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.