finishing school

when we met, there
was this shattered pattern in your eyes,
exactly mirroring mine &

we collapsed into each other,
struggling to break free,
unseen rubber bands would curl and snap,
pulling us back forever– and i

loved the madness, hours
on your motorbike, kamikaze rides
along the edge// walls, papered tight
with tickets– crashs like trophies
of a speed rebellion &

i flew because your craziness
felt like the safest place
on earth– We spent

days in bed and smoking,
spinning dreams we knew would never make it
from the tiny three room flat–

your mom sat in the living room,
watching tv, leant against her life

with the softest eyes i‘ve ever seen,
velvet brown and filled
with broken crockery, cooking

blood red peppers (honestly, she was
a master cook and i still smell them) and
her lover joined for dinner, so we

sat and ate and somehow
i felt sad for all of us–

a silent crack, almost invisible,
frayed along the lines, i
started freezing &
the patterns broke–

when i left– there was no one
in the kitchen,

just some lonely lamps,
spitting yellow light from
fever blistered mouths,

the scent of hash & pepper in the air
and outside–

it was night

.
it’s OpenLinkNight at the dVerse pub with MC brian miller, rocking the mic today… gates open 3 pm EST..

The Wild, the Weird & really no Wardrobe

the wild have bear paws, gentle wings
& fearless eyes– and this is
how you recognize them in the everyday

and maybe this is how i looked the moment
when i scrapped the list with all the things
you were allergic to and shouldn’t eat cause
there was almost nothing left,

they put us into cages, built of fear &
door by door they closed, the ground
was getting smALL n’ SMAller ‘til i choked
and hammered, fever-hot and bleeding fists
against the walls of illness,

there was a tiger in the mirror when i
tucked you in my lap, carefully and tender,
in my eyes the weird wild to sail you
through the storm and if we’d drown i’d
drink the ocean empty–

click…click…click..

the film rolls cut and..
like a thief i stole you from the hospital,
out of intensive care, we
shut the blinds & we made love all PM
‘til the land was wide again, sweat sticky
on our skin and i was sure your heart
was good– &

back in the infirmary
the doctor looked concerned coz you
seemed drained and they kept you
two more days– still feel– your smile,
trickling gently down my back as
step by step i disappeared in the direction
of the parking lot–

today i

press my fur against the railing, tight & like
a mad (wo)man scratch skin, SEEkin‘ sense_
ATION, feel the freedom and
the wildness of this world, sunk deep
inside me, beating hard against
my chest, but when i turn around–

this is when you look at me, say there’s–
something– in my eyes you love but
can’t explain– exactly

.

so two true stories here…my youngest daughter had severe skin problems for years and at a certain point there had to be a break free or we all would’ve gone mad… the hospital kidnap was when hubs and i were just married for a few months and a bit like out of a movie scene…really wild..and maybe a bit silly as well.. smiles
today Mark Kerstetter has prepared a wonderfully wild poetics prompt for us over at the dVerse Pub…hope to see you there at 3pm EST.. 

on dusthearts, blood & giving thanks

 

i hold these words and
stamp ‘em everywhere i go sometimes 
with grim face, no grace on tough days

though ToDay i do it with tenderness, such
as i would kiss your eyelids with when—

and the color doesn’t stain but leaves just shades
of what i meant to say, i

run my hands along the lines to
really feel
how it feels because
it is important and– it isn’t,

write it neatly, right next
between the dust & heart i
found penciled on the dashboard
in the car this morning, lick
its convex trails all the twenty kilometers
to my workplace
cause i am that mad
and i like– that it feels

real– REAL liberty and

bravely put it in between slammed doors,
soothe the bang so that it’s easier afterwards to
open them and

sometimes it is all i’m left with–
limp letters hang,
dense like mountain fog &
stare at me with lifeless eyes

and i carve them
into tower walls (into the dark & ugly ones)
with scratched and bleeding fingers like
Marie Durand spelled “RESISTER” &
watch crimson run down the bricks,

mingling with what trickles in thin streams
from wounds, drilled in the side of your chest
and when our eyes meet, it’s so easy to,
with quivering lips to SAY– yes
say– Thanks– again

