Meeting at midnite, we watch twitching
flashs scratch bright-red lacquered nails
into a years-end sky,

up_PIng the ante, we rise,
lean tight towards a future– grace,
spin blue dreams scarlet ’round
the globe-wheel’s twisted ankles, pebbles
turn to rubies in your mouth, “there’s
no easy answer” you say, hushed,

eyes close(d), bent atop my breasts
& with your tongue paint floating contrails
on my skin, uncaging dragonflies to dance
upon the molded walls— &

you smile silver as if not afraid
of frozen lakes, free fall & battlefields,
stained crimson with our blood, the
scent of death still wrapped around,

we run– time-bound, wingless, feed

our fireworks with bursting glass & splints of
guilt cut bleeding trails across our forehead,

& with lips, torn open from the frost, i lick
bustling bubbles of champagne, dripping
sweet and sparkling from your pores,

just like someone,
summoned from the eye of night, sips—
on tomorrow


over at dVerse we’re going to have a bit of a new year’s poetry party tonight and mark kerstetter is the man behind the bar –  if you got time…swing by at 3pm EST for a glass of champagne and a new year’s hug..

Poetry slam at the River journal – my entry: Leaving Rome

Over at the River journal, poets from all around the world will raise their poetic voices today to gather in a Year’s end poetry slam.. woohoo!!! the fun starts at 12pm CST and ends December 31st at 12pm CST.

So here’s my contribution – my poem “Leaving Rome”, spoken by me (beware of the german accent…smiles)
Beat by Dj BloxX..

Click HERE to listen to me reading “Leaving Rome”


You want to join the fun? Find all the details HERE…

inter-galactic battles v/s wor(l)ds that fall apart


i’m in the middle of a star wars fight,
laptop on my knees, drinking fennel tea and
feeling slightly independent (it won’t last that long,
so i cherish the illusion) &

keep staring at the creature,
dangling from the window on a golden ribbon,
(they have no ideas how angels look) &

maybe this is fussy but it bothers me,

i watch the angel dangle,
close my eyes, look again and–

in the space where christmas ends
and life has not yet swallowed me,
i dive into black holes & it’s not easy
to escape– folding month by month

like garments, full of stains,
heavily used and do my best to smooth ‘em,
hide their dirty spots under my hands,
it’s useless–

and the letters falls apart, i try hard

to glue ‘em back together, shift
the words and hold them on the screen with
silver ribbon rests, but there are poems,
way too difficult to write & finally
i let it glide onto the floor,
take a broom & sweep

its tiny particles under the couch,
together with the angel, i cut from the
window frame– may the force
be with you &

maybe, by the season’s end,
someone finds ‘em both but–

it could be too late then


no matter which universe you’re from, you’re more than welcome to join us with your poetry at dVerse Poets pub at 3 pm EST…and may the force be with joe hesch who will tend the bar for us tonight..

2nd christmas day at 6 a.m.

i hear your rumors in the kitchen,
early second christmas day
& i peel out of bed to join you,

we sit in the half dark, just one random light,
enough that you can see your oat flakes,

snowboard, boots,
all standing in the floor already,
he’ll pick you up in a few minutes &
in january he will go abroad and
drive a panzer, not in war though,

still it hits me unprepared,
“it’s no fun driving a panzer”
“yes” you say, you know,

“he was on all these camps
and should be well prepared”– i think
you never are

we check the weather,
Engelberg is sun and snow, i kiss you
and you smile “don’t wake dad when
you go back to bed”

but i do and know–
he doesn’t mind


a conversation with my 19 year old son this morning..

an almost made up story


i met him in the mall on christmas eve,
& i was sitting on a bench because my shopping patience
lasts a maximum of thirty minutes

i confess, he didn’t look as i expected,
rather simple – jeans and sweater
and we started talking – just the everyday
like weather and the crazy traffic, weakness of the euro,

no, there was no revelation, just his eyes,
intelligent and warm – though it’s not about
intelligence he said “you see him over there?”

i realized i don’t see as much as i would love to–
and some things i just don’t want to see at all,

so have you ever met a man and knew immediately
how it would be to love him? or you think you–

a small boy ran towards us, shouting
“mama, look who’s sitting over there” &
like a beam of smiles he crossed the floor, climbed
on his lap, whispering into his ear,

i looked at him again, his sport shoes, jeans & –

we sat side by side, watching passersby with
joy, fatigue and sorrow spun in cobwebs on their face,
and he listened like someone who cared,

it was already dark when i walked home, the christmas tree,
(three meter something) sparkled in the shop panes
& the first snow swallowed
the soft clip – clap of my steps

Wishing you all a merry Christmas.. 

contrasts on a frozen surface

the contrast between life and death
is ice and winter melting into spring,
& scandinavian patterns fall apart
each time i hear that Bowie song, playing
on the day we met on Basle ice rink,

we talked knitting patterns, crazy
as it sounds, i thought it was a nice approach,
we never fell in love though–
just held hands when we played tag in pairs
with all the others, yet–

on days without you,
life looked dull and,
skating ‘cross the ice,
i kept searching for the trails
you left the other week

it was the season’s end and i still see
the terror in your eyes, she was

just thirteen & the scent of death
swam like an oil film in the puddles at our feet,

an early spring-sun tried to warm our backs as
we sat on the boards, heads bent—

& all we did was–
hacking tiny holes
into a frozen surface


over at dVerse, Victoria has a finely textured Meeting the Bar article waiting for us at 3pm EST…be sure to swing by to get some valuable input on contrast in poems

