Suburban Pastorals: Poems Of Food And Love


poems of food and love


To the love and the beauty in a life

Devoted to making the ideal real

Through poetry, food, and philosophy,

To making the real ideal

Through a love of conversation,

Dining, and the arts.

And most of all

To the woman of ginger scented skin,

Who is forever rolling,

And evolving, who embraces

The spiritual, and the sensual,

The logical and the heart,

She who is many and is still one.

She who so lovingly shares

Her life with mine.

May we all be so blessed

As to live with this passion and design.


The moment the leaves hit the ground

And I feel the chill snap of autumn

The day that I stand in a mound

Of red, grey, orange and yellow leaves

This early night when everything

Around me begins to turn to cool

When rose bushes cling to a final flower

When my tomatoes shine more red

Than red in this lingering hour

The color rises in beloved’s smile

The grill sends smokes signals

All over the neighborhood

A mission bell rings and my wife asks

“Where is God in all of this?” Good?

And I want to say ‘in all things’

But it’s more beautiful than that,

I really believe all things are in God.

The hickory charcoals pop and glow

I lay a long rack of Ossabow pork ribs

Across the grill grates and close the lid.

And really, the best that I can do

On a day like this is cherish the questions

That flow across my wife’s beautiful lips

I look forward to looking up through

The bare trees at night and feeling as if

I could touch the harvest moon

I can’t wait to eat, relax and tell stories, drink

Real hot chocolate on the back porch at night,

To just sit around in flannel pajamas

And think how funny it is that here in Georgia

We get cold when the wind chill hits that 40.

I like that.


The world is new each and every day.

The way I see you changes and regenerates,

A different beauty with each movement is born,

With each smile or simple discussion you become

Something more, something greater than now.

“How was your day?” “How is the weather?”

“Did you eat?” “I thought of you today.”

All the day reaches higher, as if Santana’s

“Dance, Sister, Dance” began playing in the background,

As if every time we begin a conversation there is a song

There is a dance and then the peace of being together.

Yes, friendship and love acts this way.

Loving like this is all that I need today.

Cook, eat, talk, love, be together.

Yes, I do say yes to everything that is you, my love


Admiration and desire,

A set of figures in ceramics,

There’s a silver platter waiting

The one I never had.

And when the clock tick tocks

Like 6 or so I go into the kitchen.

There you are my garden,

My scented sunlight

And cloudless moon horizon.

Give me all the fields of bamboo

In the world, give me tulip maples

And groves of naval oranges,

They will never match this flowing

Life I feel near and in your arms,

They are so beautiful, so still,

You are so beautiful, so electric.

I stand on the porch leaning,

Singing to the dogs and the pines,

Turning to the house and singing

To you, my love, my darling

Dark eyed beloved,

I am the cloth around your shoulders,

I am the ginger in your tea,

And for me you are the promised

Silver platter, the one so many

Dream and talk about,

The one I never thought

Would be for me.


Seasick on humidity and sticky hot winds,

Watching roses wilt beneath the unforgiving sun

I reach over to this glass; I remember a friend passed,

This tender sweet orange pekoe tea,

Yeah, there’s more than one way to beat the heat,

There is a way to make it all better.

Sipping, nodding my head to Drive By Truckers

On the stereo, singing on about Ronnie and Neal,

Singing about that light at the 40 Watt.

Looking around and back to the house,

Looking for love on a heatstroke day,

And I find it there by the counter in the kitchen

Making the salads to match all my burgers,

And her smile is like honey and smoke,

Like the steam off of ice at the top of my glass

She is cool, she is warm,

She is all woman In one beautiful frame,

In one tiny voice she is grace and love,

And me, I am her husband,

And all of this makes any day great,

All of this, even if I were alone would

Be a beautiful day, a beautiful day

To do something warm, something loving

For any one of my friends, Don, BJ, Mike or Tom,

For any day with friends is a good day,

And any day with friends, love and a smoky grill

Is a fantastic day, is almost as good

As a day out fly fishing on the sea,

Passing the time casting for snook with a beloved friend,

Fishing for that champion jack just another cast away.

And for all the friends who’ve come and gone

I raise a chicken leg and thank God for you all

For you all who are brothers in study and life,

In poetry, food and philosophy we are all one.


Sweet Blind Lemon Jefferson sang

His Shuckin’ Sugar Blues about being

Dogged around by his bad loving baby

And he was happy shuckin sugar after she

Was gone, gone and worrying on some other river,

And he was better with his sugar,

With his sweet sugar cane cause he knew

The muddy water from which it came

And he knew the muddy water it was going to.

Mean Dock Boggs missed honey baby by his side,

He wanted pretty Polly to share long walks

And cook pork hocks when he was lonely,

All alone on that coal mining mountainside.

Son House, the man who taught the devil loving

Barefoot boy to play guitar was found frying chicken

In New York in 1963. He still had his walking shoes

But it took a while to find his blues.

His Death Letter found him drunk and hungry

Late in the yankee nights far away from 61 Hiway.

The Clarksdale man god of modern blues

Met his maker, gin poisoned, pants down

In the shadow of his crossroads after dinner

With another mans wife. Robert Johnson’s name

Falls over every song all full with fried eggs and sourwood honey,

Milking notes and words of meaning to this day.

