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.