why i do what i do//although the bumps along the margins wear me down somedays


enveloped in a haze //n-butyl acetate
i spraypaint letters on the bridge’s grey//crackling forehead
cars and trains rumble across,
a little boy fogs up the pane
his nose a flat peach on its sunlight-glistening surface

a guy in a blue raincoat says
“it’s never permanent–
someone else will come and brush thick layers over it”

that doesn’t mean i’m gone
yet i get cold a bit
it’s dangerous //CAPS&
concrete skeletons lean heavy in the breeze

“and why use words that no one understands”
they’re all in a hurry
heavy bags//chocolate chips against autumn’s first chill,
a dotted dog pee-marks his territory
“they could google it, i mean–”
“they won’t”

he lights a cigarette
a thousand magnifying glasses shimmer in his beard
i want to run my hand
across the secret that sits hidden in the crevice of his lips
as color-rivulets run down the wall, legs,
puddle at my toes,
they’re penciled  red still,
a bit damaged though

“what makes you get up on this scaffold?”

“the way the wind whips spraypaint on my skin”

“that’s it?”

“i think”

his lips are dry a bit
as we sit by the highway
on an island, cyclones spitting froth across the waves

“if that is gone, i’ll stop”
“i know”
&we throw flat stones, skipping on the lake’s unbroken surface


“following through a metaphor” is karin’s theme at dVerse tonite… doors open at 3pm EST

just an ordinary sunday//&and my daughter’s flower bike’s no longer in the carport

summer’s back
bright-grinning face // /i’m stuck in a wooly kilt from scotland,
knee-high stockings with the smell of lambs still on ‘em
we sit in a plastic tent
with plastic windows in our home-town festival

eat currywurst
“haven’t had this in ages” i smile
& a band plays cover songs,
the rolling stones
i think of their guitarist who didn’t make it past the drugs
how they found him in a pool
&someone said the melody for that one song
was the last good thing he played
before the fall//

i woke between a dream last night
secret alleys in a house out in the wild//we were detectives,
and the guy with a weird beard who did the castle tour in Stirling
was the guard man,
i press warm against my husband’s chest

“so what did you tell her?” he asks
“about the day when she moved in with us?//newborn?”
i sigh&

night’s a dark-blue drape
(in emirates planes appears a starry sky above your head once it gets dark)
&i stretch longingly toward it
we play table-tennis in the garden
ploP pLop//sMasH
a little pup,
gnawing at my hands and legs
“he needs a bone” i smile

&fall asleep as Mother Hulda shakes the beds
careful//with huge hands
into a rough and purple landscape


smiles… just a short update on my weekend…ha
happy monday!

Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth//6:15 on my way to work

photo 2-42


morning presses cool lips
on my cheeks, scent of sunrise,
but she’s dreaming//
//hide&seek with traffic lights
light touch of rain’s wet veil
upon my thighs

i’ve not yet showered,
teeth unbrushed
the warm carress of bed still on me

and my bike tells endless stories
“let me breATHe” i beg
scent of clay, exhaust //summer’s fall
behind the next bend

and it’s solomon’s song i listen to this morning,
age-weighed wisdom

every tree hums slow diminished chords
while the rain dots dark-grey concrete
like a girl’s dress
in thick embrace with the horizon

i cross the highway bridge
the car’s wild buzz
against the wind like colonies of bees
on a hot summer day

&think about him who sat with the sheep
harp tunes on my lips
&solomon in his fancy palace,
last steep hill

i lock my bike, drip// wet trails
on the company floor
“good morning”
&a guy beyond shift’s end
stares at my butt while i walk down the aisle
to the showers in the basement

in 10 minutes i’ll sit at my desk,
in a suit,
hair shower-wet &
morning’s deep// wild melody kissed all
upon me

on the Fringe’s seam//

the night is bumpy,
frayed out on the edges
i trace with sleepy fingertips
juggling a teacup
on my knees

“you should go to bed” my daughter says
“cuz you don’t sleep enough”

“i will– in a few minutes”

van Gogh said for him the night holds much more color than the day
i let my hands run close along its seam
extract the half-dark on my tastebuds

finally we talked about that night in Edinburgh
when i submersed in the crowd
ignoring all his messages
and let the city swallow me//alive
a small pub, bathed in yellow street lights

“at least there’s hope now” i say to a friend the next day in a café near st. giles
my freezing bones dug deep into the city’s bustling web,
the writers that we met
“i didn’t know Sir Arthur Connan Doyle lived here”