Hobart Smith cooked chitlin’s on Sundays

After playing banjo and hill songs into the Blue Ridge dawn.

And we all know about how Southern Can Is Mine was

Every bluesman’s first commercial to buy some ham,

Or was it corn whiskey, corn bread when you’re happy,

Corn whiskey when you’re lonely,

corn whiskey when you’re dry.

And all down the line ever hungry

every day poor John Lee Hooker

With his blues is about being

hungry, horny, drunk and broke,

About always being hungry for more,

pots on, gas on high,

We are all still hungry,

even when we’re eating we’re hungry for more,

Never satisfied, never enough,

cause the food around us

Is the best we can find, grease is hot and the birds are ready,

The song is never the same, the blues just plays the game,

And me I’m a chef, all red clay, iron clad and blistered

By the roaring apple wood fires, red meat and fresh fish,

These blues are burned into my arms, these are the blues

That keep on playing, the bare boned songs from kudzu fields

And huckleberry patches, these are the songs that are ours alone,

The songs of the country, the country blues, our blues,

All hungry, horny, drunk and broke.


You are what you eat eats sounds

Kinda like it’s from a hoodoo text

But it’s not. It’s that simple.

It’s that easy to follow.

Take notice of the things that your food

Is fed, be it fruit, vegetable, nut or meat

Everything needs something to survive,

Cause we take in and take out,

We have love and lost love

In the ground we cut and seed,

We return as much as we take (harvest)

We’re at the top of the bloody chain

Where you are what you eat

Is not the whole of the equation.

For a moment now, we are the thing

That consumes all things, clean things,

Earthly things, water and air things,

Take care of what we have,

Be aware and wise, dust your shoes

And sit still right here, shucking peas and corn,

Be that creature what other people wish that they were.

Brother it all begins with what you eat eats

And how you give back to the world.

Freely, happily, sharing spring lambs and hogs,

Giving back where you have to ask

Am I giving or am I taking away?

You are what you eat eats, sisters and mothers,

You are either creating or destroying,

We are what we eat eats, fathers and brothers,

We create and we give back to the world,

We are in the world and the world is all we have.
They do not know how to do right, says the Lord,

those who store up violence and robbery in their strongholds.

–   Amos 3:10

– There are times I’ve seen more beauty and truth than allowed

And times I’ve seen more hatred and misunderstanding as well,

In food these things are settled by the taste,

But not so for hurried hearts or lives based upon the fight.

Good thing my loves are close and dear,

More alive in the home and in conversation,

Good thing. Really. Reach out, listen,

Show you care by the way you hear and the way

You care, not by the doing, but by the way,

And this is an important distinction. Really. The way.

Like the difference between butter and margarine,

Canola oil and olive oil, real corn and peanut oil,

There is a difference, and the difference is in love,

The that each good oil is used,

We really do choose butter and peanut oil

Lard and corn oil over all others, there is a reason,

And it shows, it shows in

The way we love, the way we set our table.


I remember the long ago

Of so many cherished things,

Of cook outs and barbecues,

Of morning roses and gardenia afternoons,

Walking without the balmy wind

And treading softened rocky sands

Along coastlines and river beds,

Sitting down every now and then

Just looking at the sky, breath brine and pine,

Looking at the clouds and green treetops

Thinking about the beautiful things

Like life and food and love and friends.

And I embrace this Spring feeling

With all my heart because each season

Brings me closer to my love of loves,

Crookneck squash and vidalia casseroles,

Tiny bites of peanut stuffed quail,

Blackberry preserves and White Lily biscuits,

And oh, yeah, by Lake Burton with

Family, friends and my darling wife,

Collecting long ago into today,

Placing today as the wish I wished

And holding her sweet hand

On these walks and holding her sweet

Heart inside my own  Where each Spring is forever more,

Is forever more another banquet of my home.


Blue wave water runs riverside by green flecked beaches

Where we sit in the shade eating prosciutto, melon,

Strawberries, toast and cold sweet oranges,

Not just a warm breeze, a warm Gulf breeze winnows

Over the Sea dividing fog from sand and sea foam,

So yes, all we feel is the dry morning air of vacation,

And free time alone together or time just as you and I.

What a blast, this thing that is “us”, our traveling

To the oceans of the world for our vacations,

For our time alone from everything except each other,

Each other and the cities, the seamarks, the winds,

The new, the shock of the new in food, place and life,

And here, here we are neither traveler nor tourist

Here we are a world of our own alive in this place

In love today more than ever before.


It is Winter,

The body calls for rich and fatty foods

To fight the wet, cold season here in Georgia.

And when you check the waistline and think

About all that you have eaten through the holiday season,

Then perhaps what we crave is not what we need.

What we need is near poetic,

A long day on the rocks casting at shadows,

Popping plugs and dragging bright flies,

Pulling in a few beauties, 16 ounces of cold fury,

And the days’ take is good, it is dinner.

