Forager

I have
a secret
desire
to forage,

to spend
long hours
absorbed

by the hunt.

Searching,
through spray
of stream,

under
plump
drops


from
branches above.

To find that
knowledge
held in
the palms
of ancestors

and
buried in
trunks
of elder pine 

would be
to forage
on the least
likely, but
only proven path.

Please,
don’t tell
my colleagues
or my bosses.


I won’t even tell
Google search.


Only run it
through
the processor

of my mind,

this secret
desire to
return

to the land.

 

Red Snapper and a Little Olive Oil

They gave you
a red-snapper,
one machinist says
to another,
because it’s
the most common type
of snapper.

Now, all you need to do
is season it
with a little salt
and pepper, paprika,
and lemon and bake it.
I would
bake it in the oven.

A little olive oil?
Yes! a little olive oil
is good.

Tomatoes (A Poem)

If an heirloom tomato were

a body part,

might it be a kidney.

Quartered and sliced

aspirating a fine mist

seeds and juice spill

and soak into the cutting board.

A cherry tomato would be an eyeball,

of course.

The only difference between

the old me, listening to Led Zeppelin III

and me listening now,

is that I now have the wisdom to not

try to hit the high notes.

Restraint.

An over-ripened Roma

might be a thyroid gland,

or boiled and peeled it

becomes a swollen lymph node.

Slices become columns,

now juice and seeds are puddling,

columns into squares.

Of course the Beefsteak would be

the typical enlarged American heart.

Maybe when I die I could be composted

by the state, then They could sell me to

gardeners across the region.

My final act of charity.