.

today 3pm EST at dVerse we’re expressing our thankfulness…and not only because it’s Thanksgiving over in the States… are you joining us..?

starving the pain

i was twelve when i stopped eating,
hungry for big chunks of life, but nothing
really satisfied– i broke,

staring at my budding breasts,
but different than the boys in school did–
and i wished to be invisible

most people think at twelve
you don’t know much about the world,
i knew enough to hate it–

and it was so easy– i just stopped
& everything with me disappeared,
menses, breasts, the pain,

i was a warrior in battle, riding on the wind,
about to win, and ready to knock over
everyone who came too close–
i built tight walls with food i
never touched.

It was winter when we visited my grandma,
small and fragile,
lying in that bed in hospital,
lungs filled with water &

i struggled,
wrecked by weakness i could hardly stand
nor cry or scream or suffer,
not even hating the injustice cause

i’d already died

and in the rearview mirror saw my face
but didn’t recognize–

That day, the warrior dropped

and left me nothing
but thirty kilo skin and angst with lungs still breathing,

somehow– i survived

and on my long way back
i wept for days

.

so yes…anorexia is a part of my story..
join us at dVerse Poets pub for Open Link Night with Joe Hesch tending the bar this week…doors open 3pm EST.. looking forward to seeing you there..

changing tides & black flag lovers

.

it’s a bit like ebb and flow,
swaying, altering direction
froth swashes through and with us,
leaving salt prints on bare feet

we’re slowly pressing deeper–

did i tell you i could walk for hours
in the mudflat, in an algorithm with
the wind, the moist & magic
of the open– soaking wet, i

steap you tea and climb the rigging,
scratch my knees, my soul
tied safely to your chest–

and in the crow’s nest we just sit on
top of worlds– unknown & hungry,

phantasize of making love
on lighthouse floors, spin

seaman’s yarn, bright signal lights
paint fire spots onto your face

you say you’d cross the ocean
naked & unarmed, surf changing tides,
your body wet on mine, unleashed

and from the corner of my eyes, i see
the black flag tumbling in the sky but–

you’ve already taken over me

.

so this is not a man i’m writing about but a lover i can’t easily resist…his name is change and oh how i love .. the excitement, challenge, thrill and..the danger change brings…and in all this..always trying to embrace, getting familiar yet… loving the magic & mystery of the undiscovered… Over at the dVerse pub, Sheila Moore has provided a great poetics prompt for us.. maybe you can already guess what it is about..? smiles.. gates open 3pm EST

searching my skin for fingerprints..

I’m guest-posting with a new poem “searching my skin for fingerprints” over at Emily’s today.. Emily is a fantastic writer, so hope you’re jumping over to her place to meet her..and of course read my poem..smiles

.

i saw the potter

“i saw the potter at his wheel” says jeremiah

speeding on the highway in the wet and cold, i’ve
settled
between hope and loneliness with
all the songs on replay i have never finished listening

& he wets the clay, hands dripping with my tears,
face close to mine,
but he is gentle—

this is
what i love him for & what he does exactly,
i don’t know

in another life,
i cook spaghetti in the kitchen, the evening
blends into me,
salty steam between the dark and i

search my skin for fingerprints—

they’re everywhere

getting there

in the distance roars the sea
& i wear work clothes cause
we‘re changing tires and

i talk & talk, stunned
by your precision, you explain
the bike world mysteries to me
& it looks easy, always does and

i so quickly lose myself in everything,
dissolve on pages i have read,
evaporate in feelings, then

i am no longer there but
anchored deeply in the night & in my

eyes that distant look, i

hand you tools with unknown names,
and when you see me wear my work gloves
inside out, you laugh and later
you will buy me aspirin
but i dont know right now and–

find me in your eyes, your heart
pulsates my chest, you smell of oil,

and the seagull’s shrieks die slowly–

I had to fly ‘cross Paris to get here

& you’re focused, bent atop my bike again
with salt grains on your lips

.

