Overlook. How does a poem personifiy the word overlook?

The usual way, by definition:
inspect
look down upon
rise above
miss
oversee.

Contradictions abound.

If a poem were food (which it is), we would say -- As the cook's hands overlook the meal.

Reverse. What happens when a poem is put in reverse?

Goes backwards.
To inspiration.


My grandmother said, don't worry about putting the child's meal in reverse....let her enjoy your ice cream first.

Smitten. What is a poem smitten with?

Foremost, preposition? Perhaps, not. The obvious -- words. I'd fine tune it to the silence that words sculpt.


Appetites smitten a meal. Eyes, also. Simple: avocado, heirloom tomatoes, cilantro, a bit of fresh parsley and more of fresh cilantro, Bulgarian feta, pumpkin seeds, black pepper, olive oil.
Pita pocket. Plate on a plate, full of color & the ripe.

Decision. Is a poem predicated on decision?

Rarely singular. Plural as in the community of ears. Remember, a line break is a decision as readily as the choice of "a" verses the choice of "the."

Of course, "of" is always deliberate as only a decision can.


Regarding breakfast (which is no less a decision to break fast), food carries a decisiveness to mouth, eye & nose. Although rarely discussed, a poem (with its myriad of subtext decisions) can lead to what to eat next. Meals often are inspired by the form-decisions of poetry: banquets like odes. Picnics, very haiku. The a rant akin to fast food?

Egg. Is the poem kin to the egg?

Yes, and this isn't about which came first. About inception. And, of course, who doesn't hear yolk in yoke.

The egg is miraculous in its myriad of formats. And consistency. Sometimes obvious.
Sometimes blended to mere invisibility. But present. Now, consider hybrid writing.

Threads. Is there always at least one thread in a poem?

Of course, how else can the button be realized.

Since it's close to Halloween, we probably should mention spiders, too. Threads and webs. Words caught in the sentence. Silence snagged by a line break.


And that's exactly the feeling a carrot has for the knife. Or the field greens for a colander.

Tinted. What happens when a poem is tinted?

Is it read differently? Shades & shadows.
Does the poem see itself a tad more dark?
Is it a siren to the Paparazzi?

Speaking to the mechanics, how is a poem tinted? By perspective?


And of food, which might be considered tinted. Eggplant. Small deep,deep purple ovals remind me of sunglasses. (I digress, wouldn't you think sunglasses would siren the sun and not wish to repel).

Language itself is a tinted & beveled being. Much the same can be said of a deliciously ripe salad.