Feeling a tad buoyant

contemplating the New Year.  Curiosity is afoot -- words & culinary.  Walking in all which-ways. Neighborhoods to explore.  Neighbors to meet.  Books.  Yes, books.  Always, books.  The taste of words.  The taste of carrots.  Perhaps, one last persimmon.  Please.

Glass has always intrigued me

especially a glass -- what it includes, what it excludes?  Of course, this is a celebratory chalice.  And just like poems & food cooking, sweating along the sides occurs.  Just that.

Aftermath

but of what?  And who is doing the seeing?  The retelling?  For time is a retelling, a reordering, isn't it?  And who were the last to gather around the table with memories of ripe juicy tomatoes and crunchy cucumbers?  And why has sun been so slim in recent poems?

Punctuation has a way of getting your attention

and not necessarily exclamation marks.  Or periods.  By the way, why do periods remind me of black pepper?  Why do commas remind me of spoons?  Why does gray & blue seem a perfect backdrop for a poem?  About changing light, of course.

substantial in all ways

& light explodes
as a plume worthy of a hat
or pen, and yes, captured by a lens
called eye.  Notice the wateriness
as if a celestial soup, sufficient,
substantial in all ways.

imagine a city

built
around
a tree

now imagine
yourself being
that tree

now
re-imagine
that city
swirling
around you

& only
this more
if that tree
were a spoon
or a pen

Whose logo?

Does not knowing matter?  Is this like adding an ingredient to a dish and wondering as it's being mixed it, if this will work?  And if it doesn't, there's no option to remove.  So unlike a poem where a word can be edited out and inserted back in all in the blink of an I.  So my ears tell me.

4 directions of persimmons

It's been an unstable season for Fuyu persimmons.  Gifts from a friend's tree  -- sweet & perfectly
persimmon in all ways.  Fufu in the markets -- problematic.  Poems are seasonal and open to the issues of being problematic.  And please never forget a poem has a calyx and wondrous seeds. Yes, seeds.

Where does one find the quiet, still space

Which signpost would be an indicator?  Is it physical space?  Or is this the action of beets taking over; making a splash on a plate?  Or in the spirit of Winter Solstice, did I mean pomegranate seeds?A pomegranate is the container for petite poems.  Simply, slice a pomegranate open and pry loose all those jewel-like words.

Tactile

Shredding bark of a eucalyptus, you can fall into their curve & crevice and pick up an old or new story along the way.  Eating a meal is a story-gathering activity; best when shared.  Of course, it's so obvious as almost unnecessary to state, writing a poem is a basket for stories -- storing & sharing.  There should be some food along the way -- especially a persimmon or two.

Intersecting hearts with stones

With a little help from an iPhone app, of course.  

Doesn't the kitchen get help (or magic) from salt & herbs?

Doesn't a line of poem become, because of the appearance of a crow?  

Or the gathering of stones?

Or a walk in a succulent garden?

Less than a week to Winter Solstice -- imagine that!

Observation as fact

Cats have two speeds -- in your face or aloof.  No criticism here.  Just observation as fact.

The same can be said of spiny succulents.  All milky and prickly.  The same can be said of artichoke tips and yet how soft & sensual their hearts.  Certain words are like that, too.  Visually strident with armor that protects the soft belly.  And as we have agreed before, each word can be a petite poem.  Think of it as a tasty tidbit.

But of course...

jellyfish.  

Delicate danger.  

Seemingly effortless undulations.  

Cloud-like.  

And all which sweeps into can become food.  

Being open to the environment -- that's what a poem is about.  

What we look through to see out the other side

eyes through glasses.  Now, I'm thinking slots in a spoon.  Pasta water.  I'm thinking how petite poems are not bows as much as petals.  I'm thinking that a favorite ceramic plate can curve with the best of light.  Yup.  I'm thinking.

Submerged

The cut tree trunk oozes -- liquid reflection.  And the red? A marker for something now forgotten  or made useless.  Perhaps, a punctuation mark.  Why now am I thinking of the liquid from cooked pasta flowing down the kitchen drain?  Or all the words that bled off a page all these years?  Where do these written gestures end up?

What is this?

Don't know but the unable-to-name intrigues pushes me toward a center -- familiar & unfamiliar.  Both ancient & contemporary. Like words, colors are doors & windows.  What am I opening?  What, closing?  In which direction will the wind blow?  

A party of some sort

which makes me think of the gap between party & celebration.  Between food & dinner.  And yes pink food -- beets in yogurt for sure.  Watermelon & watermelon radishes.  OK, OK, canes. By the way, when does a list burst forth as a poem.

Hard to tell whether

going or coming.  What weather will be encountered.  Whether or not it rains, determines the soup likely to be made.  The word "likely" is a technical weather-word.  Like "perhaps" in a poem. Yes.
Yes, sometimes images reappear & latch themselves to different words.  It happens.

This reminds me of nothing

but itself.  A life described in a children's picture book -- sans language.  But then, color is a language.  Much as cooking.  Of course, writing. especially a petite poem, is playing with color fields, for sure.

Language of winged ones

Or the music of Satie.
Or both.
A sound salad
of the most yummy.
For the hungriest
of ears.

Memory

is never truly abstract at least not for long.  Embodied, sensual. seasonal.  Lamenting figs, I slice a persimmon and the mouth reconnects with pleasure almost forgetting the Early Girl tomatoes have
fled.  Slipped from memory as a line of poetry unwritten.

Forming

or perhaps dissolving.  Perspective is all.  But perhaps we can agree on the beauty of the dramatic even when it comes to a pinch of red pepper flake or when we decide whether to add or remove a preposition to a line of poetry.  Forming and dissolving:  principles of editing.  Principles of cooking.

