The phenomenon of white fur clouds

inside a lit petal.  Fleeting yet palpable.  An occurrence at liminal time.

As one year closes, one opens. So may your reading, may your writing be delicious.  May your soufflés hold their form & may you be hopeful.

Stars are seldom straight-forward;

centers frequently, fractal.

The same is true of the dish awaiting the meal or paper annunciating a poem.  Stars and centers.  Let's leave stripes to sort themselves.

Pine cone as tree; bulb as moon

And the tree rooted in water & anchored by blue glass beads.  The realms connect much as story webs people as community.  And we all know, the kitchen creates community -- one potato at a time. And where are the stars, you ask?  In each & every pen.

The window is never just a window

It's narrative, family history.  It's the past told in the vernacular.  The future waiting on the hill.  A recalled scent.  The smell of soup.  The word forgotten which still & is lingering.

When do we ever get to the center

and when do we know?  More to the point, why is that so important?  What's wrong with the edges?  The fringes?  Tonight the moon was cloud-frayed. And so especially enticing.  A meal for the senses. A poem, awaiting for the beloved.  

What captures our imagination?

Let's begin with stars and their symbolic shape.  And that symbolic shape's meaning. Recognizable and yet so personable.  Like a hand which is so like spoon.  Like feather which is so like a pen. Like a twig which, as we all know, is a pen.  Star, spoon & pen.  Let's hope.

Pollen is all-knowing

all-seeing.  Has its pulse on the longevity of beauty.  Like a family recipe preserved by using.  Like a pen treasuring in the using.

Something is being unwrapped

and that something it fresh & lovely.  Will be treated as treasure.  Perhaps something to adorn the kitchen.  Perhaps will inspire a haiku.

A secret of trees:

they love jewelry, especially that which sparkles & shimmers.  Kitchens love glasses which gleam.  Paper loves ink that saturates; that brings in night.  

Chimichurri -- the word itself it a mouthful of joy

Chimichurri -- Argentinian pesto. This time with a twist and not lemon.  Made with minced carrot tops.  Olive oil, rice vinegar, dried oregano and basil, fennel seed, garlic, black pepper, salt.  Toast a slice of baguette, spread goat cheese, top with chimichuri & pomegranate seeds.  Have you noticed that color is poem.  

What a heart of a nose

Amazing what a walk brings into focus.  Wooden yet so alive.  Makes me think of the aliveness in a good, well-used wooded spoon.  Or a pen. Both spoon & pens create food to inspire & nourish. And the best way to carve a smile.

Kitchen closed but will reopen

 haiku -- September 30, 2003 - December 11, 2017 

haiku today & tomorrow & lucky 13

Tomorrow, it's purely celebratory.  haiku was adopted on 11/30/04.

Ah, haiku's jade-green eyes.

Sometimes it's the thin stream of blue ink

which keeps you afloat.  And where does it comes from?  Somedays from the sky into a watery depth.  Sometimes from the unconscious, upward.  And sometimes, it's pure horizon.  A body at rest.

Meals are like this, too.  And while we're on slippery subjects, aren't reflections liquid pools of tar?Others might suggest, ink of squid.  I'm fine with either.

Your guess as good as mine

But isn't she fetching?  Force for the good.  Pele?  Demeter?  Grab a pomegranate or a bunch of beets.    Fix them for sharing.  While the beets roast and just after washing your hands of pomegranate  paint, put down words on a page.  See what happens.  And in the waiting...?

Autumn looking forward and back

The orange season.  Pumpkins, squash, orange-red leaves.  At its core, persimmons are the building blocks of an autumn kitchen.  And to poetry, imagine that.  Every third poem has a wink to persimmons.  Every six, pomegranates.  Just do the math.

Sometimes an abstract is all the landscape I need

The poinsettia returns as an abstract across an abstracted landscape.  The heart of it really.  Like the properly-weighted verb in a sentence.  Like a twist of pepper -- not too much, not too scant -- in the soup.  How carrots allow themselves to become part of the abstracted landscape of a soup or stew.  Clouds are the perfect model for such thinking.

Is this a toy

or a very specific and practical tool?  Perhaps you never see but if it wasn't invented the simple would not function?  Ball bearings?  Makes me think of writing.  Without a pencil and its progeny, which  words would have gone unwritten.  Without a mirror, which masks, silent.  Think of the kitchen as a laboratory of invention.  Spoons, spatulas, strainers, saucepans.  Moving away from the beguiling "s" sounds -- can openers, mandolins, rice cooker, knives.  You get the point  No pun intended.

Look deeply

look closely, you might see the star-center of a persimmon.  Or you might see the abundant body of a pomegranate.  Or both.  When you read a poem, can you see the shadow of revisions.  Can you hear all the out-takes?  And in soup, can you identify the mysterious ingredient or what the cook left out?  And if she did so on purpose, why?

Moving

into or out of.  So liquid, perhaps our fingerprints are unreliable witnesses.  Feels like a train station ready for an unexpected journey. The packed spoons, pens & notebooks are not those which will be used on this journey.  Implements & instruments -- anew.

