put an egg on your table//if it doesn’t shake you may be safe or–

“the world’s not round!!”
they shout
“it’s flat ///it’s flat!!”

underneath each land a pillar/stream/walls/dark canals
to stabiliZe
so that the shell won’t crack
like columbus’ egg
(oh just–to make a point)

the wind blows
east to west//south//north
his bag brings smog, a bug, worm, flood
(from china? north pole? africa?)
“nah– the crisis in the ukraine won’t affect us”
sky’s

a giant calculator, clouds
on threads and grim-faced marionettes
spLasH huge-feet in the ocean

& their pups, dripping wet juMp
continent to continent//shake furry heads
america?
no, india
what about the soviets?

and columbus puts his egg
(very calmly)
upright on the table
“cheers” they say &
“everyone// can–”
picture that

“the earth is flat//the earth is flat!!”
they shout in a silly round dance
til the corners of the world roll wet-eyed on the table

& Columbus laughs
& laughs
& laughs

.

björn has us do poetic journalism for dVerse today… so grab a newspaper and write a statement poem…a brief comment in simple poetic form, using humor or irony…mine was written after reading an article about the ukraine crisis – how some say it won’t affect us – others provide facts and figures that i will affect us worldwide (& i def. think it will and hope that things calm down quickly)

i’m still in paris, getting back home tonite and will need a bit time to catch up…

reading the book thief on good friday–

street musician in stuttgart

street musician in stuttgart

.

it’s cause you cannot put a piece of sky
on someone’s table,
hoping that he wakes&understands
what makes me pull words
from the fried skin of a trout that we ate by the pond
on ice cold benches&

you cannot paint it– there’s a row of sketches still
from stuttgart, waiting to be finished
an australian guy with a didgeridoo,
a guitar player, awkward out of shape
what they really mean, you can’t see
by only looking at them

jesus died on a friday, 3pm
as my husband reads the story
i sit leaned against his chest

“what dough would you take to bake an easterlamb?”
my daughter asks
“you could google it”
“i wanna know from you”
“ok”
&now the scent of fresh baked cake

takes me back to easter sundays
at my aunt’s kitchen table in bavaria,
smell of bread, milk, warmth of woodfire from the stove
a pyramid of thoughts//emotions
tightly tied together,

&how would you capture that?
i put down the book
“wanna go for a walk?” he asks
we collect random things,
someday and to someone they’ll make sense,
my daughter plays the panpipe in her room,

“ok, let’s go” i say, “i don’t mind the rain”

& in my lap the book breathes
myriads of untold stories

–talking about physics//africa//and i//a portrait

Foto 2-5

.

i’m lightyears/cesium/ molecules,
the distance moon to earth
a quantum field, a theory of
nanoscopic scales

&i’m the little girl that chases doves
in a medieval marketplace,
a baby, snuggled up against her mother’s breast,

i’m in the silky wrinkles
of the businessman’s blue suit&tie, his worried eyes,
the tram’s soft rattle ’round the farmer stands,
cappucchino foam &costa rican coffee blend,

i’m every cobble stone,
that whispers stories from the past,
a kingdom// knight & cracks in the old city wall,
Justizia with a scale in hand on a 15th century clock
&carmesin red townhall paint

a crinkled skyblue paperboat
at rest//put on a table in the cyro lab
of basel university
he smiles “you really see the small things”

i am atoms,
slowed /cooled down to test
then released, a heavy wind
that whips confetti in your face,

i’m broken pottery,

&pearl-white teeth
in the 5-star hotel butler’s nightblack face

the clacking of a keyboard
in a late eve empty office space

i’m in a dream
that slowly circles ’round your chest
and in my youngest daughter’s gaze

“every clock” he says “needs an oscillator”
measuring f in kilohertz
i’m that

a pendulum,
a wanderer
i’m everything //a bit

& sling a band of sunshine ’round my hips
meet Einstein on a sun dial at 0.00001 Hz
a game of chess
the globe laughs deep (&i’m in that)
moving// turning ‘round an earthy axis in a star-drenched bed

& i am thousand spreading freckles

in the lion’s smiling face

.

bri has us write self-portrait poems today at dVerse.. doors open at 3pm EST….