Fresh trout: The delicious, the pale pink and tender,

The flavor of rushing cold water down hill and pasture,

The smell of mountain laurel and tulip maple,

A slight aroma of burning oak and pecan,

Butter popping up as cornmeal dusted fillets

Bask in the fuming wafts of smoke and oil,

And the wind coming in off of War Woman ridge

As you nestle in for a meal of Chatuga River rainbow trout.

Yeah, what we need and crave, well,

What we have is a few whole rainbow and several fillets,

All about a day or so old and all ready for the pot au feu, oven and pan.

WHEW! Shake off the day dream and move back home into the kitchen,

Into the home all warm and scented with orange and honey,

Baking bread and yes,

A dinner centered round pink fleshed trout..or was it perch?


forget the resolutions,

forget about what you are giving up,

just love as you wish to be loved,

and may you have all the joy

in your life every day in everything you do,

let the banquets flow

for your friends and family,

share the life and live to eat,

always live to eat.

Smile, the feast of life is now.

(OH MY LOVE SHE LOVES TO EAT, she is my love wherever

I am and in winter she is beautiful beside me

as we cook as we travel as we dine and laugh.)

Love knows no bounds but for that of the plate

Where like alone on the highway at 1

When it’s all lights and then darkness

All song and then silence,

This is the way my banquet of hearts

Comes and goes, bright-shade-dawn,

A feast and a joy, a joke and a giggle,

The clink of silver to porcelain plates.

Driving, arriving, cooking and dining,

Out of travel and out of love

This is the time when all lives embrace,

When we smile just for the moment

When we feel the warmth as warmth

And nothing more,

Nothing more than a conversation

And then again something more

Something greater

Something like you and I together

Again for the seasons like those before

And those yet to become

And this is what I most adore

About December,

Knowing that again I will be,

That I will be with you and family.


The leaves are slow to fall

The colors quick to change

Pumpkin pies and raspberry tarts

Fill home kitchens everywhere

It is easy to see the Autumn shine

It is easy to feel the bright breath

Of November blanket these Georgia hills,

And me, me and my beloved,

With a good hot chocolate

And turkey leg it’s easy to sleep

Through this season, easy to take

It easy when the days are so calm.


October really does

Bring everything together

In my world of love, work and words.

Like the cool winds weaving

And bright leaves lingering,

My love herself just seems

Ever more beautiful,

The language and spirit

Of the table is stronger,

More flavorful, and then

I walk more briskly,

Talk smoothly of rhymes

And memorable poems,

Speak softly of dreams

And the harvest moon…

Yea, October, what a month,

What a beautiful place to be.


She is the grove and the land

The cluster of grapes upon the vine,

She is cream and star thistle honey,

She is the warmth that holds me

The smile in which I live,

But it’s football season

And the games are upon us

So “so long for now” darling,

Hello Larry Munson,

Let the games begin…

Pass the chips and chill the Dr. Pepper,



Sun flows like a river into the 6 o’clock dawn,

Warm Atlantic winds course across and down

The great green Appalachians just north of here,

Who would hear us walking in the near daylight

Is it the lost hawk above, the wandering mongrel pup?

Fallen black cherry branches crumble roadside,

White peonies bloom, the smell of anise rises,

Everything looks good in the summering morning

Where long awaited rain clouds hang on the blue.

We walk and begin to sweat, we walk together

And the weather talks back, a breeze here,

A thunderclap there, and still the sun shines,

The sun always shines in August here.


Hot, hot and then it’s humid, hot,

No real rain and still I’m drenched,

Standing in the kitchen chopping, boiling,

Roasting and chilling, putting a weeks

Food together so it’s all heat and eat,

Or even better grill and eat.

Outside the window a grey lawn yawns

Stretches in the breeze and goes back to sleep,

Somewhere out there is a link and a green

Just waiting for Pings and Big Bertha,

Callaway and Cobra, Odyssey putters

And me alone at dawn walking,

Smiling, turning a shoulder to the sky,

Looking out over the dale

Towards the next hole, towards the day

That opens so wide beneath the Southern Sun

In July, begs we all play just for a while,

Just for a day of golf and a laugh,

Just for today make it easy, make it charmed.


June light lays low on the pines and maples,

Cicada buzz and grasshopper clicks,

Mockingbird whistles from beneath a holly,

High above in the branches of a water oak

The local hawk sits and watches and waits.

Yeah, it’s near dark in the suburbs,

Dog walks and lawn mowers,

Grill smoke wafts between the houses,

A neighbor leans over and adjusts a stack

Of winter wood while I keep on pruning,

Pulling weeds and talking to the day lilies,

Cutting rye grass around a stand of hosta

And wild honeysuckle. Yeah, dusk.

Thinking about recipes and new menu

Items, thinking about dinner and fishing

And yeah, thinking about everything food

As I linger in the garden, hanging out

In the yard doing a lot of nothing

That is everything to me,

Hanging in the garden the way

I’ve always done, looking, thinking,

Touching, smelling, living,

Reflecting reaching towards the future,

Reaching towards and inside

What is beautiful and what is life.

What is life? It is this, and everything more.


Sunlight and the diamond spray of color

Rippling out from around my fly hitting the water.