Sometimes it's about what you are seeing

when you are not seeing.  Call it memory.  Call it dream.  Call it kindness.  Soon a spoon arrives. Soon you reach for the pen and see the paper.  Soon, simply you walk.

Memory as a wreath

Ah that poinsettia won't let go of memory.  It circles & encircles.  It wreaths memory.  Like needle does thread.  Like pen finishing off an "I."   Like spoon in and out of split pea soup.  Here memory has the hopeful tinge of pomegranate, don't you think?   Sheer abundance.

The state of a poinsettia's memory

I wonder about the state of a plant's memory.  For instance yesterday's poinsettia.  Is its memory firm/grounded as its roots?  Perhaps, pervasive?  Or liquid as time & properties of water?  Is it dissolving to sleep or rising?   The same can be asked of a poem.  The same can be said of a meal -- does it rise from the plate or is it resting before the eater's expectations?

More life-gifting than Santa Claus

In the Mission District of San Francisco -- poinsettia.  Stop walking and listen to the story.  The man who is painting a small pink canvas in his driveway tells me the poinsettia was formerly the root above and migrated to a trunk next to to the original.  He's lived there for 29 years and it flowers every year about this time.  Walking is a banquet for the eyes and posies for the page.   Keep walking.  Keep looking down.  Keep looking up.  Keep a blank page & pen nearby.  

The clarity water brings to a dream

especially when the dream requests a glass of water.  Especially, when the meal is served with liquid nectar such as water.  Especially when the dream invites otherworld succulents.  For what is a dream if not otherworldly clarity.  Sounds like a meal coming together.  Sounds like a poem being offered cool water.

The simple isn't

simple nor what is expected.  By the way, which is more crevice like -- a split in concrete or a vein? How does water hold together as a circle:  self-contained & perfect?  How many line breaks in this image and what influence does it exert upon the next meal?    Combining the dry with the wet is an art form -- culinary & in watercolor.

Birds among the squash

This is widely known:  birds are sentinels.  But what do we know about Winter squash? Here's a tidbit rarely shared:  Winter squash always show up in force for a carnival and consider themselves a self-contained casserole.  Consider that.  Consider, placing your next 23 poems inside a hallowed-out squash which you have just prepared for baking.  Oh my.  How those words will taste.

Tapas and the tip of a conch

and squashes for days.  Because these are the days of Winter squash and no discontentment. Carrots, too, aplenty.  And essays to feed the soul; in particular Mary Ruefle's "Madness, Rack and Honey." Go for it and never apologize for being sentimental again.  Thanks, Beverly, for the top photo.

Fall and the fate of the birdbath

Clearly, gone to the turkeys.   Or, gone with the turkeys.  So much depends on a preposition.  Much like a twist of pepper.  A line break.  Ah, when to use (judiciously) the semicolon.  And then, there's those fallen leaves.  What are they?

Beauties

The loss of figs is the advent of Fuyu persimmons.  Slice them -- 8 petals to lead you to beauty. Even the word persimmon, is a poem.

Yes, temples dream

a kaleidoscope
roof & sky
a fractal web
and just now
you stepped
into that dream
why are you wearing
shoes?  And what
sweetmeats will you offer?
Which poem recited?

The temple swallows the mountain

No sleight of hand.  Just a delft touch of the alchemical to create a tasty eye-soup.   Poems are like this -- tasty & colorful and always respectful of sky & mountain.

Some food by its shape

is pure comfort food.  Winter squash for sure.  Rooted and sturdy with insides that surprise & beguile made sweet by roasting.  Which is what certain words dish up, too, as poems.  I'm thinking editing a poem tries to get to the inherent savory and/or sweetness.  A kind of roasting, I'd say.  

Top left:  Blue Ballet Squash -- new to me.  Yummy!

Yes, there are no figs left

and yet the seasonal has a way of addressing absence & its ensuing lament.  Pomegranates.  The word itself is a poem.  Even without the thrill of its 613 seeds, the pomegranate is a joy to behold.  Fecund and juicy.  Fall is spilling.  These beauties picked by Bev from her brother's tree.  Wow!

A spin on the chicken & egg conundrum

we know
where the feather
lands
it calls "nest"
the same can be
said
of spoon & soup
pen & paper.
Meanwhile
the frittata --
stridently yellow --
needs eating

Newest best friends from Tehachapi

Maya
Boomer
Ashmee
Sasha
Gita

a litany of blessings
animals are the perfect poem

Today's gift is 14 years old

precocious
intellectual
debonair
raconteur
incorrigible
imp

& about his 14th
haiku has this to say:
no e-cards
no funny hats
no age-related jokes
above all don't write/read me a poem
just bring ahi-grade tuna & don't stay for dinner

Trees deserve stars, webs and jewelry

especially hand-made, hand-crocheted.  The nights/mornings are cooler, you know.  This reminds me of many things including those petite nests that swaddle Asian pears.  What do poems deserve?  Poems deserve to be read; deserve to be heard.  A bit of jewelry never damaged a poem.

Red is an indicator

attract and repel.
Artichoke has a bit of that, too.
Beets not so much.
Which words both attract & repel?
Which words are red?