less than a dot away// & what we catch if we don’t catch it

the little girl has rosy cheeks.
& dressed in spring song pink,

——————————-smiles–

at the pansies’ violet face,
flitter//flatter doves,
a homeless at the curb–

& me–

as if the day– world–
us are nothing but
tiny, timely, dots, nurtured only
by the slight sense of desire,
between roots&fly,

as if she, (If she spread
her dimpled arms)
could hold & bead us
into weightless(nes),

& i sit with my coffee
in its shared//womb,
soul sinks in, &

i dont write,

dont think

———-beYond,

but let life glide as it wants–

——-and later
———-maybe go

——————-&catch it

.

velleity and volition is Anna’s theme for MTB at dVerse today.. she has prepared an excellent article which will be up at 3pm EST…
I’m in Stuttgart on a business trip at the moment and probably back late, so my commenting will be a bit delayed….see you then..smiles

in Munich & a painting by someone whose name i can’t remember

munich, karlstor

.

it’s the depth

as if you could
Crawl into
a careful painted landscape,
rest your head on–

& i do
forget
the world is round,

we’re moving
on the surface

mainly

a few feet up or down
seldom make it
to the core (of things)

you say:
it’s just a painting
(estimated 4 hands wide,
3 high, i never
get the math right),

in a city of a million raindrops
splashing
on the concrete,

i press ear to breast,
trembling, deep sighs
of her roots cause

there are things
the sun can’t teach us,
(even if we’re listening
closely–)
& i stay

3sub stops from the center,
which is What

eXactly–

soaking wet
& freezing,

there is something
in her gaze
that makes me take down
the umbrella,

turn my face
toward the drops’ wild tumbling wombs,
invite ‘em
for a roller-coaster ride
on tousled curls we loop
arms up—up—Up

until we’re crazy dizzy,
(& a little breathless)
with the magic
——–of the day

.

it’s raining poetry at dVerse OpenLinkNight today…write a poem and join us at 3pm EST…

the temptation to make things fit to our taste & why the painters packed their brushes away, & the kids stopped crying

she has teeth
like a swiss mountain chain,
Les Dents du Midi, jagged &
wildly irregular,
leaning here and there,
for support or fun,
entangled–

people gasp
for breath when she parts lips,
babies cry, & fortune tellers
search for the extension of her lifeline
in the crooked beige and white.

but unabashed, free climbers hang
with messed up fingers on the bearing-out, then jump
onto the cushion of her tongue– (ha, fun), &

painters comb her hair
into diffusing clouds, shadow-dye her eyes
“looks like the lake geneva”
oil paint—driP DriP droP dRop dRip
to catch her odd, odd beauty

they meet in a sidestreet, he a dentist//straight,
measures & fills gaps with self-stewed amalgam,
sits on a streamline aluminium chair,
starEs at her,

boOOOm phUOng cLash //
————1000Volt flash,

pearly beads of spit drip from her slightly skew
corner of the mouth– someThing
in her wild smile touches him (doWn
to the intestines)

&he drops the ruler, between passionate
lip on lip //valley hiLL Hip hiGh pEak sEEd e-
Ruption–

lava dust, crest to ground–

marries her–

at the breakfast table– tUliPs, butter seas,
gold on honey sweet/Soaked wheat rolls,
bees hum drunk, turkish delight lakes on
the soft spots of her thighs, he takes
the waterscale– with scrutinizing gaze
divides, adds, multiplies, explains—

“these teeth need work–”

the painters shake their heads, “this—
you should love her like she is”
the dauntless climbers freeze in shock,

& she stands naked in the kitchen,
washes dishes in the moonlight,

————–liPs

—————–sealed close

.

temptation is what mary wants us to write for poetics at dVerse today..so…grab a pen..smiles… i’m in munich for the weekend, exploring the city (in pouring rain..) but back at my laptop by 3pm EST when the pub doors open..

terZaRima// just be wise&DoNotTalk to swans too much

you’d think their view on life is white,
weightless & a bit afloat,
(it’s not, & i don’t talk to them too often),
feather downs in windy nights,

waterWet sprinkles on my nose,
rippling wave worms set a yawning pace,
fishes, (wiNkWinKwiNK), belly up along the boat-
side, (nah, not dead– for sun tan reasons)

blowing seed(s), dande(Lions) in your face,
i say, “cycled without helmet to the moon,
once” (true)a tight against the lightspeed race,

the thing with oxygen is– it’s lun(e)-
atic(ly) important & i’m not a mermaid
(tickle me), a seaweed wig (thangGreen) &soSoon

i’m panting– brEATHLesS
anyWay–

.

smiles…my (almost) terza rima sonnet for dVerse where tony serves drinks behind the bar..

