Circadian

Plants and their ongoing circadian conversation.  And I thought it was only the moon which whispers words to me. I will pay extra attention when I feast on an arugula salad later today. 

Celestial succulent

One of my favorite succulents enhanced through the app Circular.  Isn't she downright celestial? What's celestial in the kitchen?  Salt, though I'm not sure why.  The smell of roasting garlic with tomatoes with a splash of olive oil and pepper.  Bread baking, for sure.

In poetry, what's celestial?  A listening audience -- that's a given.

Random thoughts on bottlebrush trees

I'm lucky to live in a neighborhood lined with bottlebrush trees.  For the first time this week, I looked -- really looked -- at the bark.  Another source of textured joy.   Perhaps, the photo above is what the bottlebrush sees as me walking by. 

Anyway, makes me wonder what else I'm not deeply observing.  The texture of carrots, subtle ridges of a Persian cucumber, paper-skin of a garlic bulb.  Wonder is the juice of haiku -- both poetry & feline.  And most certainly, Pantone should create a bottlebrush red.

What's the color of conversation?

Ah! the 3 C's -- conversation, cooking, community.

Here a simple nasturtium dreams of evening.  Enjoys a quiet self-conversation as light changes.  As nasturtium becomes evening.

Same can be said of a meal.  Of a poem.  Definitely, a community.  I'm remembering Sunday.  Thanks aplenty and gratitude for the SF Peace and Hope Fest at ANEW Gallery -- thanks to herchurch, Stacy Boorn, Elizabeth Hack, Steve Eulberg, Al Young, Erica Goss, Deborah K. Tash, Roxanne Worthington, Elaine Drew, Patrick Cahill, Nancy Wakeman, Carolyn WarmSun, Philip Lewenthal.  Thanks to the greatest artists an artist may encounter -- a listening & receptive audience.  That's conversation.  And what is a meal if it can't be shared.  Art, if unseen, unheard?

Back to conversation, OK?  I'm thinking conversation is the most layered, textured and exquisite form of living ekphrastically.

Feel free to weigh in on this.  Share a poem.  Share a recipe.  Share a mentor's quote.  Become evening.

Doorstop

Sometimes what makes the ordinary, unsophisticated object luminous and mysterious is a cat. Haiku (the gorgeous and precocious kitty above) has said, "I've got my eye on all the landscape, all the geometry needed.  And a little known fact, I'm the patron saint of doorstops."

What of poem and plate, you ask?  A poem is just resting in light.  A plate is the geometric anticipation of food.

Confessions from one who loves red

Nevertheless, I am drawn to graphite;  I gravitate to gray.  Gray is such a perhaps-color, don't you think?  Perhaps, this is why I have had numerous love affairs with the word "perhaps."  By the way, there is little if any "perhaps" in my liking of food.  On that subject, I'm decisive. And with poetry?  I can answer that in a blink:

there is no "perhaps" when she wears red shoes

Spring is a spiral

with eyes which taste. Irises are first-messengers of greening spiraling out of Spring.
Then, think of asparagus, spinach, fava beans.  Each with its own geometry.  And, yes, with its distinctive taste. Poems are like this, too -- full of taste, full of geometry.

Interloper

Checking on the bearded iris this morning, I spotted this interloper.  Isn't she exquisite.  For some reason she reminds me of that delicious taste of eggs when the yolk is perfectly cooked.  

From yolk to love, of course.  And no, I wasn't punning on yoke and love.  It's probable that more love poems include a reference to roses than not.  Not scientifically proven, just a hunch.  A hunch like adding fresh red sorrel to eggs might be, if not downright exquisite, at least quite grand.

P.S.  The bearded irises are well.  Stayed tuned.  

What do the moon and a round table have in common?

There's mystery & invitation to both the moon & a round table.  You never quite know how the conversation will unfold.  Or which questions might be asked?  What answer, given?

For instance, what did the round table say to the rain this morning?  What did you ask of the moon last night?

It's been said you can't count the number of stars in a lifetime.  I say you can't count the number of haikus which the moon has sirened.

Eyes everywhere

from the balcony -- photo with app, Circular

There's more than one "I" especially when landscape looks at you.

The same can be said of potatoes.  But this usually goes unsaid and/or under the table.

I
eyes
potato

Speaking of potatoes, try this:

Roasted Roma tomatoes w/roasted garlic, splash of olive oil, black pepper, small Yukon gold potatoes (cooked), feta, dried herbs of your choosing @375 degrees

Yup.  Go ahead enjoy various types of nightshade as night cocoons you.

How the iris sees itself...

Sometimes, a title tells the entire story.
Sometimes, the title is the poem.  Sometimes,
one ingredient makes the meal.  And when
is the magic of a cat?  Always.

What does the eye of landscape see?

Does it see itself?
Does the time of day and the amount of light or lack thereof matter?
Does landscape's eye see the one who is paying attention? Or focus on those who aren't?
One could ask, what does the eye of a plate see?  Or the eye of paper?
My grandmother advised, "There is an eye just for ink; the other is shared by night and dawn."
How do you know this grandmother, I'd ask.  In that familiar shrug of shoulder
nudging away doubt, she'd say, "Pay attention to old trees and where & when crows alight."