Friday, August 30, 2019


the breath
& gives it

the beauty
the eyes
take in
feed us
give us
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

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.