When Yellow Leaves Hang

When  yellow leaves hang

I will look for you,

silver streaks and frail.

My branches will reach

twisted and tangled

up your vined walls.

My edges will be

crumbling and veined,

but you will see in me:

my brightest hour

my hottest meal

my sweetest poem

and my golden skin.

The sun will slide south,

These roots will be watered,

and this rolling stone will moss.

And you will be...

My last leaf.

       

                                 

Mofongo

 The kitchen smells of crushed garlic

and the deep fryer pops and snaps

In excitement

The counter splays

A rainbow array of exotic spices

And edible elements of the earth

On the radio

A savory salsa swings

Green Plantains

Are not bananas

But they pretend to be

So that the unsuspecting

Might bring them home

And fall in love with their

Starchy nutty flavor

So familiar and comforting

That a ripened plantain

Weans  infants of the Caribbean

On warm summer nights

As the coconuts click in the wind

And Today is their homecoming

Peeled from their green jackets

Like soldiers coming home from war

They are mashed in a wooden

Bowl with a heavy wooden pounder

In comes the Garlic

Potent and earthy

Arrogant and aromatic

Against the bits of blue crab

sprinkled into the bowl

Pressed Olive oil drizzles

Slowly and thick

From a glass bottle

To marry the mixture

 Someone turns the radio up

And the kitchen is in full swing

Ingredients are added by

Invitation only

The finished mush

Is fashioned into a bowl form

And deep fried to crispness

Pots are clamoring

And the savory smells

Cling to the walls

And lure us from our bedrooms

Codfish and crab bubbles

On the stove in a bath of tomato broth

Salty and tender

Ready to be poured into the mofongo bowl

Mofongo

Mo-fone-go

I ran from the dish as a child

For the name felt too foreign

On my tongue

Not easy like Skittles

Or Campbells

But today

It calls to me

With a history,

With a culture,

And with the familiar

Faces  of  family.

Buen Provecho!

Float away with me...

 One of my favorite songs is not in English, it is in Danish. Listening to music in a language you do not understand forces you to immerse yourself deeper into the song itself, and appreciate it on the basis of sound. In this song, you can hear each instrument clearly and feel the yearning in her voice. It really is lovely. So grab a glass of wine, dim the lights and turn this WAY UP.


Herfra hvor vi star
by: Quadron

      Every time I hear this song I get a very languid and beautiful image in my head. I picture a deep red silk scarf, floating through air as if it had been dropped off the roof of a building. It floats softly down to the ground...slowly shifting with every wind current, like a feather. Do you see it?


The translation I have found is as follows:


From where we stand


Everything has calmed down.
And soon, the sun is up again.
Moon accordion war
die slowly.

From where we stand
We can look around
on all sides.
It moves.
When we walk.
It is changing at all times.


We talked almost all night.
And here is it, then stalled.
Around, there are people and are asleep.
I do not know whither we should go.


From where we stand
We can look around
on all sides.
It moves.
When we walk.
It is changing at all times.

There was a friend who went away a little before the others.
And now they say he went too far.
But when there is someone who knows the direction.
Then there is always some guy who must stand for shots.

From where we stand
We can look around
crowded on all sides.
It moves.
When we walk. And where you stand.
It is changing at all times.


From where we stand
We can look around
and we can see on all sides.
It moves.
When we go and where you stand.
It is changing at all times.

Now the morning light spilling out.
With all the covers off.
This must be something.
And there shall be deducted from.

From where we stand
We can look around
on all sides.
It moves.
When we walk.
It is changing at all times.