100 years since WW I

Water Buffalo Devil

.

in the core of everything
is panpipe,
violin, a garbage dump,
and horns that stretch beyond
the shopping street

i sit at Stuttgart, Schlossplatz
after World War I
a sketcher,
mud soaked in a dugout
& the sun

has not stopped shining
yet
——i shift //pin
open questions on the storyteller’s furry limbs

“you’re out of place” i say

his eyes point nowhere

i re//store the contents of my bag,
a pen, a mobile, ticket with daisy seeds blown upon it
careful in the palm(s) of yet
another coat of arms,
another reign
another crippled soldier walking bombed out streets

a guy, dressed up as a sheik
sells whiskey to the youngsters on the lawn,
around the bend–
everything you dream but cannot see
“probably you fit in after all” i think

&his teeth reflect
the pattern
————of the road

.

i’m back..smiles… will be good to read&write poetry again… gimme a bit time to get back to you as i have a backlog of office work after the business trip but will be by soon…
today at dVerse we’re writing to a selection of pics by Phyllis Galembo.. doors open at 3pm EST

53hours

i cut daybreak into orange slices
that spill sweet between my fingers,
veins&

she breathes feather pillows
in her own bed,
fresh made peanut butter scent&
hum of an electric tooth brush

last night,
between dirty clothes & costa rican coffee
i sat with her on the carpet,
trying to play the panpipe she brought from her trip

“did you cry?” i ask
“yeah, when i realized that i would be stuck
at miami airport another day/night
with few dollars left, pre-paid phone card almost empty,
no free wireless access, no possibility

to contact–”
“hey, you ok?”
an australian woman leans down
“mom, she was so nice, i told her about the flight delay,
we talked Sydney, studying–
when she said good-bye to catch her flight
she left me 20 dollars”
“wow, that was very kind”

then my daughter lay down, worn out
in a corner at the airport,
bag under her head/jacket on the floor

while i biked to work
while i showered
while i sat all day in meetings
biked back, ate,
tried to get some money on her credit card
went to bed, tossing/turning,
checked my phone//again//
no answer–

“she’s in london”
“thank god”

i pour coffee
in the morning’s open palm,
shake my pillow, ripe with peach &oat flakes
from a mountain tower
& a bunch of little kids sled cheering
up the rainbow

in the other room,

sighing
in her sleep
she holds the panpipe in her hand

& breathes

& breathes

with soft pursed lips

.

today at dVerse, we write emotions without naming them… doors open at 3pm EST..

Odilon Redon’s butterflies//&why they soar– in spite

i miss the lightness in their wings,
dotted thick with oil paint
yet the sky looks promising
& there’s a sense of weightlessness

my daughter texts
from Miami airport
“didn’t catch my flight& didn’t get a hotel room”
she’s stuck for another 20 hours
& i wonder if she cried
while i was sleeping
& her sister’s plane
flew into Frankfurt

home to Redon’s butterflies
is not Basel
but the New York MOMA,

someone wrapped
loads of duct tape ‘round their wings,
put ‘em in a climate box?
most probably

&they don’t look at me, yet i can feel their gaze
slowly trickling through my skin,
thin with open questions,

when they first went to the States,
did they get stuck at immigration?
after all, they’re french

&  i imagine how they soared
with tender wings
around a bull-head officer
having to leave their fingerprints
“no, pleaSe– place your thumb right in the middle,
the machine can’t read you otherwise”
cheCk//bEEeppP // iris sCan
“what you’re doing here?”
“we just hang out in a museum”
“who are you meeting?”
“oh—“
“why are you traveling //alone?”

the sky shines in a million colors,
i get closer
to the door,
to where all journeys start,
wanna scratch some of the paint away to see
if there’s another layer

so what was the reason?
wrong size/color/shape?
or a myriad of hidden messages
tucked careful to their oily wings

“why not pastels?” i ask
then i could blow them off the canvas
in a whiff&gentle breeze “flyFly–”
& they would spread all over me

until she made it back

.

for poetics today at dVerse marina sofia has us write animals as portents of good or bad news, the way we like to project our own thoughts and traits… ha..i mixed odilon redon’s butterfly painting  that i saw last weekend in an exhibit in basel with the travel adventures of my daughter who is hopefully home by tomorrow evening… smiles… see you later… pub doors open at 3pm EST

honestly, i’d trade my seaweed crown for one night in a waterbed

photo-205

on the 55 bus

.
the easiest time to get me talking
(without thinking)
are the moments when i sketch,

standing squished against the bus pane
sardine in a tin
i answer everything,
pen a mess of squiggly lines,
breathing//choking
with the movement,

we talk kids, friendship
&a figure drawing course
if i wanna join in? (one place available)

i focus on the pale man //baseball cap,
sketch him//not too obvious
& can’t remember what i said
a minute back,

beeP/bEep/beeP
my trade fair ticket isn’t working,
a grey parka man//
“pssshh– use that”
“thanks”

“so what time exactly is that course?”

we pass rows of leather coats,
nail art booth,
a race bike that i lift with one hand

by the waterbeds,
i leap– sink// thousand bubbles round my head,
i’m nautilus, a seashell//Neptune, crab//cloud// clown/fish
greenish swaying seaweed queen–

&moving carefully
feel water’s whispering lips

like in a dream

that’s too diffuse
to really paint it

.

for OLN at dVersePoets... doors open at 3pm EST