Pensive, regal, impish

all three of our dear friends have taken up residence in the cosmos.  As this year ends and the new begins, Dumbledore, Sweetie and haiku are remembered.  They have always had the last word in Lauren's and my heart. 

Bumbershoot

An organic & perhaps edible bumbershoot.  2020 has been a year when we needed bumbershoots daily so the toxic fallout harmed us less.  Perhaps, 2021 will be the year we need bumbershoots because rain is judiciously falling upon all.  Just a thought.  Just an intention.  Just a prayer.  
 

Neighbors

This little charmer is my neighbor, Mao.  Playful, affectionate & full of kitty Meshuga.  Deliciously curious. Trills, too. One of the highlights of 2020 was caring for Mao for a week while Marianne travelled.  Cats are kinetic poems for sure as sure as I was filled by tender memories of Dumbledore, Sweetie and precious haiku who was/is the imp-extraordinaire.  

Alone but not lonely

During this pandemic it's about separate yet together.  Trees are miraculous.  I think of trees as that liminal space between sky & ground.  A canopy for creative spirits. When a tree shakes its leaves, I am showered with petite poems. By the way,  I think of Zoom as a tree, do you?
Speaking of miraculous, I think of hands as the first spoon.

Drawing meaning

How do you write with an alphabet unknown to you?  Can you coax meaning from a sidewalk?  From canvas?  From paper?  Is the kitchen a fluid alphabet awaiting knife & spoon?  Grab me some carrots will ya.  Salad or poem -- what's the difference?

 

The longest catnap imaginable

what shall we name her

what shall she name us?

if I didn't know the word

for persimmon, would I be

so smitten by the Fuyu

if the word haiku were unknown

would I love short verse

would my fingers not know

how to pet my cosmic cat?

Navigating to center

the center of what

is the question

or, perhaps, 

the concern
of centrifugal 
forces
seeking
conjunction

of star

or stain?

Somewhere a bird

implicated
memory of wing
& song
fleeing, of course
yet impregnated
the moment

Elusive and tangible

light

thought

memory

A button among lichen

a eucalyptus button that is masquerading as a fastener.  And lichen masquerading as lace.  Everything is exactly what it is and exactly something else.  Simultaneously.  Mysteries are remarkable, common occurrences.  A poem as food.  Food as poem.

Shadow upon shadow

no message left

no message expected

no message

simple this mystery
although light
implicated

Fall is falling

and in some places has fallen

 time & gravity are implicated 

time for a cup of tea & consider

each leaf an haiku 

Liquefaction

Of course, I'm thinking of Robert Herrick's poem, "Upon Julia's Clothes." Also, thinking of the alchemy of sauces simmering and their corresponding fragrances.  Suddenly, I'm grateful for blinking and blink poems, in particular.  

Encounter

I'd like to encounter, I'd like to enter the above in today's walk.  Or perhaps in today's dreaming.  A calm hopefulness.  The peace of the kitchen when all moving parts move in union.  When gestures on a page spell "grateful." Indeed, let's encounter the grateful.  

Texture

Is it possible to gesture a texture onto a page that might sound like a petite poem complete with folds & swirls?  Is it possible that the gesture above is what a spoon sees of itself as it stirs a fragrant & colorful soup?  By the way, what is the texture of gratitude?  Or what does the gesture of gratitude look like?

Nestled

sweetmeats for insects

sweetmeats for eyes

isn't that similar

to cooking

or coaxing 

a poem

onto a sheaf

of paper

Who knew trees had tongues

Of course, we all know now that trees communicate.  If only, we listened.  Of course, I have to ask whether trees can talk in tongues.  

Not just the circle

but that which encircles

texture & shape

tether each other

the spoon stirs

swirling the soup

or the brush

draws circles

& is the circle

how any alphabet

is both background

& foreground

Owls in the folds

is this dream or fantasy

& when it spins

what will be 

for breakfast

will feathers fly?
will pens & ladles soar?

