>silvester

>tonight we dance,
dance the year

like firework
like moonwalker
like emulsion

neglect where we come from,
forget where we go

hang on to the stars with
odd smiles; silent orbits
washing down,

rubbing eternity with
skinned elbows, emptying

all our pockets
to be filled, filled again
once we land or choose, drifting

                      in space..

what can you say in 55 words? i’m linking up with g-man’s friday flash 55

Wishing you all a fantastic start into 2011!

>..and i write brown to stay earthed

>

want me to read it to you?

suddenly i can’t
see the world any more, letters
pile up like a storm surge,
pressing hard

against the walls
of my heart, shouting
for release, colored
black, blue, red, green, pink and i

write brown to stay earthed, watch the ink
drip, flow, emerge, forming streams,
puddles, rows and the birds in
my head start humming, all drunken and

easy feathers, wings against my brain,
long to fly, surf, conquer
vast skies and i open, open
doors, bind letters to balloons

with purple thread and watch
‘em leave, yearning to join
and drift, attaching, hoping, longing
and kissing, loving, i bond,

release, let go while brown ink
keeps flooding
my fingers, desk, heart and touching
the wind, words fall back, bouncing,

tumbling, pulsating and i
net ‘em like insects, pinning them
to white sheets with tears full
of salty deserts cause i know, i know

they carry the scent of rough winds
and blue skies, of thunderstorms and
untamed wildness, of bird’s croaks and
lover’s cries, of hoping & losing like

a hero and dancing like a child
behind a plain & unimpressive
brown-inked veil.

i’m linking up with One Stop Poetry – write a poem, join us and meet some highly talented people over there. Sign up opens today at 5 pm EST

>king protea holes in my soul

 

 
 
the king protea is the national flower of south africa

i fought for the wings against african skies
like a wild roaring lion in the steppe, they
tenderly feathered towards weary eyes,

inflaming imagination like bushfire when
fluid, white, viscous sails threw long
shadows on summer-tired days, melting my

dripping point to almost nothing – all ease
and freedom and wonder in hard beaten
lands. and painting the skies with my fingers,

moist with sweat i waited for the silky surplices
to cover red glowing king protea holes in my
soul – but they never managed.

this was inspired by a discussion between some crazy poets :=) if wings or surplices would be the better word in the poem of a lovely south african lady….leaving the conversation, i started to write…

>kissing her silent – a shadorma

>

 Photo credit: Adam Dustus – scene is part of Rockefeller Center, NYC
trumpets blow
flow low, echo wide
marching tight
and he longs
through the ever asking night
to kiss her silent

The Shadorma is a spanish poem form with six lines with a syllable pattern of 3/5/3/3/7/5 
this was written for the one shoot sunday picture prompt over 

at One Stop Poetry wanna join us..? 

>lost coins

>maybe it’s a bit like
losing coins
on the sidewalk, they

slipped through a hole in
your pocket – unnoticed,
melting into powdery snow

like little sailors, falling
noiseless and no one collects
‘em & who cares anyway? you

think you’ll miss them? well, it
may be a bit late. so you search
your pockets for close rattling metal

& what you find is the warmth of
your skin  and snowy air and you
feel a bit sad – or more – lost? hands

in your pocket, you look back
a long way, searching the snow
and wonder if it’s them that
got drowned or – was it you..

>filthy rags – a christmas rondel

>

This is my birthday poem for the one, who loves me most, for him who started his humble walk in a stable and went all the way to the cross because he loved us more than his life. Don’t know where i were without him – he saved me more than once and I guess there are never enough words to express how much I owe him and how much I love him. So…. happy birthday Jesus…!

filthy rags

you come to me when i expect it least
and cover me with wings as with a coat
i find no words to tell you what i hope
just stunned as you invite me to your feast
you take away what’s old and used and greased
on water, i walk straight towards your boat
you come to me when i expect it least
and cover me with wings as with a coat
in fear of drowning all my movements freeze
my song stuck somewhere deep down in my throat
and filthy rags are scattered on the road
your love for me has never ever ceased
you come to me when i expect it. least
Merry Christmas to all of you!

