Mindful Writing: When Scones Are Stones

The surface is bumpy and uneven,
like looking down on a miniature desert.
Flecked with crystals, the scone is triangular
with cliff walls, from which shine rubies.


Wave a scone in front of me, I’m done. I adore them, although the American version is not quite the same as the original.  Both are delicious.


Mindful Writing: Stone Colours

I think what I appreciate most about Fiona [I will shift to her new name as soon as I remember to find it and learn it]and Kaspa doing this, is that, if I haven’t been writing, I slowly and creakingly move back into the rhythm.

the greys

It’s that time, past dawn, when colours fade
and everything stretches grey, from me
in my woolie, looking out the window,
to the porch, the street with morning cars, the church
across the road, the trees, the rooftops, even the sky,
at this moment, before the sun tops the winter horizon.

Mindful Writing: More Stones

I missed Day 1. In the possible that I will write and post every day, I thought I would catch up with two. I realise they seem to go together. Pretend they don’t.

On the stove a rattle,
lid to pot, escaping
steam hisses,
the turkey renders.

On the floor, sorted
laundry is piled, a box
holds the Christmas
centrepiece, a black bag
shrouds the table-top tree.
Pine needles are strewn.

Mindful Writing Stone

Already I am behind. Although, I did write this two days before Mindful Writing opened, so maybe that cancels everything out.

uncle and niece talk
looking at Mt. Diablo —
two cigarette butts

With stones, unlike poems, I like to give a little context, if needed, or when there is a story. A few days after Christmas, my mother raised the shade on the back porch, to discover a porcelain bowl, which had belonged to her mother, perched precariously on a wall. When she brought it in, we stared at the two cigarette butts, one hand rolled, the other filtered, and knew: her son, my daughter. I told her I would write a haiku.

July River of Stones #1 [Fifty-second Stone]

This is how we begin today.

We notice one thing properly. We write it down.

It doesn’t matter how long it is, or how clever it is, or whether you’ve spelled it right.

It matters that you pause for a moment. It matters that you really hear the whirr of your lap-top, or the squeaky wheel as the cyclists passes you. It matters that you smell those tomatoes-on-the-vine and notice their earthy sweetness. It matters that you take a minute to skim your fingertips over your smooth silk shirt.

We notice one thing properly. We write it down.

So goes the opening message from Fiona and Kaspa. Here is my first stone for the month:

The seagull rides
the thermals
like a tightrope
walker–wings tipping
back and forth