Tag Archives: food

unweaving the woven

unweaving the woven
how we walk beds where i spent midsummer
looping and walking out and tying up
tomatoes to their stakes
week after week
and today in the blustery wind
we release the knots
leaving some of the strong vines to tip over while others
insist on holding themselves up
these are the cycles
this is the work
tugging out deep deep ropey roots
while thanking each plant
for such strength
_______

petey rolling out naan
before he melts the garlic butter
as i stir the veggie masala and
move the chickpeas in the cast iron about so that they evenly coat
_______
plucking the second last jar of tyler’s tomato apple chutney
from its spot in the root cellar which i always seem to have the hardest time finding but now
that we’re down to the last two i know
exactly where they are

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

our brightest red

the waffle iron that got shy and stopped singing to signal that the waffles were ready
and how it clears its throat
and sings again this morning
for the apple blackwalnut squares/grids rising
in the pressed heat
_______
how the preserved ground cherries fall
into each waffle cavern/square
so neatly
and taste so
loved and sweet
_______
american bittersweet she introduces me
to the deep orange tree fruit snuggled in the bright red of leaves
i knew there was a third i exlaim
(referencing having learned the spindleberry and porcelain berry this week and sensing
another was yet to come)
_______

one the count of three we each drop our brightest red sumac leaf
from the bridge
into the creek’s slow current
racing (hers is the rightside up one)
to see which emerges first
on the other side
_______

while the herons do not show themselves
the eagle drifting overhead
is a fine sight
_______

the victorious sprigs of rue
poking up in the mowed down plot 
where jennifer stands
in her once-upon-a-time and possible soon-to-be-again great garden
_______
the unbelievably long shadows
of trees against rolling green
as the sun golds and pinks
just under the cloudshelf
how many times have we seen a sunset and still
here we stand astounded

Leave a comment

Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

as the poems are born

the lnflatable cube blinking
bright on/off white behind me where it hangs
clasped on my backpack
something cartoony about this cute puffy glowing thing
and how it makes me think of the overhanging light of the anglerfish who scuttles here and there in the darkness of the deep deep sea
_______
the sunrise that never blooms
as we pedal into morning
up over the ridge and down again
before we drop deeper down into the valley of town
and how, on highway J, the clipclop of horses pulling a buggy
approaches and recedes
audible for quite some distance
a clear stacatto sound punching into
the soft gray of the day
_______
she brings me ginger tumeric tea steaming
and an amish babkery cinnamon roll
and warm-roasted chstnuts whose crackly-skin shells are so pleasing to peel off
and a cardamom truffle
and she stands solid at my side holding the umbrella over me
and the typewriter as the poems are born
 _______
how fitting it is
that the man who builds shelters for small and winged things (birds and bats) offers the use of his umbrella
in case the gray sky gives way to rain
______
i was not expecting that says the man sitting across the typewriter from me and wiping his eyes,
the man who was craced open by the poem pressed into paper key by key  
on the topic of making pizza and the crackle of flame warming the stone and the absence and the presence and the missing
and how the people who teach us 
are always with us everytime
we carry on what we learned
(in this case, tossing the dough and keeping the flame heat steady) 

_______
and then there are the kiddos
ordering poems about pugs and watermelon and beavers
and then also, how i must write the one titled real men wear floral aprons
for the farmer across the way
_______

physical metaphors  she calls out from her bike ahead
talking about the beam me up scotty tap to the chest and then held up to sky
that she used to talk about dissociation
which slayed me so hard
that it’s still slaying me the next day
just to think about it
_______

if you weren’t here, i’d be under the covers with a book and a glass of whiskey she says
about the windowfull after windowfull of white that flashes
as the rain drops down

Leave a comment

Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

reverse snow

how i fill the morning with the smell of boiling/steeping cardamom, star anise, cinnamon, fennel, burdock, chicory and dandelion
_______

the rattle of mason jars in boxes
as we jostle the collection of reminders
from porch and living room to larry’s car
from which we watch the fall colors and risefall of farmland unfolding as we roll up the long and gradual hill out of town towards the most beautiful trailer park on the planet
_______

sunlight moving through the milkweed that climbs/floats up around us (reverse snow says either jennnifer or larry)
as we pluck the soft feathery poofs from their pods
release them in the general direction
of texas
_______

the smell  she says standing against the kitchen island in the light seeping in through sliding door in the kitchen and i can’t recall if this is before or after the incident involving a hand carved spoon (lines and whorls in blueblack and blondish)
that can’t be washed away
_______

the way emma on the sidewalk where we three stand in sun and under trees says the word progress a dead giveaway of her
canadian roots
_______

eggshell, illuminated
jesus’s aura
mary’s aura
light through lace curtains
this evening’s names
for colors in the sunset sky
_______
the smell of garden-plucked basil (gathered before another damaging frost)
drfting up the back porch stairs and into the kitchen