I dream it’s a tuna rising up from the depths

And my skiff a sailboat on the Aegean,

The shoreline the oasis island of Limnos

And my beautiful love the ever goddess like waiting

For my return from this great adventure,

And then it hits, AWAKE! a one pound trout

On the North Chattahoochee in Helen, GA.

I am here, and it is always

So perfect and serene on any water

With any shore as long the fish are biting

And I’m not far from home.


Hands black and Georgia red as I dig

Under maple mulch around the house.

Crush up the fish bones for each bush,

I think it’s ready. I think that now is the time.

Three years treating, turning, feeding

And now, yes now it looks rose ready,

Lily fresh and lemon thyme hungry,

This land is my land, my house,

My readied garden for the summer light and heat,

And I can’t wait to press the first bulbs down,

To build up the sides of John F. Kennedy rose bushes,

Lady Peace and dear Lincoln rose.

Always a spot for bird chili peppers, red serrano,

And jalapeno around the edges.

Sure, there’ll be the weeds, the fact of life, huh?

Dig dig dig, pull pull pull,

Water and preen and wait and watch,

Just like a life, just like a love building,

All gardens rise with care and a soft touch.


The new season walks in out of winter’s shadow,

Brash and windy, commanding change,

Bold flavors and fresh ideas,

March does not speak so much as it roars,

And with this wind we cook our best dishes,

Have the most philosophical conversations,

Argue over when to plant roses and peppers,

Basil and tomatoes, and of course lilies and mint,

Finish off the last of cords of split wood

And set aside the chips for summer smoked meats,

And beloved asks about lavender, hyssop,

Angelica, gardenia (oh please can we plant

Gardenia by the walkway?) and garlic,

I say yes, this year the fence line and creek side

Will be more alive than ever,

A testament to the wealth of soil and rain

That is North Georgia in the Spring,

A living poem of love, hope and desire,

This is what a flowering garden is,

A pastoral waiting to be sung,

A beautiful cuisine reclined and patient,

Waiting, waiting to be served and adored.


Spirit of the year comes about in the second month,

We find shards of the old one scattered in cluttered

Spaces around the house, some stay,

Some are shuttered or swept away,

Some are transformed and given names like

“gift”, “donation”, “save” or “another day”;

But things never wasted, trashed or stored

Come from the pantry, the oven or Frigidaire,

And those are things we cook, we make, we give

And share with each other every day, we live

With Food, Romance, Life and Home.

Gimmee warmth and a bowl of rice or noodles

Any time, gimmee cream and butter

Over diet chemicals and hydrogenated fats,

I want the touch of my love skin to skin,

The touch of my food from earth to table,

You can trash imitations and transformations,

But nothing compares to a hand held,

A house manicured to self-expression

Or a meal well made with a love well formed.


The water was always thrashing,

Cracking on the rocks

And cliffs below my house,

And every now and then

A grey whale would breach,

Would blow that slow shot

Of the sea straight on up to the sun.

Time holds when this happens.

My Uncle Allan loves the water,

Fishes all day, his boat is perfect,

Pulls perch, crappie and hybrid bass

Up in all weather.

He lives the New Testament;

He breathes peace and hope,

I hang on his words like a child

To rhymes and song.

When the shrimp nets

Are pulled in on the Gulf Shores

And they cut away the turtles,

Birds and cans there is always something

That is left behind, something

Beautiful that grows to breed

And feed and replenish.

Fly fishing sunken islands

At the mouth of Sebastian River

I pause on some casts

To watch a dolphin watching me,

Checking to see when I’ve caught

A blue, redfish or snook,

Circling me the way we circle them

Waiting to be fed just the same.

We both wait and work to be fed.

A sense of something other blows

In on winter leaves, a sense

Of something other always

Rests on blue tipped waves,

And this is just what it is,

This circle, this other, this being within,

This always being as with and in,

And it is good. In all ways, it is good.


A word, a home

An autumn rush of color,

Doors open, windows shine,

The noon sun warms.

A leaf, a wind;

An open hand is not a wave.

An empty kitchen

Is the loneliest room.

Rosemary, pancetta, bow tie pasta,

And the world fills up

With all these things

These foods and phrases

Of life and house.

When we call this room

Our nest our home,

Our place in the world,

It is complete

And the season awakes

To this dear moment

Of You and I

Of times remembered

And times yet to come.










Filling me with love

With hope and expectation

Charming me in every moment.

That’s the way it is when I am with

You my Beloved, warm my life,

My best of all in anything everlasting

Ever-beautiful bride, ever my love,

Like kisses and chocolate you make

These days so cherished and bright

So complete, so much alive.


Waiting for the moment.

Waiting for the last Thursdsay.

Root cellars, garlic,

Potatoes and onions,

A turkey curing in

The darkened pantry

Where we hang

Mystery foods to season

And to age.

That was yesteryear.

Today it’s the market

The international store,

The local grocer

Who can get it all in

And who’ll remember

Your name weeks away.

Ask food. Talk food.

Learn the ways of the earth

Beneath our beautiful Georgia sun.

There are no state or county

Lines, only wide open

Lands of food and love

In this America

In this South

On our own beloved

Thanksgiving day.


She is every flower, aroma

And scent of this world,

She brings grape clusters,

Chocolates, peppers,

Fresh shrimp and scallops.

