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      A Short Putt

      After a torturous hour ofmath (algebra to be exact)I start dinner: Middle Eastern stew:Cardamom, Coriander, and Turmeric.Cooking is a little like math, butmuch more like art. My mind beginsto ease as Bach pumps outone of his symphonies fromthe CD...

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      • It may be a short putt but it’s a giant leap for 21st century poetry sir .. good on ya n all that bloomin jazz .. Neville

      • Brilliantly penned, Thomas. Cooking is art, math, & science all rolled in one. Most of all it’s relaxing in my experience. Excellent write my friend. Appreciate you.

        Damian

      • I’ve never been good at math. Though I like cooking. Nice poem Thomas. 🙂

      • I used to think that if I “fucked until I couldn’t walk”, I would never get old. Funny the nonsense I believed when I was young. She left and I got old!!! But, I did learn that sanity is overrated. I threw out my Wadsworth and took up with e.e. cummings, Pablo Neruda and went on “The Road” with the beats.

        In reading your poem, Thomas, I am once again reminded how much I love to cook, smell puppies, and skip along the road to joust with windmills!!! Dulcinea del Toboso, I am coming!!! And “To Dream the Impossible Dream”.

        -Curt

      • Oh lordy…I hate math and I struggle with recipes. Maybe the one is causation of the other? I do best when I just randomly toss things in the stew pot. Maybe some of us aren’t meant to be scripted? I love how music wove through this one. Brilliantly executed!

    • Hey all… been away for a while. I just got back from a month abroad. I got to get away and spend time Japan. I visited several regions of Japan, spend entire days at Shinto and Buddhist temples. It was a must needed escape and chance to immerse in Japanese culture, art, cuisine and philosophy.

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      S. Libellule wrote a new post

      Cement of Lament

      In these cracks of old foundation,sorrow sets like mortar—slow, sure, unseen.Each grain of grief, a silent stone,fixing memory to what remains. Rain seeps through years of gray dust,marks the ambiguous wall.What once was pliant earthnow hardens into permanence. Footsteps echo on...

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      S. Libellule wrote a new post

      A Steep of Tea

      In the hush between palms,steam pens its moist scripture—a rising breath of verdant silence. The bowl warms both hands,like remembered embrace;each sip, a slow return to cloister. Tatami sighs beneath the robe’s rustle,bamboo whisk murmurs devotion—froth of impermanence, foamed time. Outside a...

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      • Beautifully penned, S. Lovely write my friend. Appreciate you.

        Damian

      • I love the whole ceremony of it. Preparing the tea.
        It’s another form of artistic expression in my opinion.
        We have a dojo where I work that was a gift from Japan.
        We have a koi pond too. Yes, the fish are from Japan too.

        It’s very peaceful. Even the pic!

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      S. Libellule wrote a new post

      Kiss of Silence

      In between words, only breath—unscripted, unspoken—this hush blushes nowas if overhearing itself aloud. Even the gale withdrawsfrom its own roaring,leaves a world slightly ajar,awaiting any consent in being. Two shadows eclipse each other,their touch trembles in restraint,where longing loosens languageand only...

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