After the party

think i prefer urban ugliness
to sunsets over candy-coated landscapes,
mainly because it feels familiar and it fits
the stage i‘m in, a life pinned
to a fallen world, wearing borrowed dresses &

i leave the christmas party late– in the bagnio
opposite the road, peak period, they try
to buy what you can‘t really sell and
in the clouds, blown into night air i

still see them, even if it’s hours back,
eight hundred employees, giving tribute to
the founder’s widow, sitting small & humble
in a wheelchair and i‘m close enough to
see her tears, maybe she‘d love to
trade our long applause for a ride back
on the time machine, to the moment
when their eight child started walking,
the first kiss or when he said, he’d start
this business, brought her scarlet roses
& i’m wondering

how many of the real important things
in life happen on stages or in board rooms,
parliaments and wars– and how much in the
places no one sees except the actors,
lying bent into each other– passing

empty windows, nightly roads shine winter wet,
my feet hurt badly from the heels i wear, one hand
on my sax, the other on the steering wheel,
(just metaphorically) i am frozen to the core

& reaching home i find a yellow post it on
the bedroom door, saying „you can wake me
if you want“,  i pause a second– & again i see
her eyes, empires built with blood & sweat
on human flesh, then

slowly let my coat glide to the floor,
place the sax case next to it, countless threads
weave odd, unordered patterns in my head and
stepping from the shade, i cautiously undress
into his warmth


smiles.. i was really wearing a borrowed dress…had no time to go shopping because of hours & hours of practicing the sax – so i asked my daughter…smiles.. well poets…it’s OpenLinkNight again at dVersePoets - the time when we blow our poetry like sax tunes all over the place… join us at 3pm EST – joy ann jones aka hedgewitch will be tending the bar tonight

in the rain

i sometimes talk to her
& it is always raining when we meet,

not that it bothers me because
she is that kind of girl,
the weather cannot touch—

walking on slippery roads,
she spreads her arms like wings
but never flies, “it isn’t–
necessary”, this at least is
what she says,

remaining earth-bound,
bare feet nuzzling cobblestones
as if they bear a promise,

probably do &
only she can see, yet–
has never told me

& her roots grow stronger with each step,

oblivious to them,
her dress sways softly in the wind while
she keeps walking, arms held, lightweight,
cautious not to take off (though
she could easily..) and

emptying her eyes into me,
she moves on, absorbed

as i stand staring after her—

probably all my life


the above painting is by Tera Zajack, aka olive hue designs and over at dVerse brian miller has cooked up a fantastic poetics prompt for us, featuring an interview with Tera and some of her work.. join us at 3 pm EST..

on tar pitch, wrong ambitions & 80% orgasms


Sitting in the corner of the bar,
observing cautiously, hair tousled,
scarf wrapped tight
across my face, only my eyes
are visible and i am searching–

for myself, and while i do, i‘m sucking
fresh tongued beer through a
blue dotted straw (and think..) you know its
not about perfection, never was,

maybe it‘s just about
accepting circumstances, more so
when a certain ugliness like tar pitch
clings to them as in the Mother Hulda fairytale
when we do things with wrong ambition,
gold turns into pitch and breakthrough
never happens & i think about

our conversation on an early
sunday morning, laying sleepy, room still smelled
of sex and we discussed percentage levels
of a perfect climax– i have been there
and i‘m well aware of shadows,
painting abstract patterns on my life,

the barman smiles and i ask
for another beer & later i may

take a pen, pull out my notepad,
write a poem or a letter or just draw
some trees, a beach, add waves by
spilling beer across the page and
on the swing i’ll place

a skinny girl with hazel eyes &
she looks happy


i’ts my pleasure to tend the OpenLinkNight dVerse bar today – come write a poem and join the fun..gates open 3 pm EST..in case you like your beer with a straw…no problem at all.. smiles

And on another note.. there’s a new poetry chap book, freshly pressed by Willow Tree Press UK, featuring Brian Miller, Gay Cannon, Pete Marshall, Shan Hendry, Adam Dustus and.. myself..smiles.. it’s available for purchase here..

Band rehearsal /snapshot

we meet in the basement after work,
strategically placed between
blue lacquered measuring devices
& what‘s left of a helluva busy monday,

lights keep switching off
and there‘s a mix of tension &
excitement, dripping slowly from the floor,
floats neon tubes and lands in
gurgling heaps between the shelves,

tiny stress particles circle down
my spine & crotchets, quavers
riSE into the air, cascade and fall
towards a hammering rap on metal which
keeps sucking us into the song until

the lights switch off again i pause, inhale–
scent of song sheets, brass, deep breath,
tasting reed under my tongue–

we measure space with metronomes
in periods of light & dark cause time–
is running hard against us


just a snapshot of my day…we’re practicing for our company christmas party at the moment…decided last thursday on thirteen songs and the party is next friday…so we’re quite busy..smiles.. the pic is from my summer saxophone workshop in tuscany…sigh..