“that’s why we call it upper case” he points to the CAPS on the rack above the letterpress
“that’s awesome” &how things make sense i think
considering their background

“mom, it’s almost midnite– go to bed”
“i’m talking to van Gogh”

“thanks again–
for showing us around&”

i put my teacup in the sink//

“good night sherlock holmes
sleep well harry potter&i’m sorry mr. jekyll
things turned out for you like that”

with a soft cliCk cut the light
&let the night// devour me



bill webb is guest-posting over at dVerse today and in his “nod to Rilke” has us write in a humble and sincere way either about the things around us or find like Rilke inspiration in A. Rodin’s sculptures and write about one of them in the same way…


my mom & daughter

my mom & daughter

you lose distance
drawing people,
doesn’t matter if the setting’s public
in a restaurant
like at my daughter’s birthday
bowls of salad on the table

“i’m gonna eat mine with the main dish” i say
&take out my sketchbook, brush, watercolor box

“you’re painting now?”

“hmmm, while i wait– you can start already”

i don’t touch people quickly
even though familiar//usually
there’s a shyness&
i trace them with my eyes,
each line and curve, discovering
a bit like braille maybe
as you see shapes//grow
from the wet tip of the brush

“where’s my napkin?”

“oh– i used it for the color puddles in the box lid”
“ha” he smiles

&i’m planted in the moment,
comfortable like a tree, spreading its limbs
to this side and that
breathing in the scents of summer’s slow fall,
bee’s hum, mushroom pancake
&the wild cry from a bird’s crooked beak

“i like that one mom”
Prissi says
“gonna take it as my profile pic”

she’ll be leaving by the end of month for university//
a foreign city//new start

“oh, i’m gonna miss her” says my mom&
i am proud and— adding all the shades i see
In the soft shimmer of her hair

“she’ll be fine” i smile
feeling the soft touch of her skin
across the table


for dVerse..

i was so full of own song that i didn’t hear hers once//she trusted me &sang

highland sheep

highland sheep


highland wind howls–
a huge wounded bear
&purple//heather stre T c h  i  N g fragile limbs
on endless green& stone-rough houses
that errect– wombs with empty eyes
we drive a big mercedes with soft leather seats
which doesn’t fit
the color of the road/deeP

chucKholes buMp the street// wooly sheep with blackprint faces
rain pours
&a stripe of blue–

“that car smells strange” i say
we pull out on the left side,
pressing buttons to unlock the hood
it won’t open
sharp wind
i put on another coat

“you need help?”
“i used to work for them– mercedes, trucks though” he smiles
finds the lock,
brushes through the task bar,
it looks good
“probably remains of a dead animal on the hot engine”

the street climbs small&curvy
“don’t you think they’re getting wet?”
“nah, the wool fat keeps ‘em dry”
“the place reminds me of the last james bond,
where he grew up–“

i feel full //and empty//weak
drawn in by the magic of her shades
they pull me in-
to story after story

“could you live here?”
&i see me sitting with the sheep,
a sheperd’s staff//book in hand//thick boots,
“it’s not romantic– life is rough up here”

to //the sileNce
falling// circles, tantalizing, in a weird dispute
with every fibre in me that shouts city
&her pink breath
smells of all i never knew


Mary has us writing to my sketches at dVerse today… pick one, write a poem and join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST…

i didn’t think i’d find him here in Aberfeldy//but// it sure makes sense

robert burns & i

robert burns & i


he holds a small book
my shirt’s drenched with sweat and rain
& poem-wise
i have no use for landscapes

i sit next to him,
cool bronze against my chest
asking how much time he spent
to listen

to the birk’s brush
soft//against fall’s
wet face

the way up
————-is steep

i blow moist puffs in the forest’s lightgreen dress
“you were in love?” i ask

no answer
things// look different then,
my feet hurt// slaM against a rock
“we make the whole round?”
“yeah, let’s go for it”

“ya know,
it’s not the burnie or the birks, in fact” i say
“it could be a dirty sidestreet in a god-forgotten place
the difference is—“

the linn sprays cool webs on my face
a group of hikers cross our path,
one wears only flip flops

“Mr. Burns?”
but he’s in a dream still
and i only touch him lightly
“would you paint here?”
“i don’t think so” i say//panting

listening to the shaw’s rough voice
humming a lightsome melody


birks: birches
lightsome: merry
shaws: woods
linns: waterfalls
burnie: stream


we celebrate our monthly OpenLInkNight at dVerse today… write a poem – no specific theme – and join the fun – doors open at 3pm EST…