And I wait outside

By the Rose of Sharon

And dwarf Magnolia,

Smiling, happy the man

With his Brinkmann grill,

With alder and cherry wood

Smoking, heating steel,

Sending rich earth flavors

Up and into these sweet

Moments of food and life,

Food and life in this backyard

With my beloved and the light of day.


Down beneath the parts of the city

There is a path that leads to the sea

That weaves between

High marsh grass and gray concrete,

Where snook and perch together chase

Stone flies, shrimp and sun light.

To me now, in this moment here

This little walkway marks the strand

Separating the designs of our life

And the architecture of this wild life,

This wild life that feeds us all

That makes this world a better place.

Yeah, a small stretch of dry earth

Above the water, where I can hear

The waves, cars, cattle in the fields,

My own lowing footsteps,

And what seems to be the marshes

Breathing, the whispers of this

Challenging estuary demanding

It be seen and heard as it’s own self

And not just a place beneath the city.


Tree frogs, crickets and lunar moths,

Citronella incense and jasmine flowers,

Orange and lime peels smoking away

On bright burning coconut shells,

A small flame shoots up,

Snaps and scores the red bell peppers.

In the easement a bobwhite quail calls

And is answered by an owl low in oak branches.

What a night, what a backyard,

What a life this is in early June

When all the cares are for what

To eat and when to sleep

And if all the roses will bloom this year,

And if my love will like this meal

I just burned to a black crisp, burned

Because I was lost in the mists of twilight

Dreaming, dreaming summer away.


Aromatic, mist driven and steamy on the horizon,

A glimpse of empires the color of hazel and garnet,

The wind washes over magnolia leaves,

Winds bring in the smell of crushed honeycombs.

Wispy warm the scent of May in the suburbs

The way it fills with cut grass and spring onions,

How here by a stack of cut poplar it’s clover

That catches the best of the earth at dusk,

This waxing afternoon of a thousand colors

Carries images of hands reaching towards sunset,

Fireflies skitter in the air around my beloved yard,

The dogs bark and run home to their own dinner,

And me, I turn and bid good day to this perfect

Melding of the senses, to this moment in life

Where all things are felt, and to feel is so good,

To feel this beautiful land of ours is so very, very good.


And I move my fingers across a map of the world,

Across gardens and fields, great oceans and mountains,

Through city and country, through gates and doorways,

And then I stopped at this most beautiful place,

And there it was, one Cherokee rose, a live oak rising,

TVA dams and reservoir lakes full with promises

And large mouth bass, thrasher and quail in the meadows.

The brown Chattahoochee and deep Savannah River,

The boom and roar of 1-85, the languid turns of 441

Where azaleas line side yards and creeks from near

Lake Oconee to far Lake Burton and I turn away

To heavy driven roads ruled by possums

And swarms of honey bees, 78, 15, I-95,

And I called it Heaven and I called it home,

This magnificent vineyard of life and love,

This sweet Georgia, old and grown,

And yet new in every way it grows, expands

Into always something more, becoming

Better every day this bright field of the South.


Green chilies and sweet peppers burning

In the blue gas flame on the stove in winter;

Breathe, breathe, it’s so thick and rich

In here today, and you know, I rushed home.

I rushed home from work today…with fresh herbs,

Papaya and sweet pepper, tangerines and clove…

A dozen oysters and trout caviar.

And there you were as tired as I was.

And for you this is yours.

Sit back and relax, let this be your air,

Your silence, your laugh, and your meal.

Whatever it takes, tonight this life is all on me.


Together in the cold we walk

The starry suburban street.

By a mailbox at dusk we kiss.

We hold hands to keep warm.

As we trade jests and conversation

I watch the fog puff away from your lips,

It floats into the hungry night.

Your apple cheeks glow,

You are beautiful and we kiss.

In our after dinner stroll

We gush like teenagers,

And when we reach our door

I stop, hold you, pull you close,

And again we kiss.

Feels like love every time

I’m close to you,

And it’s good enough for me

In any time of night or day

To say I am yours and you are mine,

That yes always I am here for you.


Toffee, the Buddha souled Golden Retriever,

She stands and does an easy wave of a walk

With her tail barely swishing back and forth,

She smiles and nuzzles, cajoles for treats,

And in opposite boy-like fever the black Lab Freddie

With open mouth in constant laugh, the trickster,

He sits up on the couch and pretends to be human,

Moves his paws like he’s talking, gesturing towards

The old and irritated house cat Roscoe

And tries to tease him to come a little closer.

And here it is, my wife and I together in the holidays

Like a Mr. and Mrs. St. Francis Of Assisi

Loving all life here equal and the same,

Loving as love is in this greatest of seasons,

Wishing each other and all the sweetest blessings

The blessings of home, trust and freedom,

The blessings of a green world in which to live

Where the Life shared is the life cherished.

So as New Year’s and Old Year’s come together,

I know that Peace lives in many hearts as one

And let’s hope the next year is better than the last

That we learn from all things to love the lesser as the greatest,

And that we learn to live harmless with the world around us

As in this moment by the shimmering tree,

With my Beloved and the animals in this last of 2005.


