously being dissolved?   Cooking & writing have much to say about these matters, don't you think?  Just ask sugar.  Or pencil.

Monday, July 15, 2019

What a detail sees


Sometimes it's the detail which captures us.  Perhaps, it's the other side of seeing which captures the detail. Now consider what a root vegetable sees?  Or what the lines in fine paper see as the pen decides what it wishes legacy to see.  Perspective is always personal; always imbeds a story or two.



Thursday, June 20, 2019

Willow magic


Sometimes, it's not the river which runs through.  What runs through everything is light.  And the absence of.  Beyond, another tree patiently defines distance.  Fills it with the assurance of an alphabet.  For aren't roots, alphabetic.  Aren't roots a kind of earth-soup?  

The word which doesn't come to mind


Modesty.  Modesty in flowers especially fried egg poppies.  Here the petals are shading the spent. If we had the life-force & innate intelligence of flowers, would we need our 26-word alphabet?Would we need spoons & knives in addition to our roots?

The color reminds me of a creamsicle


Remember them?  Cold sweetness on a stick.  These Banksia ashbyri are glorious and from the eyes' point of view, command the succulent landscape.  Like a pot of simmering soup engulfs the kitchen.  Like just the right word --no matter its size or hue -- enlivens the ear.  Yes, words are hue-full.

Fades to the left


and not a golf game.  What this is, isn't as important as the space it carves, creates, celebrates. Beings are flying upwards.  If there were a kitchen, it would be steam making its own heaven.  If if were the alphabet, it would be words on a swell trajectory.  Mindfully & inimally beautiful, of course.

Wednesday, June 19, 2019

Curves & verticals


and for good measure stars even when the sun burns and the moon appears a silvery orb.  It's all been charted before you were born and after you flow into the cosmos.  By the way, hazard a guess as to what's eaten for breakfast in the cosmos and/or what language is bartered.  Is there only one shared word for "amazement?"

Light burnishes




the rivet holding the copper table as if the finest meal is about to be prepared.  As when now I can't find words or analogy to express this one-time, had-to-be-there beauty.  Beauty is of the moment. Blink.  

Unlikely


is the one-word answer for why I love walking.  On every walk no matter the time nor the place, I encounter the unlikely but believable.  To celebrate a living detail is good life.  Akin to sharing a meal or finding words (or having them find you) which inspire.  Gratitude is naming the unlikely as believable.