Kolrabi

Almost as strange as cacti though far easier to eat.  And versatile as the taste of a poem.  Peppery or mild --  your call.

Unruly

Is this an unlikely or unruly salad?  If you knew the ingredients

could you then determing unlikely or unruly?  In contract, 

poetry is both unlikely & unruly.  Often at the same time. Often in different directions. 

(Hint:  the yelow is fuyu persimmons.)

Full disclosure:

Unruly & Unlikely Non Sequitur Salad #101

raw Russian kale

cut fuyu persimmon

sliced Early Girl tomatoes

walnuts

cooked pork

black pepper  

olive olive

(should there be another time:  add basil, goat cheese)

(

Unlikely

friends.  haiku on left (recently 11), Kodiak on right.
And in poetry, the unlikely takes the voice & shape
of non sequitur poems.  Of this, I am sure at least
when moon visible.  And in food, the unlikely
manifests as unusual combinations.  The salad
is mostly likely the most non sequitur food I know.

Feet

as  in walking because you see so much more at ankle-level when you walk than when driving.  And feet are pens to pavement/road as feet are the musical instrument to poetry.  Who cares?  At ankle-level flowers shine

-- immediate & beguiling.

What of cooking, you ask?  Lots of edible flowers.  But some not.  Like mushrooms, be careful.  Be doubly cautious -- some poetry is lethal.

Non Sequitur

It does not follow

Poems on walls.
Food in poems.

Follow us --
Visit AWE Gallery (678 Portola Drive, SF) Saturdays & Sundays October 4 - Oct 26, 2014, Noon to 5 PM for Non Sequitur:  5 artists, 6 perspectives

Sharing

I have a history of sharing fruit with the kids in my neighborhood.  When I was kid.  In Jersey.  Mostly bananas.  Mostly apples.  To this day I love sharing fruit.  I try not being too agressive about foisting fuyu persimmons on acquaintences.  Although I am always pleased to the core when someone takes and eats and says thanks.  And in my heart-of-heart, that one would accept another fuyu.

And this, exacly,  how I write a poem.  And why.

Sunbeam

In four days haiku, the gorgeous and precocious kitty, turns a lovely 11.  He is napping upon a sunbeam.  I am thinking of soup because cooking makes a poem happen.  And cooking, as walking, is a celebration.  Is a poem.