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

Foto 2-5

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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

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

100 years since WW I

Water Buffalo Devil

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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

finding rhythm in the bird’s song

on the fogged up pane
i scribe his songs
in ancient letters
half-translated,
patchwork loose seams warm
around my neck,

a secret code,

much the same we used
walking up that mountain,

austria ahead of us
& i in my red raincoat
history yet told

“where’s your desk now?”
“third floor”
“i’ll be over in a minute”
“it’s too heavy for me”
& i hand him back the book
with saffron clinging

in a thin ring of fast circling molecules
“Putin scares me” i say
“yeah– “
“so does Erdogan”

i sip my coffee// in the grounds,
find parallels
“so, you’re collecting bird songs?”
“yes”
“makes sense”
i trace their trails across the office space,
jot quarters on a vacant song sheet
“it’s confusing here” i say
“I mean, to find someone–”
he nods

& i head for the door

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Tony at dVerse today challenges us rgd. rhythm in poetry…the article goes up at 3pm EST…this poem started after a long working day in the bath tub and i listened to a bird outside the window…and wished i could understand his song…smiles.. there was the fogged up pane & i wanted to write down the notes there, and then fragments of things that happened during the day, a hiking memory from my teenage years, and it all felt a bit surreal..and i was concerned about a few things – and that’s how the rhythm developed.. i wanted it to echo the feel but ground it in reality as well with those conversation snippets…ha..ok…nuff said…smiles

rubbing the dragon’s back///before i paint him

photo-213

the sketch i did outside the hong kong take away while waiting for my food…

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leaning on a greasy counter
in the rain, driP dRop
spring’s a mermaid, seaweed pony tail
&nautilus/striped goggles

“i’d love to get some rice with chicken &— “
“pardon–?”
he leans out the little window,
steam rises in big puffs from his wok
i shout against the car’s
shttsshhhzzzz tshhhhssszk eeeaaarrrrrhhrr
“oh– ok” he nods,

his color’s a red flag,
pointing home-land
& the blue of rain
which trampoline-jumps
on a yellow-striped umbrella
while i wait, sketch the scene
from the shelter of a tiny rooftop overhang

pHloP sszzZZzhhhsshhhh
he pours oil & tosses chicken pieces
through a drape of thousand molecules,
shifting clouds upUpTowards the fume hood

“i’d add white” i think, like fog
like the orchid on their banner,
&the powdered milk a priest gave to a little boy
in the daylight-fleeting streets of the walled city

his wife packs my meal
in a little alu box, adjusts the lid,
silver, like the hong kong skyline,
silver like her hair, she laughs

as a mischievous gust of wind
grabs my note and flutters it
along the boardwalk,
i run after it

& paint ‘em green
like glimpses of Yau Ma Tei’s jade market
or the peppers that bend heads towards me,
“thanks” i smile,
walk hood down,

sWing //in resonance frequency
of every color i can see,

& let ‘em driP dRop dRiP
thousand silly kisses on me

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today at dVerse Abhra wants us to think about coloring others… pub doors open at 3pm EST
and for those who are interested in some background about the walled city, click here