Space is an invitation

for tenacity and greening.  For a void to be made lush.  What better definition of a poem filling a page.  Or asparagus on a white plate.  Tenacious and greening where boundaries are communal space brimming with healthy surprises.

Breakfast is meant to be left

over.  As in leftovers.  Vibrant leftovers.  And unexpected so the eyes taste color and the mouth sees the poem.  Look, look -- that haiku-like, star-like poem in the center of golden beets, cherry tomatoes, avocado, walnuts.  And what you don't clearly see -- a sea of cooked black rice.  What could be more forbidden?  More delicious?  Well, this morning's sunrise!

2/25
this morning the sky
was shouting your name
I have no reason
why

Don't tell me, you haven't seen an orange with a blue eye?

When does the I see?
What does the I see
when it sees orange slices?
Do any two people see
a bowl of orange
slices the same way?
How do you slice
a sentence?  Or
a question? And why
not?

Read. Resist

and write!
Cook food;
share.  Laugh
often and boldly.

This rainbow is prism & shadow

Nothing less than heart. Same with a poem that bends light and snuggles the dark.  Light & dark. For six months, I think we should call it lightdark.  Then for next six months, darklight.  And every month, we should all be rainbow watchers. Of course, keep the penpaper (or is it paperpen) handy.

A table is a galaxy of conversation

a prism where every part of speech is vibrant.  Is heard.  Is written.  And the mountains?  Ancient witnesses.  Elegant eavesdroppers.  And water? Libation & baptism.  Fury and meditation.  

What the dream sees as it awakes

She insists the narrative won't become clearer.  She won't put on a sweater.  She won't remove the pearl necklace.  She refuses avocado for the third straight day.  She knows time is never straight, bends away from light.  Bends into the dark.  She mourns that red coat with a black velvet collar. She pines for a persimmon.  She becomes impatience for asparagus.  She knows she will never own another red coat with a black velvet collar.  Now she knows why every dark moon will speak her name as if the title of a poem.

What creates the intersection of image & word?

The answer is simple.  Light, of course. Because a question always begets another, we see the image above and what words are appearing?

And the intersection of image & hunger?  What will you eat for breakfast? And what will the image of avocado on toast inspire in words.  Something green & buttery.

2/19/17  on misreading a line

all else is butter

Companions

a lizard walked into a patio and found the spine of a snail quite comforting.  a good place to soak up the sun.  the spine of the snail seemed to be okay with it.  much like a spoon is okay with stirring soup.  the pen left in the spine of a book soaks up a poem

An iris goes incognito

in its next dream.  It dreams itself an abstract so it no longer has to hear everyone who walks by say, "Look at that yellow iris."  In the dream the bearded iris does all the seeing.

This reflects a poem's experience, too.  A poem wants to do the seeing and wants to be seen as as the sum of its abstraction.  Where exactly is a poem's iris?

Now shall, we move on to contemplate beets?

Gratitude and grapes

Sure, there's sugar in grapes.  Indisputable.  There's also gratitude.  Just take in that uplighting spirit, reaching for the light.  And if these remind you of kidney beans?  Good.  Who hasn't been grateful for a well-seasoned bowl of beans.

Since it's Valentine's Day, here's a poem -- a tad dark, perhaps?  Let's stretch for the light and call it a pillow poem.

as usual I left
the valentine on your pillow
I no longer believe
the dead can't read

Volunteer

Among the planned, the landscaped, comes the lone volunteer.  I'm gaga for iris, in particular, the bearded ones.  Probably the first flower that captured my delight in the otherworldly.  Speaking of imagination, the iris below contemplates its stem in water.

I'm thinking of lunch and what bulb-like food, which tuber might tempt me.

This morning during a quietly spectacular sunrise, I sketched (with words) a rather darkish valentine. For some reason I want to tell you that.