(the rondel was invented in the 14th century, rhyme scheme is ABba abAB abbaA)

>cardiologic

>i meet you during lunch-break promenades
you walk your black dog along snowy fields, you’re
blind and I stop singing silent songs for fear

my voice would give away what’s deeply hidden,
well concealed. you’ll hear my steps, deflowering
earthy ground and somehow, as we pass, i

feel like empty jars, all fragile, nude with heavy
drops of red wine stealing, running, trickling
down curved glasses, mingled joy with sticky lip gloss

love-mad saliva – deposits and relics, smelling
of a time before fierce droughts would hit my land, when
i got drunk on lovers juices, inhaling tears,

afraid my voice, my breath, the way i step on
snowy ground would soon reveal what was forgotten and
untouched, invisible. and you may hear & feel & sense

the shadows of my soul like blurred past dirty mirrors  
fleeting crash-ice towards spring-bound hopes,
all broken, scattered flowerseeds, entwined & caught

in barren branches, buried, drowned in endless darkened
aisles and winding up and down my veins – cardiologic
beating, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing as you pass

(and from your smile i know you saw me..)

this is my entry for One Shot Wednesday over at  One Stop Poetry – join us, write a poem or just jump over to read others. Sign up opens today at 12 noon EST – a bit earlier than usual because of the holidays and because it’s the last One Shot to link up your poem for the One Stop Anthology – a collection of “Best of One Shot – the first six months”, published under Limited Editions Press

>the arrow shot

>

photo credit: Claudio Mufarrege – jump over to  
One Stop poetry to learn more about him and his photography

she’s not the kind of girl you meet
flamenco-dancing in the streets,
chasing her yellow laughter like
a boy would catch butterflies. she’s

more the “trying to hunt down my
doubt with bow and arrow” kind,
shot in darkened corridors. and by
the time, she has decided on her way,

she would cob-web her face as with
perfume clouds. and through the
clocks, you painted on rough walls,
when time stood still, she fell

this was written for the one shoot sunday picture prompt over 
at One Stop Poetry wanna join us..?



>island blues

>what I’d take to this lonely island..? guess
my alto sax 4 bluesy moments, the Book of

him, who keeps my feet from stumbling (the
roots, you know…), 2 or 3 of the old poets who

survived more than just their life & maybe some
duct tape 4 fixing my shattered heart before

- buried beneath sandcastles -

                                    i may find wings

what can you say in 55 words? linking up with g-man

>on clichés and other dragons

>

packing bags for a Tour de Universe, loading my dragon
with all the clichés I can find (quite a few), binding most
of them on his clifty back and feed him some as a starter

(taste is not bad, at least if you’re a dragon) and off we go,
moon direction, mars direction riding on milky ways, heroes
of the galaxies. small dragon, even smaller me and so packed

with clichés that actually some of the stars may suffer and all
the poets, staring at the sky shouting
“NO, NO” “YOU CAN’T” “JUST DON’T”!!!!

eyes wide open in unrestrained horror and Luke Skywalker,
taking his red pen, marking, shaking his head and (IMHO)
he’s right…no? but out in cosmos, who cares? the earth is

small from here.. we hyphenate spaces & scatter small print
(upper case as well) light-handed like fluffy snow-flakes across
dark, forgotten and syllable-empty universes (the clichés like

it up here, they have no easy life on earth anyway) so they
somersault happily, enjoying their short-lived reign before
fading, dying down, disappearing in poetic black holes and,

rubbing my eyes, hugging my dragon (wouldn’t kiss him,
you know his breath.. too hot…), I start wondering if they ever
have existed and in case (just hypothetical) I’d start to cry,

moaning all the lost words – half-mast my prose flag, the tears
won’t fall but zero gravity would carry them so floatingly through
time and space.. and one day, you’d find them, frozen and

crystalline, wrap ‘em like a bead round your neck – relics of a
time when clichés used to mingle with poetry like moondust
with the american dream, an ongoing temptation… riding the

dragon, incognito (names are dangerous when you deal with
clichés), exploring those undercover spots, inhaling steamy
dragon-breath (including some fiery flames when he gets excited)

chills sliding down my neck and up my spine til I start shivering
(cause it feels so good..) and wonder if we should stay a bit and
together, dream the planet
increasingly blue

linking up with One Shot Wednesday – join us, write a poem or just jump over to read others. Sign up opens today at 5 pm EST