Turn off the phones and shutter the TV,

Open the doors and let autumn in,

Gather to the table your love and smiles,

Bring bread and fruit and sweetened butter,

Sharpen the knives and polish the silver,

Check and check again the oven light.

Is the bird too brown? Are the juices clear?

Hold high your glasses for family brought near,

These are the days we live to remember,

To give thanks for shelter, food and friends,

To praise this world we all do share,

To stand steady together in each passing year

And look forward to more, and more and more


The golden coin of the Rubaiyat,

It spins and spins throughout

The dawn and day and dusk,

And yet at night it stops and shines,

One light upon the table,

One flower on the mantle…

Cluttered, empty plates,

A smoldering candle smokes and sputters,

And I start humming the dance

From Cavelaria Rusticana,

Swaying, holding, a little waltz

Together in the kitchen at night,

And we shine back into the coin,

Giving definition, giving heart

To the great feast of today, and tomorrow.


I have lived by the great vineyards of the West,

Dined beneath the magnolia and madrone

With master vintners and visiting dilettantes,

Roasted salmon and abalone on coconut hulls

Beneath the cold pacific night on the cold Pacific shore,

Travelled the rolling hills of Mendocino and Sonoma,

Searched for that perfect bottle, the perfect fruit,

The fattest lamb and sweetest tomato,

And all the time these roads and beaches

Led me right back here, here to Georgia

Where the hills rise greener than fescue or jade,

And the seasons fold over into each other

With their own songs of summer and fall,

With their own way of raising healthy crops

To a perfect way of sunny, humid Southern being,

Where we have our own Chateau Elan,

Artisan farmers and organic ranchers,

Here in the South we have a greatness all our own

That reaches out from Northeast Georgia

To the Nantahalas and Carolina seashores,

Down to Savannah and pine kissed Macon,

Yes here in the Southeast where our

Squash and peaches grow stronger and sweeter,

Where the hot lakes and streams are full

With bass, crappie and catfish,

Where the rushing swarms of stone flies

On the Sogue & Altamaha Rivers taunt trout and angler,

This is Georgia in the turn of seasons.

This is Georgia just before the first kick-off,

Right before the stadiums fill and football

Rules the land, this is Georgia the Peach,

The farmed and harvested,

The Southeast alive with food and love,

This is the turning of the seasons.

This is a way of life.


Together in a rocking chair

On a porch at sunrise,

Watching moths and fireflies

Lay down to sleep,

Singing birthday songs

To the God unseen inside

The orange she holds and smells.

And so he watches her,

Watches the colors change,

Her bare feet curling, pushing,

Rocking their lives into the day.

He reaches over to hold

Her hand, tells of a walk

Through lemon groves

And a white sand road,

Where by the sea he traveled,

In awe, in search,

Down shore to a store

Where all the great mysteries

Of kites and wind,

Of ginger and coconuts,

Of mango and gin

Joined together at the whim

Of an old shopkeeper.

This day, charmed and warm,

So together, so yearning,

Sitting and talking, rocking,

And they felt the lure,

They felt the movement

Of voices adored, of home

And late meals….of life and love.

Hours later, still hungry,

Still rocking and holding hands,

Still singing to the God

In oranges and Chinese kites,

Still dreaming of the path to the store

That’s always there…

A man and his love, she and he,

Always waiting on another shore.

Always here, always there,

Always together where

The seas meet the sun.


Rain? Are you touching me now?

I thought I felt rain on my shoulder.

The smell of mushrooms bursting,

Thin-skinned puffballs blowing

Grey smoke in the dry afternoon.

The acrid smell of Comet cleanser and baking soda.

She promises rain, but tastes like perspiration.

I kissed her fingers. Khaki tan and soft.

And it seemed the sun exploded in my eyes.

Turn this over in your heart she says,

And she says there is no price on dusk today.

I tease each lowering cloud with lidded glances

And an Elvis Presley snarl.

Brown needles drop off the sergeant juniper.

Starving bonsai: what is your peace now?

Giving up, I don’t even cut back the English ivy anymore.

And the arid heat is murder here, here on

The banks of the slow Oconee,

Here we all sing “summertime….”

She cat licks my left ear lobe.

Breathes into my translucent Irish skin.

And the vibrations curl, shimmy and shag.

Are you touching me now?

And the cumulus thunder shouts,

Pregnant black clouds roll over and foal.

And suddenly, as parched as I was one second before,

Here I am, drenched and laughing,

Finally, finally my Georgia sky became itself again,

And the summer rainstorms came as promised.

She holds me close, asks if I can smell the grass

Turning green again, if I can feel the branches

Gathering up all the water they can….

And I just say yes, yes I can.


Something I learned from my wonderful Mother:

Thinking and believing are not the same.

Cause when I think I’ll cook and I believe I’ll cook

Occur at different times

Then the oddest of meals falls out of the kitchen.

But when I live with both as one

Then what becomes

Is the greatest of things,

And that is what the good cook lives for,

Greatness on the plate and a smile on the face,

Where love is in the kitchen and everywhere.


