Yesterday I talked to a frozen slice of rye bread, a box of baking soda, and a toilet flush box.
That may not be a poem, but it’s the truth.
Category Archives: Home
March 28.20: Coping
I seem to remember
when every grown-up
would sip something vile
from an everyday cup;
with cute little handle
and familiar old chip,
it was frequently clutched
in morning death grip.
I hadn’t yet learned
the elixir brew
was what made the sun rise
and enabled virtue.
But learn it I did
and in the meanwhile
the mug came along
in new sipping style.
Each mug a billboard
devoted to brevity,
graphics and text
mixing java with levity,
it warms our cold hands
not to mention our hearts,
so here’s to the mug
and the lift it imparts!
Lifting my mug this morning to you, dear reader,
with wishes for you and your loved ones:
may you be safe!
Saluting also photographer S.W. Berg
and coffee mug aficionado D.J. Berg!
March 6.20
Lusty thump
marks application,
with every stroke
fine syncopation,
wood on dough,
performance art,
percussive beat
of kitchen heart,
stretching, tugging,
this way, that,
persuading yeast
or flour and fat
to peasant noodle,
earthy, chewy,
or frail cream puff,
flaky, gooey.
In maestro’s hands
a nimble trill,
here on the wall
lumpish, still.
But regard with respect
the two-handled bole:
even inert
it’s ready to roll.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg
and to la Madeleine, Fairfax County, VA.
February 18.20
Spring is imminent
I have the certain feeling:
behold the season’s first
spider on the ceiling.
(Ick.)
February 13.20
Sunrise in the kitchen
its gold eye warm
through blue-white froth
of last night’s storm
rousing the patter
of wiggly-toed feet
noses to windows
day’s quickened heartbeat.
November 26.19
The road to here
from distant there
is mapped as
greasy thoroughfare.
‘Mid stain and splotch,
old gizzard drip,
evolution in
encrypted scrip.
Notes to self
in mishmashed order
chase themselves
around the border,
not merely scrap,
timepiece instead,
the years piled up
like cubes of bread.
From my neatnik Mom
through freeform me
the family stuffing
legacy,
preserved in splat
of butter, sage,
for, I hope,
another age.
There was nothing like it: the smell on Thanksgiving morning. No, not coffee and bacon. Onion and celery and butter! Smells to float on. Dad would go to Mass and some years I went with him, but usually I stayed home to help. OK, so it should be “help.” I was very good at putting things away just before they were needed, and I was very good at reminding my mother how I disliked pumpkin pie. What a model child I was!
I hope your Thanksgiving memories are good ones, dear reader, and that, amid the bleakness of our times, we can give thanks for the things and people we know to be true and good.
I thank all of you who have stopped by my blog and left an encouraging word or like. Writing is ever on the edge of not-writing, and your kindnesses have kept me going many times.
A very happy Thanksgiving to you, dear reader!
If there is travel, may you and yours come and go in safety.
November 1.19
Apple walnut cinnamon pie,
winter oven, my, oh, my.
Syrup’d slices, cinnamon dust
rise through nose to memory’s must:
oilclothed table, rolling pin,
floured apron, floor and chin,
pigtail peelings, glowing stove,
maybe nutmeg, maybe clove.
Coming in from bitter world,
boots well stomped and scarf unfurled,
amber warmth starts deep within
like radiator through my skin.
Kitchens of the long-ago,
swathed in early evening snow,
hug me still because I spy
apple walnut cinnamon pie.
Huzzahs and thanks to photographer S.W. Berg,
and kudos to dessert chefs at McCormick and Schmick’s, Virginia Beach, VA.
What memoried fragrance arises from this photo!
As this hectic season hurls us into next year,
I wish you, dear reader,
some sanity from a warm and spicy kitchen.
September 29.19
How thoughtful Nature
to warm our eyes
before the year’s
glacéed demise.
What awesome palette,
it must be told,
that blends tomato
with marigold.
As home décor,
though bright and merry,
by that same Nature,
alas,
temporary.
September 23.19
Little woolly overcoat
inching up my wall,
do you think you’re coming in
to cozy up for fall?
Yes, I know that winter comes
with autumn equinox,
but I can’t accommodate
your hundred shoes and socks.
As if the trees and the stores weren’t reminder enough, come now the woollies to tell us that summer sets and autumn rises. I wish for all of us, dear reader, a season to catch our collective breath in the colors and new air that will come. May the din of the absurd be muffled, if only for a while.
September 1.19
The porch, the porch!
What marvel, it!
Wordless greeting:
“Come and sit!”
In rocker, swing,
or wicker chair,
we bask inside
in outside air.
Gossip, cookie,
sip of tea,
a honk, a wave,
reverie —
we pretend to read,
shaded from sun,
but the book falls away
and we fool no one.
Unwalled parlor
mooring the ‘hood,
big bear hug
from painted wood,
any porch is
fine by me,
but melon-bedecked
especially!
Many thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
What is it about this image, dear reader, that seems to be a most splendid greeting for Labor Day? Is it the hoorah of the watermelon red? The thick, disciplined hedge? The leafiness of late summer? The invitation to rest? The certainty that somewhere unseen is a sweating glass pitcher of iced tea with Wyler’s lemonade mix (and lots of sugar)?
I pass it along to all of you in hopes that you too can look at it and think of porches and late summers you have known. I wish you a relaxing Labor Day, dear reader, and a good harvest. May all be safe from Dorian.
