Soup is truth. Soup is simple. Soup is not pot roast. Or scrambled eggs. Soup is honest. Soup keeps our oldest stories. Sings them in the choir. Soup has an open mind. Soup does not mind all the leftovers in the fridge. Soup loves all things fresh from the garden. Kill the bugs first,... Continue Reading →
An exploration of the things that keep us going, in a larger sense, not supplements or coffee, but life stuff, big life stuff.
Or Rules for Cools How could I have forgotten about this? This thing? This heat? As in living in it. As in the bulk of my waking hours, and some of my sleeping hours, being focused on it? Actually, focused on staying cool. Avoiding sweat. How can sweat surprise me? Perhaps I did not remember... Continue Reading →
Poetry Month, Poem A Day, No. 12 An Ode to My Mom's Scones Not quite a cake, much less investment not nearly as ordinary or typical as toast. Doesn't matter if you do, or if you don't dress it guarantees pleasure for hand, mouth and nose. The Irish claim it, the British take credit, but... Continue Reading →
Poetry Month - Poem a Day - No. 4 I wake up to animation and artwork and another year. Oh, and a cat licking my face and a dog’s leg across my ankle. He’d hug me if he could. I wake up wondering what on earth I will write about today. Only celebratory ideas swim... Continue Reading →
This is the promised partner poem to "Glass in Our Tortillas." An old poem, that tells the story of food, friendship, and having daughters. Three Variations of Raspberry Jam for Julie Each afternoon we drank atole, Julie and I, in the shadows of the descending sun and laughed, at our lives, ourselves, at her intolerance... Continue Reading →
It made for a pretty sweet parenting pleasure to arrive home to a house where I could see the vacuum wheel tracks running across the carpet like directional signs saying 'This way to clean!' And to smell the fresh red chile pork in the kitchen. 'Are we at your mom's?' I asked the girls' dad.... Continue Reading →
Laya's hands are small, almost childlike, and she is a short woman, easily a head below me, but she seems to tower above me. It's not the first marvel. She escorts me, with a bit of a waddle, to the massage therapy room, and I think, "This is going to be good." Something about her fragrance,... Continue Reading →
Biscuits I am quite blessed to be gifted with guests who visit my life my soul and take me into their arms as warm as biscuits with sweet yellow butter a bit of honey and they say, "you’re okay, girl," and they mean it and I feel gentle again. I shall die some death some... Continue Reading →
for Kay McKay I wondered today how long it takes for someone to become an angel. Is it instantaneous? Now you're dead, now you're an angel? Is there a waiting period? A series of hoops and steps and paperwork to get desensitized from life and ready for death. Like an immigration process? A job interview? Is... Continue Reading →
pocket poet 