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?