This month between the seasons,

This spread of days whose meaning is in the flower

The change and flux,

This wild hunt through

Days and nights of warm cool warm

Where we prosper from the cold months of the sea

And the fresh meats of a final frost,

Where we take on the last of the Indian Rivers orange harvest,

And turn to welcome the first tomatoes and squash blossoms,

The bright green, the mango, and the rose red flowers

Of this new Spring into Summer. Yes, this is April,

The swaying good bye to our long nights,

And a graceful hello to fertile days

Of the South that reach two seasons beyond,

Bountiful seasons that stroll, languid and at peace

Walking into the promised warmth of our ancestral kitchens.

Yeah, April, nothing but good, and always exciting.


Behind the hedges in the backyard

We kissed.

In the kitchen by the stove we kissed.

After work in the grocery store

We lingered by the boxes

Of ripening guava.

Thick tropical scent griped us,

And yes, we kissed.

It seemed the fruit was turning to wine.

I remember every place we’ve been

By the times we touched,

By the love when you pressed your

Hand into mine,

By the meals we shared,

By the idle moments alone.

The months and years fade

When we are together.

It’s too sweet, I know,

But I really don’t care

Life tastes better with this to share:

A simple kiss for you my love.


And it seemed dinner would take forever before

Our time together alone on a stroll in the lowering night.

To walk warm beside you through the quiet neighborhood,

Where night winds bristle and crack in the bare trees,

Where long gone finches perch with the owl and cardinal,

Watching the grounds for sign of stray seed and beetle.

These winter nights, these unbelievably bright shining stars

Light our way along the street behind our too fat golden retriever,

And yeah, we feel a little hefty ourselves after this night’s repast,

But what the heck, it’s winter and it’s Georgia,

And we are alive calling out to our small world our joy,

And what could be better than this? A full stomach,

You, me, the dog and the crystal Southern evening

Where all seems right and fine just for you and I.


Early evening blankets the winter sky

Of fog brightened stars and shadowy trees,

Chairs creak and squeak as we move around,

Sharing sweet coffee, chocolates and ripe strawberries.

An Irish Christmas song dances from the stereo,

It flows and rises, settles into the room

Like a family member returned from long ago.

It’s so peaceful here, after the feast,

Relaxed and easy, where the working world

Slips away and it’s just us, the gentle night,

The fire, the food, feeling each other feeling,

Sharing our memories of today

As well as our histories yet to be.

The airs of this season are divine.

So here we are, vibrant and crisp

In the tide before the New Year

And I couldn’t ask for better,

Nothing less and nothing more

Than that this moment be for all humankind.


A break, a moment,

A few minutes lost,

Risotto bubbling in broth and butter,

A car door slams,

Steel hinges squeak,

Foot falls on the mat across the living room,

Crushed bay and cilantro in my palm,

Water glass trembles,

And there she was, my love

A sudden kiss of iris and clove.

Funny how nervous,

The ceremony of unpacking,

Turning and smelling, pushing and shaking,

Praying the pork loin, the pumpkin and,

The basil are all unblemished,

And most of all,

That the meal is as perfect

As the moment she walked in.


I’ve traveled the long roads of this world and this life,

Walked the woods in seven states and fished the purest waters,

By car, alone, I’ve seen the land from top to bottom

From east to west, and been amazed by

Just how beautiful America can be.

I’ve served royalty and presidents, friends and family,

Dined with peoples of all nations,

Cooked in every imagined situation (and shied away from some),

But nothing’s better than being here, here on the ground of my relations,

Here in the sweet North Georgia airs, with my love and my friends,

Here where life means more than a moment, here where life is everything,

So with a Dr. Pepper toast and swinging rib

Here’s to you and all that follows,

Here’s to the life of taste and flavor

To you, to me, and all you know:

Happy Cooking,

may the great angels and saints of the South look after you all.


Sometimes a warm summer night is all we need

To see how beloved this Southern life can be,

For me it’s how I cherish, how I care and prepare,

For others it’s just the way the day crawls by,

How we sit and chat and watch the flowers in the breeze,

And any way you slice it there’s no better way to live

Than passing the time on a sun porch in June,

It’s one of those things my Mother taught us all,

To love the life we live and to share this love with everyone.

And if you don’t believe, well, gather round the grill

And start talking about the world,

Pour a tall glass of sweet orange pekoe tea,

And tell me, can you feel the urge to tell history and myth?

Can you feel the desire to hold your loved one?

Can you tell her she is beautiful in the glow

Of a hickory smoke fire at sunset?


There is no one flag,

Cuisine or Oz wizard

To show the heart

And mind within,

But there is this you

To whom I open

Like morning glories to the sun.

I will always be there,

At the end of the day,

And throughout the night:

If not beside you

Within you as thought,

As spirit.


Sunday, feasting on the powers of Georgia barbecue,

Reveling in the glory of a lakeside fish fry,

Small talk, a little bit of Hegel, touch of Grizzard,

Buckets of sweet tea, a bushel of lemons,

Bit of a fight over the better voice,

Haggard or Yoakum, nobody won.

They do sound great on a Sunday afternoon

With a plate of striped bass and yellow perch,

Sliced pork shoulder and crisp cole slaw.

Haggard reminds me of onion hush puppies,

And Yoakum, he’s like a hot sauce and bbq.