Leave a comment

Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

so sustenance-ful

the sun
that finally shows itself
through treehouse window
glowing on the morning thoughts
of free spirits
_______
the organics inspector
handing me a piece of paper
with the name of a nebraska poet
(whose last name might have one t 
or might have two)
written on it
_______
the tiny black bugs
that land and bite
on forearms, on calves
as i collect cosmos seed
in the heat of the low sun
_______
cynthia and i snacking
on the ‘cheese’ pretzel chex-like
snack mix
on the drive back along these great expanses
of bright bright risen (like a bowl of dough) green
plus autumnal treeglow on top
_______
under the upside down bowl
tyler reveals, boiled,
the first chestnut harvest
at sandhill
and the tasture (taste and texture)
so sustenance-ful
in my mouth
_______
one moth bumping
against the pane of a window
because that’s where all the light is
makes a remarkable amount of sound
(to the point of audio-ly resembling raindrop)
i turn off the light
 _______
from the water world:

Farmers paddle in a boat at a flooded village after a tropical depression in Hanoi, Vietnam. – voice of america, day in photos

Leave a comment

Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

the rain that never came

super bulk! i call out to emory who,
in order to transport all the extra layers – we removed from his hooks in the back hallway pileup has donned every single item of clothing
super bulk! he echoes/calls back
before running the clothes down to lookfar before heading out to school
_______
the rain that never came
(which means frisbee was still on and all the lawn got mowed and all the logs up on slater’s hill were picked up and hauled off and the laundry dried on the line)
_______

something hilarious about frisbee,
chortling and doubling over
at the bad throws and the missed catches and how we get stuck turning over and turning over in the corner of the east endzone
_______

the purple shinyish new berlin
eisenhower high school soccer jersey
that robbie love wears in honor of our recent discovery
of having attended the same high school – having graduated 16 years apart
and i am surprised/impressed that the jersey seems ot be the exact same version of the jersey of 20-some years ago
and it turns out it may well be 
from that era
(my teammates found this old box of jerseys  he says)
________

baigz dishing out wedges of his flourless chocolate cake
which i probably shouldn’t eat this late (caffeine) but i do
along with a dollop of ‘ice cream’
(frozen banana blended up with just shelled hazelnuts)
_______
meet you in the lionbrary  she says
which is different than the enclosure and the savannah
and everytime i hear it
i can’t help but laugh at the sweet awkwardness
of the word
_______

it is ours she writes
of the moon
it follows us home

_______
wherein i joke about a course named
finding out how hard the floors are
and the course is at capacity
when one student enrolls
_______
the thin gauze/veil/scrim clouds
traveling surprisingly fast
across the glow of the almost-full moon
as seen from cool ranch porch 

Leave a comment

Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

the whoosh of all that life

wooden seving bowl on the butcher block
holding a stack of still-warm nixtamelized corn tortillas
wrapped in fabric and made by dottie
_______
no words i write (for lvnv) but quiet. and gravity. and the whoosh of all that life rushing out. 
(and later, i want to say something here about all the living, too,
and the trauma and long healing.
and i want to say things about a petition i signed about ‘no military-style war weapons in non-war zones’ and i want to rewrite that ptetition to say ‘no military-style-semiautomatic war weapons anywhere. ever.’
_______
4.3 gravel miles later
how it feels good
to send this body out and back
running past the train bridge and alongside the dried corn and to that one vista where everything opens up and there is a pond that reflects the sky back and seriously rolling hills and all that green even in this early fall season and a black cow here and there

_______

confetti and ¡gladyoume! the word revealed in a blue envelope
to connote the sentiment there is not yet a word for of the joy of another day with us in it
_______
all the white dust rising off the just-graded roads
as anyone drives past
i thank tomorrows predicted rain
in advance
_______
chain-jangling sounds of the brush hog as tyler rumbles past on one of the tractors
down underpass and out onto the back road in prep
for the harvest that approaches
_______
the wild loud hum-buzz and the low-to-the-ground movement
of too many bees to count
swirling and lingering
around all the post-harvest fallen damson plums
on the path behind the whitehouse
in the just-mown lawn
_______
the table set up with a cloth and candle and sage and 58 small stones
on the front porch
for the swarm of souls
whooshing out
_______
the moonspill and moire pattern
as seen from mica’s sun room/greenhouse perch
where we sit-sway in hammock chairs
as our noodles and veggies digest
_______

a chocolate chip cookie, tall not flat
that emory hands me and how we laugh
that it’s vert, not flat

Leave a comment

Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing