Meeting the Bar: the Word is not enough

i mostly find them lying somewhere,
could be on a city sidewalk
smutted with a hard day’s dirt,
spray-washed by smooth summer rain
or bleached in the september sun

no one seems to see them

on the way back home from work
i pass them with my bike &
sometimes hate it when they call,
yet i stop, pick them up and then–
don’t know what to do

some feel heavy in my hands,
others sweet or ugly and they mingle
with my heartbeat

i put them in my pockets,
feel their pulse against my thighs &
then forget how much they move me

in the night i hear their breath
swaying tenderly towards my sheets,

with tousled hair, i rise,
pour them on the floor,
light a candle, spread them on the carpet,

for a long time we just sit and talk
moving them around, i
try to understand,
press them soft against my lips,
weighing how they feel–

some never seem to fit &
those i like the most

when the morning dawns i’m naked,
wounded & enraptured on the floor,
never make it back to bed,
never make it anywhere–

But i already knew that
when i saw them first

this is my entry for today’s Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft at dVerse Poets Pub, hosted by a wonderful Emmett Wheatfall. Gates will swing open at 3 pm EST

tales, thieves, ropes & nightmares

tonight, we gonna rob
the bank of england, there’s
no need to be afraid,
done this a thousand times

we’ll take machine guns,
black gloves & pack
the seven meter rope, i found
hidden in the cellar

in case there is resistance
we will tie them up–
safely and aesthetically just before
we shoot ‘em

i’ve been living
in this trailer on the junkyard
for too long,
thousand cases solved and
lifes de-riddled,
table brimming with their fingerprints

they after me

barely remember faces,
considering we’re too young
for driving cars of that caliber,
bikes worn down like
rusted childhood memories,

your ego is too fat? you’ll never
make it through the door and
if your world is painful, who cares

when the lights go down
we gonna meet on shaky chairs,
faces masked and careful
not to leave our fingerprints

no need to kiss me, this is business,
i don’t really wanna know your name,
the lawless don’t talk much
about bad conscience
do they?

so tonight–
we gonna rob
the bank of england,
wrapped in black as we’re just shades
in jagged lands,
swallow guilt like aspirin &

countless whiskeys later, spread on
million pound notes,
put away your gun, un-tie me
from your mind and falling deep,

i coarsely whisper

“Long Life– to the Queen”


this is my entry for Open Link Night over at dVerse Poets Pub…and it’s my pleasure to tend the bar tonight…so grab the mic and join us with your poetry..

by the river

she moves
while i sit motionless

wishing for nothing but
the sun’s soft breath upon my face

i fall into her without falling,
lose myself & don’t get lost,

pouring words without a single
movement on my lips

the day shrinks out of sight–

gets invisible & then–

she tells me nothing of her secrets
but shares abundantly

and twinkles as i leave

just a moment on my way back home from work today…went by bike and stopped by the river, sitting in the grass, enjoying the sun, just breathing..

cause i still trust

pour me–

some wine,
undress me slowly,

no candles, music, it’s all
in my head, no light, i

see you anyway as much
as you can feel me wrapped,
wrapped wide in darkness, we

sailed out there many times, i blow &

blow you with soft lips until
the waves swallow your moans,

so find your rhythm, then
sink slowly into me until we scratch that range
between the chasm and the sun, it’s like i

always lose– myself but

you’ve prepared a space for me to be
& mad with longing you still

hold & keep me safe, so

Pour me—

pour me some wine,
un– dress me slowly

cause i still, i

still trust

this is my poem for the Poetics prompt at dVerse Poets Pub, hosted today by the wonderful hedgewitch…come and join us with your poetry…you will love what hedge has written up for us…gates open 3 pm EST

i’ve also been interviewed for Deanna Piowaty’s Combustus Magazine together with a 78-year-old nia black belt & dance instructor, a Greek painter, an American painter, a Norway photographer, an Italian pianist…and…and…i’m humbled to be in one article with such great can read the interview here: the many faces of eve 

it’s just like that..

seems i’m damned to drink cold coffee,
as soon as it is in that cup,
HOT.. promising &

it is—forgotten
OLN &  i’m abroad…

…daughter joins for breakfast

“how’s your first week back in school again..?”
“well it’s my second… “
“oh” (there was this business trip..)

i’m leaving in a hurry..blurrrrred
office world–
“you should wear your glasses..”
“hmm”…and during coffee break
we’re talking know,

we’re Europe but–
Switzerland is not – they’re democratic
and the french drink red wine..we go

Blocher, Sarkozy and Berlusconi,
coffee’s getting cold  & curly Matt
remarks that  – after all,
i don’t speak the local dialect..

back home, i follow
the adventure cake crumb trail,
& find my son, watching the Simpsons,
heavily denying his involvement
in anything related to that cake

i sigh – walk to the bathroom…think i should
relax but there’s this poem in my head–

so soakin’ wet & naked as a jaybird
i crawl to my computer–

and this is
where my husband finds me hours later..


that was yesterday…just a very average day in my life…ha..
over at dVerse, Gay is looking at Sestinas tonight…if you’re up for a form challenge, you should really check it out.. gates open 3 pm EST

nice day for a white wedding


vows made
we’re sitting on the steps
under a fervent sun

haven’t met for years,
still there’s this old connection

and you’re smoking

I listen to your words,
hanging like beads
on every cloud puff that
silently escapes your lips,

i understand &

take them, put them on a line
between the washing and
compare them with my own

you sound blue like ink
between relentless concrete & the start
of something new

across the yard the wedding gown
shines silver in the sun,
there’s children’s laughter,
silent knowledge and deep cuts
that never heal

we sit on borrowed stairs,
drinking red wine while the
smoke gets dense

until the borders are invisible

and they call us in for dinner


as soon as we have the place in order after Pretzels & Bullfights, it’s time for OpenLinkNight again at dVerse Poets Pub…Gates will open at 3 pm EST.. Brian Miller will tend the bar & hand you the hope you gonna join us with your poetry..


the future’s sitting at my table–

i don’t realize cause i’m
on the other end, commenting poems

“you should wear your glasses mom..”

they cooked vegetables for their dinner,
i’m not even sure how long she stays

laughing the distance silent, asking questions i
can’t answer cause i’m riding thousand trains,

she studies chemistry in Lausanne
& she’s got a winning smile, it balances
between the broccoli and laptop screen
and somehow makes it to my heart

i’m looking up and
for the first time see them–
walking into life and

i forget to get my glasses


Franzi is a friend of my daughter Miriam and she visited us over the weekend

Poetics: Thieves

i still long to fall asleep
to the soft, reassuring rattling of the rails,
tiny girl, tousled hair & mind

with rosy cheeks, i’m wandering
like the queen of mysteries
through tenderly vibrating wagons,

masked as Hercule Poirot
this is the Orient Express,
surveying secrets while the land flies by,

quiet and greased with fingerprinted paintings,
heated forehead tightly pressed against the glass

i’m thinking of Meg Ryan and this off-beat guy
smuggling vine to plant his future
and they kissed and kissed and–

Erich Kästner’s Emil on his ride to Berlin,
pinning hundred D-Mark to his jacket & he still
gets robbed while sleeping, i–

rub my eyes,

tack my dreams with safety pins close to my heart,
stitch them carefully onto my skin and

watch the rails race by
on magic places of my early childhood,
this is – yes – through open toilet lids

i shudder in deep awe each time i flush,
a hundred times, speed-sick,
secret time machines, weird dreams,
i travel to another life, it’s

occupied, so STOP the knocking, locked
onto the way to freedom, tied up with all
fairy tales i never wrote because they
scattered on the rails, who can
tell? what—

if i fell?

Mom knocks me off my thoughts, next
day we gonna read the newspaper report:
queues in front of train WC’s can gain the length
of russian pipelines, all because of
fantasizing kids, someone gotta stop this trend
before it undermines the fragile blinds of
modern, hard to reign society, so–

“did you wash your hands?”

i nod but – -

you can never be sure


some footnotes on this…

D-Mark is the currency we had in Germany before the introduction of the Euro,
Emil and the detectives by Erich Kästner is on of my most-loved books from childhood, you should really read it…even if you’re grown-up…
and i used to travel a lot by train when i was a kid and have always been fascinated by these old train toilets – when you flushed, you saw the tracks…frightening and magical at the same time…

been thinking on all this on my train ride from Rome to Grosseto a few weeks was an old train and i was wondering if they still may have these open toilets…but didn’t check it out because i thought otherwise i would never get out there again, may would’ve started to dream..and surely forgot to wash my hands…smiles

now this is my entry for today’s poetics prompt over at dVerse Poets Pub…and it’s my pleasure to be your host.. gates open 3 pm EST

Meeting the Bar: Lobby-ing

i dont mind writing poetry
in hotel lobbies

sitting with a heavy pen, soaked,
an atmosphere of homelessness
& mirrored in the words, floating
from leather couches to a polished bar

So play piano-man
as we sit listening and waiting
for the things that never happen

Play neither passionate nor shallow,
wrap us in your tunes,
make us feel,

we’re not belonging anywhere

We meet in clouds of sound,
leaned comfortably on the night

and we’re all homesick–

tiny parts of us fall
silently onto the floor
where an eager cleaning lady
finds them in the morning,

no one finds our loneliness–

so take your bag,
pour another drink
by the time the smoke clears
we’ll be gone

Brian and I have prepared this week’s Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft post over at dVerse Poets Pub together…it will be posted at 3 pm EST…make sure to check it out and enjoy our musical approach to poetry crit…smiles

I’m still on a business trip, so will return comments and make my rounds on Friday evening…looking forward to reading some poetry again..

six million

a tiny station &
we’re baking in the sunlight

it is this space
between departing daily
and never getting there,

hitting the road of pain,
camouflaged with gravel, dying
in steel grind of rails,

you’re bleeding–

The afternoon smells dusty
and of red geranium,
decorated rows of silence
on the window sill

we still don’t talk much
cause i know

there are no words
for losing everything.

you live
in endless nightmares,
hands shake when you
take your cup

the trains are crowded &

you vomit all the way,

cooped in like cattle,
and the yellow star,

wrapped tight around their arm
is tattooed in your eyes–

None of them returns

You’re there each night,

each night suffocating,
conscience stabbed
amidst the rattling of the rails,
a rotting rat in oily puddles,

covered with their cries,
the smell of death pulls
on your teeth and knocks you
to the ground,

you’re sinking deeper,

deeper in the dirt

until there’s nothing left

but tears and shame

It is this space
between departing daily

and your hands

still shake


Six million Jews were killed during the NS regime between 1933 – 1945 in my country, the darkest and most guilt-burdened time in German history. I know this is a sensitive topic to touch and i feel small in doing so. This poem is not an accusation in any direction but written with high respect for the jewish nation and also with compassion for those, who were there, silently suffering, terrified and too afraid to help and carrying this guilt for the rest of their life.

Mark Kerstetter put together a deep and thought-provoking Poetics prompt at dVerse Poets Pub…it goes online at 3 pm EST