Spring is

a jumble of the unexpected -- welcomed.  Much like a meal of leftovers nourishes eyes & body.

 

Imagination

the constant painter.  Constant weaver. Patterns from strands of fabric.  The meal from leftovers.  In summer, always a leaf or two of basil in the mix.

With leftovers (inspired by a friend)

Roasted multi-colored potatoes & zucchini with red onions are the bed.  And why can't eggs be pillows?  Sun-filled.  Decorated with French tarragon, of course.  On a square plate of a Paris icon.  Imagine this,  breakfast dwarfs the Eiffel Tower.  I'm rethinking the eggs as petite poems, too.(Thanks, Kim).

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.

Find the brush, find the spoon

and the pen will follow.  I'm thinking how an out-take can be a delicious leftover.

What does editing a poem & recycling have in common?

Where do outtakes of lines of poetry end up?

Scraps. Filled/crossed-out pages. Appropriated ink. Accounted for.

A list-poem waiting to happen?



Scraps. Of food. Compost.

Or salvaged? (personally speaking) Leftovers. Enjoyed. As in, put to good use. Mulch?
Lunch, never better.

Does a poem write itself?

This blog did. Sipping Good Earth tea. Teabag says, “ You will never be alone with a poet in your pocket.” -- John Adams 1735-1826.

Found poem. Found friend.



Found food? Leftovers (usually in the plural). Sauté cooked rice, garlic, cherry tomatoes, several thimbles of white wine, chopped spinach, of course, pepper. Add to something that has been leftover. What is the connection with editing? Outtakes & fragments.