Ferdinand Hodler exhibit // proportions & the view on life is so subjective

my roadbike at the entry to the Hodler exhibit

.

a mountain chain, extensive,
blue (the only color we endure
in large amounts), thin stripe of green
few earth brown cows, (tiny)
along the lower margin of the painting,

i sink in, digesting what i heard
about his childhood,
mother, dad, five siblings,
lost to tuberculosis, all within a few years,
&before his eleventh birthday,

in another room,
a picture series of his lover, Valentine Godé-Darel,
1913, beautiful, neck like a swan,
circling on a summer evening on a swiss lake,

1914, cancer just about  to wake, 
holding her baby daughter, an apparition, sketched

1915, in her sickbed, hair dissheveled
eyes that ask thousand questions, looking–
looking at him

as he paints (She, sHe, shE), obsessively
trying to hold–

eye contact //inteR-
Rupted, tension robs my breath,
& i imagine,

sitting by her bed// silently?, brush in hand,
she, thinking of her kid,
trying to withstand
the pulling–

on the deathbed, clothed in a light-green dress,
tiny feet, shoes with fine, brown straps,
hands folded, rosary entangled fingers,
on the wall behind her three, blue lines,

how long did he sit before
packing away the paint, hope–
Paulette, the little girl, he takes home, raises her
with his wife, & life disturbs me,
someTimes more than death,

a mountain chain in blue,
(the only color we endure
in large amounts, he said), a stripe of green
few earth brown cows, (so tiny in relation)
graze along the lower margin
of a— life

is never smooth, it’s spring
& people drink café on chairs that turn
their face toward the sunshine,

as do i, unlock my bike,
& cycle home,

———-escorted only

by the shivering creek’s moist whisper

.

a little snapshot of my visit to the Ferdinand Hodler exhibit in Basle last sunday… linking up with dVerse OpenLinkNight where Tony is in charge of the mic today.. write a poem & join us when the doors open at 3pm EST..

maybe she had rhubarb cake (still warm & with a pudding icing) in that basket

i caught him in the fog
on the highway entry, early urban morning,
overRunning Red traffic lights,
shaggy beard, Harley buzzing like a bear,
he, a wolf, with no cash,
so i took him to the station house
“i‘ve seen this face before–“,
missing puzzle pieces,

fairy tales are nothing but–
my assistant says, “i know him, see–“,
he holds a phantom drawing in the air,
signed: red riding hood

“come on”
later
in the yawning lamp light,
(“pancake yellow bulb spits on a greasy surface”,
my colleague’s denotation for interrogation room),
i tell him his rights,
he asks for no lawyer though,
squinting tired,

“it wasn’t her” he says, “it was the cake,
the stuff they sell in bakeries,
just crap–”
(i silently agree)

“so you said the hunter
let escape you? why?”
“haha– it was a deal– i had this decent
sporting gun collection, stored
in different caves over the years”,
(i don’t ask where he got them from,
i should’ve though, i know)

“playing the gentleman, ha–“ he rubs
his fur, weary, grey streaks in the black,
yellow teeth from the nicotine,
“see, we all make our mistakes”
“you don’t even have a drivers license”
“i got other problems”

outside in the street lamp’s warm glow,
drizzle, his colleague– black leather jacket,
silver rivets, crazy hair, a shade red,
paces up and down the road,
could be a fox, my expertise
to this effect is less than marginal,
(i collect roaches in my free time)

my last day before old age pension
(which explains things)
when we step out in the haze
of night, (too cool for may), i shiver,
opposite the school yard, cherry trees
wear wet, white wedding gowns

