Deadlines

Make peace with deadlines or this is how your spirit reacts.
Fear a deadline, the carrots are charred beyond desire.
Fear a deadline, poems sound like frenetic bug-eyed creatures
howling in a wind tunnel.  Sashay up to a deadline & see what happens.
Of course, I'm writing this for myself.

Light emanates from the abstract

Go ahead, make up the story about what this image is or isn't.  Get personal or not.  Include a pen or a spoon.  Or both.  Make up something that feeds those you love and those folks yet-to-be met.

Salt & pepper

How many dishes have you eaten in the last two years which were truly black & white creations?   Here's a seldom considered fact for you, the above image is how a page sees language written upon it.

Storing the past

Photographs, memory & taste.  A wondrous cabinet of sweetmeats.  Meanwhile, fingers taste the alphabet & find it intriguing & beguiling.  Downright tasty.  

Trade in grade school teachers' red pencils for this

the streak of a redwing blackbird across vibrant trees.  See the ruffling.  Nothing crossed out. Nothing negated. Use the alphabet accordingly; cook with sassy colors.  A slice of heirloom tomatoes across greens.  Yummy.

What came first

the leaves or chairs?  Is this the chicken & egg conundrum?  Is an overuse of adverbs looming?  Besides, who thinks of dead leaves in summer?

Blender

Go ahead.  Imagine putting summer into a blender just at the time evening turns indigo.  What will this chilled soup taste of?  Kale?  Zucchini?  Who can explain to me why the timbre of a poem written at this time is so very different from one penned in the early morning hours?

Difficult to erase

what was never there
only dreamt
but a few times
& always before
midnight
mercy me,
how does a cook
plate absence?
what will
the poet
whip up?

from light & dark #7 the dream erases itself

but the pillow remains, witness.  Like a spoon after all the soup has been ladled.  Like a poem whittled to 9 words.  The everyday brims with minimalist epics.  

Summer bonnets

and peach ice cream.  Always in this season shady poems were in demand.

from blue & black series #10: not your usual Summer

And yet, and yet there were ripe (very ripe) peaches on the counter within fingers' reach.  And, yes, there was a soft hum of jazz and the occasional hummingbird sipping at the pomegranate yarrow. All this contained in the blue and in the black.  Petite poems, too.

Holidays are like any other day

They include a certain amount of resting & a vigilance to see awe in the everyday.  Also, to cook with a wooden spoon in the spirit of curiosity.  The same is true for stirring a poem.