My mother finally tells the story about

My grandfather during the Great Depression.

He was arrested jumping the Southern Pacific train

Coming into Tucker, when it slowed down

He tossed sacks of corn and flour

In the woods outside Cofer Brothers lumber yard.

New to me, and I loved it,

The air of a just crime, my Papaw a renegade.

I remember his kindness and his jokes,

The tipped Fedora and Lucky Strike cigarettes,

Something of a rascal, a colorful guy,

He taught me how to drink coffee.

I still think about him when I pour in the milk.

He taught me that all food was good.

Odd, no matter how cool, or how wayward

I’ve ever been I’ve never been so brave,

Or so desperate as to jump a train

And steal food for my family.

And the barbecue tastes even better now,

I have something more to relish,

Something more about my forefathers

To season this hungry history with,

Something more to be thankful for

In this land of life and promise.


Looking up into what was October

when the frosted winds came,

and November stepped across the river.

Inside, the house grew frigid

in it’s emptiness.

Then there you were,

as if with me for all time,

beside me here in the living room,

open arms wide in the quilted easy chair,

yes, there you were,

shining like a forever summer.

My warm love,

my  smile in darkness.

Today I was up early,

rubbing the Laughing Buddha

on his lucky  little belly,

thinking and thankful,

I know no matter what

there are those few things

that are so good, so giving,

even in times that say

compassion is a joke,

and peace of heart is a myth,

and I think, yeah,

sometimes the love stories

must be lived,

like the one that says that I am

glad I’m living this life of mine.


Looking at the lone house key on the mantle,

touching to maybe feel her warmth in the metal,

and I stand there by the heater,

holding this memento of her in my home,

of how she would fumble, push it into the lock

and open the door to my house and life.

Entering the calm, burgundy living room,

and she calls out to the cat,

“Roast Beef! come out come out you dirty cat!”

And she would start laughing at how she

could always surprise the not so regal cat of the house.

Or perhaps sneaking in, tip toe up behind me

as I worked at my desk, at my words and recipes.

Slowly, slinking, and then a shout “Heeeyyy!!”

and always I would jump,

and always I would turn and smile,

happy in the moments she made each hello

a gift of fascination, an event of joy.

And the key has no holder now, no soft hand,

no warm pockets to keep it company,

just the mantle, a collection of Bataille,

a black horse from my childhood and a string

of golden, shimmery, decorative stars.

Squeeze, lift it to the light, peek through

the ring hole at a photograph of her.

Tell myself, it’s ok, don’t worry, soon, soon,

thirty days away before she prances

into this dark study again,

thirty days away before the sun will shine

again in my winter without her,

and oddly, religiously, I set the key right

back where she left it, there above the heater,

next to a candle and a racing plastic stallion,

here in this house where there is so much more

to the world when she is in it.


Late arrival,

window shakes as the front door slams,

covers pull up against the coming light,

then a sweet voice flows across the dust…

and in your little room you squint and shake,

see a world alive with breath and whispers,

there’s a woman there you know you love…

yeah, she’s the spice of life.

Like a tickle in your ear:

hello?      hello?

And she says:

No lucky charm bounces on my chest,

no crucifix, no ankh or star,

just a flash of red, a hearts fire contained


And the snow left the sky for a while,

hung around the yard looking all cool and white,

with ripples and dimples and ridges and clumps,

so perfect seeming at dawn and at dusk,

just like the bright green lawns of summer.

Today I am thankful to be alive,

to feel the cold, to taste the snow,

to look beside me and see you there.


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a resource for moving poetry


confessions are self-serving


politics philosophy phenomena

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Pen to paper

Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha

Musings and books from a grunty overthinker

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𝓡. 𝓐. 𝓓𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓵𝓪𝓼

𝙳𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚋𝚒𝚐! 𝙻𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛!

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Immature poet imitate...but the mature one steal from the depth of the heart



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Welcome to my world.

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Welkom op de blog van Discobar Bizar. Druk gerust wat op de andere knoppen ook, of lees het aangrijpende verhaal van Harry nu je hier bent. Welcome to the Discobar Bizar blog, feel free to push some of the other buttons, or to read the gripping story of Harry whilst you are here!

the poet's billow

a resource for moving poetry


confessions are self-serving


politics philosophy phenomena

Poems for Warriors

"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." Ps 147:3


Pen to paper

Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha

Musings and books from a grunty overthinker

Eclipsed Words

Aspire To Inspire


Poetry by Charles Joseph


garden ponderings

𝓡. 𝓐. 𝓓𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓵𝓪𝓼

𝙳𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚋𝚒𝚐! 𝙻𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛!

Flutter of Dreams

Dreaming in Music and Writing by Mel Gutiér


Immature poet imitate...but the mature one steal from the depth of the heart



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Welcome to my world.

Discobar Bizar

Welkom op de blog van Discobar Bizar. Druk gerust wat op de andere knoppen ook, of lees het aangrijpende verhaal van Harry nu je hier bent. Welcome to the Discobar Bizar blog, feel free to push some of the other buttons, or to read the gripping story of Harry whilst you are here!

the poet's billow

a resource for moving poetry


confessions are self-serving

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