“what happened to the girl” i ask
“she’s working as a waitress”
“well– you still have contact?”
“no, i told you, it was just the cake”,
i shake his hand & on the way back home
buy rhubarb, flour & eggs, (i haven’t baked
in ages– actually)

.

smiles…fred has us writing myths, fairy tales and folklore, especially rgd. the myriad of creatures that appear within them… give it a go and see you at 3pm EST when we open the dVerse pub doors.. 

under my skin//where the ants did not get yet

at night i read ‘em, words,
sticking loosely to fly paper strands
between the storm
& a table, made of oak wood
with the carpenter’s initials
carved in it,

we talk trust,
& i ask if he’d cut
sunshine for me
into even slices (which sounds odd
to you, for me
it is survival, see–)

a ship, sails crushed,
anchor-less, ripped up
by the wind,

& i light lanterns,
in the half-dark,
pack ‘em in a parcel, write
with thick, red marker

“This Side Up”

put more stamps on it
than anything could ever carry,

then, let go

.

smiles…one thing i learned over the years is that once i prayed & sent that “parcel”, i can be sure, He’ll take care of it…smiles

victoria’s behind the dVerse bar today and asks us to write in our distinct poetic voice about the things that inspire, motivate, excite and also outrage us most…doors open at 3pm EST

i have to name them yet–

 .

the meeting strands,
viscous discussion, clock ticks
dozily, Camille,
my french colleague’s
ten year old daughter
at the table next to me

pencils math equations
against boredom (i prefer
boredom over math, ha!)
fold a checked page in the center, draw
a cat, a rabbit, “psssh” & shift it
towards her, she smiles,
just between us,
(we’re allowed
to bring the kids 2work today),

the next presenter
gets up, (her dad)
she takes the crayons,
paints a butterfly with purple dots,
striped fish with a navy collar,
blackish tail

& writes on the upper margin
“de Camille
pour Claudia”

i push back the chair, my turn
to present, start the computer, grin,
the touch of butterfly wings
on my cheeks,

bubbles on the screen &
floating seaweed
defragments the meeting room,
entangles my hair,
i wink at her,

“if you have no more questions–
thanks”

close the file–

i didn’t realize it first,
but singapore’s an island.
(saw her skyline from the plane
on my stop-over to Australia once),
thousand little boats,
a sunset fairy tale,
i sigh, check my emails & return
Adelene’s weekend wishes,

look at Camille’s drawing,
pinned over my desk
(my colleague says,
“she talked of you
quite a bit”)
Mr. Fish & Mrs. Butterfly, both smile,
what else could you ask for–

then step out
into the sunlight

.

smiles.. just a little snapshot of my day for OpenLinkNight at dVersePoets…doors open at 3pm EST

i do better without maps

pink & yellow chalk
lines blur
in the moisture
of my breath

to little lakes, tiny boats
reflect the wind within
their rainBow(ed) womb,
traffic rushes by,

cheeks cool to the pane,
i’m drained from biking,

–lips
——tu-lips

(he bought them for me
when i came
back from berlin)
“how was work?”

“not bad” he says,
sea-deep eyes on me &
barefoot on the doorstep,
i put on

my negligée,
wipe chalk dust

from the soft curves of my brea(th)

(t)rip slowly,

“we’re moving”
“got no map”
“that’s fine”

& spring blows
weightless pollen
dreamily

into the waiting night

.

karin has us writing trip(s) at dVerse today… can be a real trip, imagined or even a trip and stumble…fairly open..so grab a pen and join us…gates will swing open at 3pm EST

FormForAll: two sijo

how to keep ‘em quiet // propaganda

we throw rocks from bridges into the ferocious, roaring mawl of
(dangerous-for-the-system) dragons, lurking in the crash of the fall (that’s what they tell us)
as if constant feeding silenced them// like it does// silence us (sometimes)

 

this morning on my way to work

i feed my road bike spokes with juicy, fresh plucked morning sunlight,
spin, spin, spin (tongue thick with pollen) along yellow yawning fields
a thousand dew dipped spiders pull their hats, silently greeting

.

we’re writing “sijo” at dVerse today, a popular traditional Korean form… consists of three long lines, one main thought each line (roughly thesis-development-conclusion), 14-16 syllables per line, 44-46 syllables in total.