The Goddess in a Tree

in an equator of light/in a diagonal of light 

what I embrace today embraces me

with spoon & pen enough

Yup, the season of wonder

& sweetmeats galore

I know they will not last

but right now 

the soul in my mouth

is glad & this gift

from a friend's tree

is volume of verse

 

The rose learns to flamingo

party of color

banquet of movement

the photographer

puts down her camera

the haiku-ist picks up

the slack

This red won't last

nor does it have to

the nature of seasons

                                                                                     transitory

& returnable

as the return

fava beans

fresh corn

peaches

& plums

favorite

phrase

techniques

                                                                          of stirring

                                                                                        sauteing 

Petite & simple

and necessary

the other side

of everything

I think of spoons

in particular

or the feel 

of the perfect

pen

Is it possible to truly appreciate

what 

you

can't

name?

Zebras

real and mythical make me smile

with a clarity that often eludes

or perhaps, it's my love of black ink

on white paper or thin slices of onion

Versatility

olive oil

ricotta

figs

walnuts

parma 

mint

pepper

appetite

for texture

desire

for words 

Even at night

a sprig of mint refreshes, resets the senses

Splash

certain words

grasp

& release

the taste

of melon

or raspberry

in a blink

I think 

of haiku

the cat

of course

Tango with paint

day paints over night with the most colorful swirls

sherbet-on-the-go

don't trifle with this thought

to do so can affect your dreams

Something inexplicable

about red & purple
grapes & apples
day turns into evening
your hand holds
nothing
a pen
can't bear

Sweetie

 RIP

10/20/2020

Something hopeful is rising up

angle the mirror

no, a little more to the left

more to the left

yes, just there

the skies are turning

blue

Spun

centrifugal 

force

& the will

to fly

is this 

akin

to the desire

words have

for the page

the desire 

carrots

feel 

to be 

slimmed

to slivers 

or simply

the desire

for something

bracingly 

cool 

Faces of the season

Keep the window ajar

Invite the ripe inside 

Invite words to ripple & flow

I love jazz in the afternoon

late afternoon with coffee. Perhaps, a Walker shortbread. The air inhabited by color. Green & blue. Always red. Some hues linger. When the line works, the heart holds on. A word or two, remembered. 

Something you could slide off of

words

gestures

perhaps

the front of

a menu 

promising

cool 

satisfaction

yes

cool

very

An olive being

overtaken

perhaps

nibbled

perhaps

this is

a haiku

becoming 

Space wears a hat

on Monday

by Wednesday

the feather is quite

pronounced

no reservations

required

what you choose

to eat, what you

choose

to write 

gravity 

determines



You might imagine

a star breaking through night.  Or you might image night holding a star in place.  The rose color is pure Baziotes, and always welcomed.  Although this is not his style of gesturing.  Perhaps it's beets giving up their red to ricotta.  Obviously, the poem waits on the kitchen counter.  

I prefer mint green

as ice cream not in clothes.  And especially not in poems.  On the other hand, black is always welcomed with its mysteries & promises.

Fungi encircles eucalyptus

By itself this fungi would be spectacular.  Knowing it has made a eucalyptus branch its anchor and won't give up is magic. Fungi encircles eucalyptus and everything, everything connected.  Take that thought into the kitchen.  Make up a poem to celebrate.  
 

Moving into evening with vegetation

What we choose to see is what we see.  The same is true with cooking.  The same with gesturing in words.

magic

 is

measured

by

speed

of

color

blinking

or

when

a 

crow

sneezes

or 

when

night

tangos 

Reacquainted with pink

As a child, pink was of no interest and yet now, it swims gently toward your eyes.  I prefer pink radishes to red.  However, with poetry red always wins my favor especially if shoe, involved.  

Halved

This is the work of shadowed reflection.  Like only one side of a spoon. Half the alphabet.  Is it any surprise, here are no ripe tomatoes left?