Simply Saturday !

A simple poem today about simple things, I couldn’t think of much to write, except brunch and dinner. Aren’t Saturdays meant to be a balance of slow and beautiful … like a diamondback Terrapin ? We had an amazing day but it was the food that punctuated it, in the deliciousness of happy exclamations. There was boiled corn in the salad and that, my friend, can be the sweetest addition to anything that is glazed in a honey, mustard, apple cider vinegar and extra virgin olive oil dressing.

Mango and avocado happily lettuce eat corn cumcumbered in chicken and some flashy tomatoes. Handful nuts, a great salad topping make !
The morning floated by on rain 
that rose in mist from warm earth;
the tea wafted from cups like it was
looking for metaphors above the brew.

Shakshouka graced our breakfast table
in the spirit of the Maghreb
and the little red dish was simply
the pillow talk of eggs wondering at
the pointillism of yellow and green peppers.

Then time flew by in conversations,
that conjured blithely from seasoned laughter
until someone called, asking for Jason,
but none of us knew anyone called Jason,
so we all got serious about planning supper.

Saturday is lazy and daft,
but a splendid chef!
Salad graced our dinner table
in the spirit of gratitude for sharing
a meal in the sweetness of mangoes.

Cornucopia poured generously
onto that platter, awarding us
a rainbow in July ! Colour ...
is what it must feel to be alive
Before Shakshouka
And Shakshouka, After.

I am grateful for all the people that make my life beautiful and make me smile. I hope the weekend brings happiness to everyone !

Colourful Weekend

Just thought to post something simple today; I shared these on my Insta handle this morning.

Here are a collection of photos from the mural ‘Know thy selfie’ by Canadian artist Donald Robertson, that was displayed at ‘The Shops’ near Hudson Yards, NYC. Also featured today are an excerpt of the poem ‘Necessities’ by Lisel Mueller and the poem, ‘A Physics’ by Heather McHugh. I took them from the collection ‘100 essential modern poems by women, selected and edited by Joseph Parisi and Kathleen Welton’. I find this compilation so illuminating in terms of the poets featured and the poetry selected. The authors have provided some interesting footnotes and biographical information on each poet as well. It makes for a very pleasurable read.

On alpine alliterations and buried water

Buried water

I resorted to photo poetry today, inspired by two disparate images and tried to bring them together for Pride month. I am quite annoyed with myself for not taking photos of two fire hydrants that struck me on my visit to the Jersey Shore area. They were yellow with green caps and the one near the hotel at Assateague Island was possibly the most elegant looking one surrounded by a riot of flowers. That picture would have been worth more than a thousand words and now, I have only words that should suffice to conjure that image for you dear reader. Enjoy the poem, for Pride Month and for rainbows.

Deep winter, those downy conifers arose
arranged in an alpine alliteration
on a path to somewhere or elsewhere
or possibly nowhere. Their wandering

needles traced that which coursed the palm
of a suburban street, where water lay buried
beneath snow in the veins of a profligate
poetry. Is a fire hydrant an embankment

to metaphorical apostasy within states
of matter? Those conifers simply stammer
in enjambment along every bank and furrow,
sounding a Morse code of pinecones

on summer grass, asking if the fireplug
is red in a stoic abstinence than
the ephemeral rainbow scattering through
soft rainy mist painting the skies.
At the Chincoteague National Wildlife Refuge ~ alliterative trees


Pinecones can stay on pine trees for more than 10 years before falling to the ground ~

Pride Month is celebrated every June as a tribute to those who were involved in the Stonewall Riots also called the Stonewall Uprising, which began in the early hours of June 28, 1969 when New York City police raided the Stonewall Inn, a gay club located in Greenwich Village in New York City. The riots served as a catalyst for the gay rights movement in the United States and around the world ~

The timberline is usually a point where there isn’t enough air, heat, or water to keep trees alive. The alpine timberline marks the point where the elevation is too high, and usually too cold, for tree growth. For e.g. The city of Vail, Colorado, is located near an alpine timberline in the Rocky Mountains. Trees along the Vail timberline include quaking aspen and lodgepole pine ~

Fire hydrants are colour coded for water flow and pressure ~

BLUE1500 GPM or moreVery good flows
GREEN1000-1499 GPMGood for residential areas
ORANGE500-999 GPMMarginally adequate
REDBelow 500 GPMInadequate
Colour of the Hydrant Top
GREENOver 120 p.s.iExtremely high pressure (caution!)
ORANGE50-120 p.s.i.“Normal” pressure range
REDBelow 50 p.s.i.Must be “pumped”
Colour of the Hydrant Cap
WHITEPublic System Hydrant(EBMUD)
YELLOWPrivate System HydrantConnected to public water main
REDSpecial Operation HydrantNot used except for spcl. procedures
VIOLETNon Potable SupplyEffuent, pond or lake supply
Colour of the Hydrant Body

Fluid, like poetry …

Life seems suffused with dreary interludes, composed prosaically,

but in poems,

it flows like the tannic waters of a brook,

yielding, adapting, singing, swirling,

rounding the rough edges of odd shaped rocks.


This year; sharp, uneven, like jagged rocks,

and my way I learned, was to be liquid like water,

steeped with tannins of leafy experiences

long leached into the liquor distilled of life itself …


We were like a bewildered herd, stupefied with change,

wrought out of disasters brought upon ourselves,

self sabotaging as we are in a strangely cooperative human way

driven through a mutualism of mirrored self interests …

our solipsism evident yet in virtual existence.


And in the midst of the strangeness of circumstance,

we who lusted for worldly ways, found,

that time being money, wasn’t going according to plan.

Yet, where hearts and minds were clear still,

among them dreamers, poets, those charting manifest feeling,

such beings grew boldly amorphous.


Love, kindness, compassion, connection,

abstract nouns then, intransitive verbs now .

Perhaps they sing poems; those who care to see the world in colour,

in hues brightly vibrant, or even shades that may grow duller

Reality feels black or white, when guided not by the light of the sun

For who can see or love a rainbow if they can’t imagine one ……