superbolide

super moon so bright at perigee-syzygy

dimming meteor eta aquarid fireballs

climaxing in annular ring to apogee

eclipse brings superbolide falls

fire in the silo

the silo sits alone on the land, like a phallic holding the grain of life. the universe dances like a ballet of fire, the lifeforce particles producing the bread of life. the equation to the mystery is on the others side of light. humans genetically modify the seed of life. nature always takes her strife. those who attempt to control  the food will brake the back.  the circle of sustainabilty comes pure again in the lake. the strength of nature in the golden braid of life will rise like the phoenix from the fire in the silo.

larry from fourchu

there are cravings and then there are cravings. there is no craving like a crustecean craving. the chef of the day had an abundant delivery fresh from fourchu. these were not ordinary lobsters these came from the tiny town of nova scotia.  the flavor is like no other lobster, sweet and briny and engorged with meaty texture. like the oyster and wines or all products for that matter, the terrior affects the flavors. lobsters surely have a meroir. that day the chef made lobster bisque, lobster thermidor, grilled lobster, lobster louie, lobster salad, lobster ravioli. by the end of the day there was only one lobster left. the chef dreamt of steamed lobster with drawn butter and bread. perhaps a simple side of aspargus. he would take this home to his lady with a bottle of veuve cliquot. upon his arrival that night his wife had already fed the children and put them to bed after reading the lucky lobster oh the irony! the two were so heady and engrossed in the thought of their time alone at the table that things got frisky before they could submerge the lucky lobster. the buubles had popped and they were pooped. 

the next morn brought beautiful sunrise in through the house. the chef woke with a start at the time. no time for lobster scramble. when the couple entered their kitchen all three of the offsrping were dancing around and singing lucky larry the lobster. they had him on a leash. chef hurried out the door grabbing larry on the way out. we have all had a friend with the story of leaving something on the roof of their car and finding it after arriving at their destination. i myself have done this with sunglasses and a coffee a time or two but never a lobster. the chef was going fast but not speeding so why the blue lights. he was almost to the restaurant when a police officers pulls him over. he says are you missing something. the chef thinks. i do not think so was i speeding. oh no? it is just that i had to stop traffic back at the intersection. it seems the car behind you saved your friend from a tasteless demise. the chef follows the officer and there in the backseat of his cruiser is larry the lobster. the chef thanks the officer and tells him to come by for a meal. the chef had an easy time removing larry from his carapace. he was so inspired he made a buerre monte and boiled the fourchu lobster with the tall tale. that night the officer and his wife dined on the first butter poached lobster served in yountville. now almost every chef is butter poaching lobster. serving it in a variety of ways. as original as lobster newburg at delmonico, perhaps not, but a true purest way to enjoy lobster. i think larry the lobster wanted to be served with a california sparkling wine. and with vintage dated wine every year it deserves a fourchu lobster like larry. 

i count the tree

i count the tree

looking up to the sun sitting under a tree

density of green in the urban jungle poetry

i count the tree

shadows  reflecting the fractals of life

distributed more to wealth than to those in strife

i count the tree

the landscape tells the story of inequality

the landscape proves income reality

i count the tree

the bareness seen from above runs in circular spectrum

those with the least from satellite seen like brown talcum

i count the tree

those with the most have green parks and lush

the plight of the poor written in the dirt and bush

i count the tree

from above now you can see 

everyone needs a flower of life sanctum

looking up to the light sitting under a tree

i count the tree

reason to rhyme

occasionally my iambic pentameter can be off beat

an ode could become a sonnet sweeping you off your feet

my lyrical epic falls to prose that is sure to move

any reading could become a beatnik groove

the satirical haiku would become dramatic in good time 

but i truly lament an elegy without reason to rhyme                                   

the southern rant

there is nothing like a southern rant
 to turn you on your heels
 to cause your gut to over boil and pant 
we speak our mind with fervent zeal 

 it is not the heat it is the humidity 
you hear it all summer long 
but the moisture spares my timidity 
and makes me very strong 

 for the dew brings the sprout
 the grass and trees stay green
 i think it best to let the flames out
 than to keep the envy in between 

gentility and decorum sleeps in my southern veins
 cross not my social graces or try to overpower with your disdains
 don't be confused by the softness or the sweet smell between my legs 
i stand upon the pedestal directing those that beg 

 i will sop you up before i saucer my coffee unlike your ingenue 
with the back of my hand you will catch the southern vapors
 for fast and strong my feelings run just like the kudzu
 you will feel like muddled mint in my afternoon julep or the toast under my capers 

 when calm and reason settles in your cerebral
 there comes an understanding and reverence of the spirit chant 
when you grow accustomed to this summer heat parable 
you will understand the logic and the soul of the southern rant

blue straw hat

wearing my heat wave blue straw hat
humidity hitting like a brickbat
causing all to take beach chances
sweet sweat running down the back
blazing sun beating down low and fat
removing my steaming sunglasses
blue sky matching my heat wave blue hat
taking off my muted toned cravat
you can find me behind the sandy yuccas
wearing nothing but my heat wave blue straw hat