Who doesn't love a spirited game

of peek-a-boo? What a curious phrase, that.  Or flowered sheets?  Or  especially cats?  Cats are poems waiting to pounce upon the imaginary.  Cats lose themselves so quickly to sleep -- that space & time of imagination so deliciously non sequitur in nature.  Like a yummy meal forming from left-overs.

Sometimes the name comes later

This often occurs when a state of being prevails.  It's akin to that need to cook or clean the counter.
The urge to straighten papers, pursue the bookshelf to say "hi" to old & new friends.  Perhaps, this is the family album & one day after the day of gathering, you remember.  You remember.  All the names like petite poems are echoing in your ear.  A good feeling.  Comforting as the taste of turkey.

Remembrance of water

We remember in fits & starts and then begin to weave a patch that remembers whole cloth.  Smell cinnamon and you begin seeing scents & stories -- all personal.  All tangible.  You think of one word that suddenly smittens you and you hear a line perhaps of poetry, perhaps the beginning of an exquisite list of favorite words.  There is much to feed us.  Remember to drink plenty of water; the journey will be long.  Dreaming may be interrupted.

Overlapping

Dreaming, cooking & writing a line or two.  Layers, for sure.  Interlocking, interweaving spirit- stories.  Similar gestures performed with spoon & pen.  And mouth.

At the speed of...

Fill in the blank comforts as does list making.  But the image above, promotes spiral-making.  Or swirling words.  Or in the kitchen, swirling cream in a root soup.  Perhaps it all comes down to the speed of a spoon.

When does a narrative become clear?

When hands move the dial to due north?  Or noon?  Or three in the morning?
When is soup perfected?  When is a poem done?  Or a chicken for that matter?
At the heart of it all, four petals, four directions.  And a kind hunger.

Can you hear this bird's call

stretching all the way to Paradise?  Sometimes all it takes is a direct line of communication.  Quite vegetal.  Much like spinach sautéed with garlic.  Like a line of poetry seemingly straight and then
spiraling into itself.  Magical, of course.

Diffused

Scent & word sent into the four directions by a simple twist of a line.  The same can be said of freshly- baked bread.

Light as mask

How many masks does a person put on during a lifetime?  How many somber?  How many gleeful?Mischievous?  How many masks does a person take off?  I might as well ask, how many ears of corn does a person consume in a lifetime?  How many tomatoes (please differentiate between heirloom & cherry)?  How many times does a person begin a poem with "because"?  Or plot that word in the middle of a line?

Slowly, slowly

a book
is turning
itself
into
flower

Layer upon layer

and only the surface is seen.  Dazzling rays & haze commingle.  Behind every ray, there is a tree. Behind every tree, a story looms.  The stars are grateful for your admiration.  And gratitude is the impetus for any meal shared, for any poem prompted by a friend.

Is it seeing or feeling

that brings the narrative whether it's a meal or a line of poetry?  I don't know but this is tickling my imagination and palette.  And, yes, palate.

What if

there are two centers and each whole & complete?  How does that change the next sentence you will write?  The next, you will read?  How does it change the taste of the next and probably last fig you will eat for many, many months?  There is marvel and there is sadness in the cosmos.

Sometimes the novel is outside the book

Look up.
Tell me that isn't a confluence of words?  
Now tell me, what's for lunch?

Eucalyptus celebrating morning sun

Yes, this is eucalyptus bathed in morning sun.  What a glow. Or perhaps it's the buzz of insects unseen but present.  Does it matter?  What does matter?  Simple seeing.  Simple cooking.  Simple writing.  Simple, yes.

Who doesn't move toward the light

Moving at such speed, we would fall over if we were aware of the influence on us.  But we do our balance/unbalance act of walking until we do reach a match, a lamppost, a cheap lighter.  And why is this talking to me this morning?  Because the light is dramatically beautiful and the shaggy eucalyptus are glowing.  It's time for tomatoes & arugula.  Time to hear a friend read her poems.

Sometimes not knowing

is the way to know.  I haven't a clue what this might be; I don't care.  She's gorgeous.  There may be some wheat involved & water.  Perhaps a rose petal and a word I've never spoken.

Red without hesitation

Nails, lips, intention, passion.  All winged ones drawn to and words for gusto.  Food, too.  Tomatoes, for sure. Yes, tomatoes.  

Coming or going?

In the journey, does it matter? Movement, intention & mediation.  Knife, fork, spoon.  And, as we all know, the plate is pure paper.  Food like a poem begins small.  Close to water; perhaps a harbor.  A cove for sure.  With food as with foods -- passion aplenty.

At some point in my life this is what I will do

embrace the potter's wheel.  Perhaps, instead of clay, time.  Or color which is another way to embrace the energies of food.  Or words.  I can feel it all.  My hands are the perfect translators.

When the showy is more than showy or Dahlia time in San Francisco

Sometimes beauty is over-the-top showy, bragging to bees & people alike.  Don't be fooled, these blooms are food for many.  If you want an honest assessment of these blooms, just ask fog. Perhaps you didn't know, that fog is a friend of poetry, a mentor really.  Fog, organic & ubiquitous -- the perfect eraser comes in handy from time to time.

When the straight, spirals

can you feel the pull toward center?  Can you feel the pull of basil to taste a tomato?  Can you feel the pull of sunrise to find the apt word?  Can't you?

Advanced mourning

for the end of fig season.  Caramelized Parmesan cheese with figs, walnuts, tomatoes, basil on a pita -- toasted & topped with arugula.  A forest; a a canopy to protect the day.  For the promise of a word or two.