A Recipe For Writing Poetry

Writes With Pencils

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Custards are made
fields of grazing cows
and free run chickens
orange-scented coffee
and vanilla bean,
the fruit of an orchid
that grew from the blood
of forbidden lovers.
The last batch
of ice cream
is churning
figs steeped in sherry
the Spanish sun
warms the stones
laid by Moors
in a time of tolerance
with hints of anise and bay.
As I roll the pin
across the fifth crust
of buttery dough
to fill fluted pans from France,
my fingers itch
to grasp instead
a pencil
to plant words, not seeds
upon a page
to capture and preserve
the thoughts and remembrances
that waft to the surface
with the steam of rosemary tea.
But the oven awaits the cakes
flourless, moist with chocolate and dates,
so I reach for a whisk instead.

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In defense of the ordinary

Butterfly Mind

I often get down on myself for the lack of meaning in the spurts of writing I publish on my blog, the ten-minute free writes that are unedited streams of consciousness, the spewing of thoughts after pulling a prompt from a box. “Who cares?” I ask myself. Who cares about the details of everyday life? The creaks and hums my house makes when it is empty? The smell of coffee and paper and ink when I write?

And then I sigh and recognize I am no writer, not like the real writers who don’t just write the details to plop you in the middle of a scene so you feel the warmth of golden light on prairie grasses and smell the grain scent they radiate in sunshine. Real writers get to a deeper truth beyond just being in the setting. They get to meaning.

Or so I thought.

I am in the car…

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