it’s tuesday again and Open Link Night…and the dVerse pub is going to be crammed with fine poets..3 pm EST…and tended by a marvelous joy ann jones aka hedgewitch…you really should stop by and meet her

i didn’t stay

 

.

i think she’s bored,
and she ’s wearing the wrong dress

maybe she had told me if i asked,

mostly standing in the mist,
hair forever a bit curly
and those questions in her eyes,

never meant for someone—
to be seen;

like her chairs
she’s rooted nowhere
& soft soil spreads damp

between us

.

this is a magpie tale.. 

Poetics: off the record

there‘s truth in wine
and lots of silliness as well,
just think of Herod who,

with wine soaked tongue,
got so enchanted by Salome‘s dance
that he promised half his kingdom
even though knowingly,
he went up blind alleys and

John the Baptist‘s head rolled–

this is what i think of, sitting
at the airport, having been away

too long, i‘m painting
red wine scented chalk lines
on my skin to show you where i
want you touch me, texting

you fair warning and–
dont stop as this is.. see the
tiny numbers? only when you‘re
really close and like

these blinky floor light signals
in an aircraft which
show the closest exit
in emergencies– remember it
may be behind you, i

strip you of your shirt,
cross-country lick my way across
the map i finger painted
on you, flying over Paris, that‘s
a case of need, don‘t panic,

this rescue‘s going to be messy with–
half my kingdom– devastated ruins,

and we‘re already heavily
delayed

.

join us at 3pm EST at dVersePoets pub for Poetics with Brian Miller tending the bar..and hopefully, we’re all on the same page..smiles
on another note..i’ve been featured with two of my poems at wordsmiths and the bar none group.. so in case you wanna say hi and check out these places.. 

Meeting the Bar: Lost connections

.
From the walls
of the commercial heart we walk–

unconscious of dusk,
painting our faces shadowy and red,

unconscious of the lines,
forming around us and unconscious
of ourselves

We don’t remember where we started
and our aiming point’s escaped our view

as we walk independent
in the wake of others–

It is hot,

sweat runs in trickles from our forehead
and the organ’s silenced in our hand

We cross the night right-angled
and our bonds loose

still – if you’re a deliberate observer,
they are there–

and you will see
me,
sitting on this bench on Brighton Pier,

silently observing,

the deck thick
with threads of lost connections
as i leave

.
. 

This is the original text:

Dusk–of a summer night by Theodor Dreiser

And the tall walls of the commercial heart of an American city of
perhaps 400,000 inhabitants--such walls as in time may linger as a
mere fable.

And up the broad street, now comparatively hushed, a little band
of six,--a man of about fifty, short, stout, with bushy hair
protruding from under a round black felt hat, a most unimportant-
looking person, who carried a small portable organ such as is
customarily used by street preachers and singers.  And with him a
woman perhaps five years his junior, taller, not so broad, but
solid of frame and vigorous, very plain in face and dress, and yet
not homely, leading with one hand a small boy of seven and in the
other carrying a Bible and several hymn books.  With these three,
but walking independently behind, was a girl of fifteen, a boy of
twelve and another girl of nine, all following obediently, but not
too enthusiastically, in the wake of the others.

It was hot, yet with a sweet languor about it all.

Crossing at right angles the great thoroughfare on which they
walked, was a second canyon-like way, threaded by throngs and
vehicles and various lines of cars which clanged their bells and
made such progress as they might amid swiftly moving streams of
traffic.  Yet the little group seemed unconscious of anything save
a set purpose to make its way between the contending lines of
traffic and pedestrians which flowed by them.

.

At dVerse we’re running a Prose to Poetry challenge today – 3 pm EST. Means we take some text from a book and turn it step by step into poetry. The base for my above poem was taken from the opening of Theodor Dreiser’s American Tragedy. Oh and the pic is where i sat and wrote this…on Brighton Pier yesterday..