glücksgefühle//distant lands// my trip. my ship//a bit of german football



the crown flees from its queen!

chess/ed out&
marked permanent

suggestion 3
a set of oilpaints
‘cross my cheeks

in black/red/gold

&shortly after solstice
rear-rotating towels between foam/y lips

a hamster wheel,

split into blue and yellow marks

we staple/staple rainbows// tightly
in an ultrasonic sky

in front of the bakery a travel agent car
with frothy hips–
a german flag

&Jogi Löw with rolled-up sleeves

against a lush green lawn

we’re writing Dada poetry at dVerse today…
mine’s a collage of what i saw around me…smiles

beyond the frayed parts//what it took //to make me cross back into wholeness

i carefully undress
into the heat, the holiness–
of first times/musk_taste on my lips
across the open prairie, wind,
a lion’s head bent back
in silent worship to the breeze,
mane glistening
with humidity,

&i —expand lightning in his arms

last night after our conversation-homework
halting/shivering lips
i read one of my poems to him/
fragile/first time/first steps
“it is good to get2know you in a new way” he says
i translate,

lay my heart/opened
next to a pile of books, remote control,
a cup of tea// for him to touch//me
“if i’m not commenting on your blog, is that ok?”
“that’s good”
i lean against his chest

„can you stay?“
i test the planks, step back
„not yet“
pull my car into the traffic
in the rearview, taillights– red/
reverberating on his face

back in the bed at my friend’s flat, there’s a poem
by my husband, ink-wet
in my inbox
titled “thoughts”
not more
&more i ever hoped for

to decrease life’s brittleness
& close the last big gap
before me


Marina today at dVerse has us write about the things that make our world shatter and what it needs or what we do to make it whole again..
I moved back to my husband last weekend – it was a good process over the last weeks – we’re doing a marriage communication training and things have changed quite a bit.. so there’s still work to do but we have some good tools in hand now to tackle those challenges…

the bedouin’s art of gentleness in handling dangerous things

by the river we talk expectations,
dreams “i wish you’d read my poetry” i say “to
get// to know me”

and know it is not easy/language/
images & few things seem
upon the surface.

yet he nods&we agree
that i will read one poem to him//a week
explain/ing metaphors and put the vowels in his mouth
still warm&glistening like a fish-swarm
so he feels//me

& we’re scared a bit
of breaking rules like thin glass
of touch/ing for the first time after weeks
&scared to cut
the thin threads spun by first shy conversations

i paint my toe nails raspberry
smooth edges with a soft stone, balm
with mint&myrrhe cause it all starts

“i want be loved” i say,
“the way a bedouin
would put a scorpion care/ful in the sand”

he understands
longing in his gaze
“it’s good to wait until i’m back?”

outside of the tent
blow sandstorms//palms sway in the breeze
strong, dark tea &fig juice on my lips
we kiss
outside of the tent
the scorpion like black jewelry/glistens  in the heat
we kiss
“i cannot wait” i say
but will


Tony has us write repetition at dVerse today….
i read about the bedouins and scorpions in Hamish Gunn’s poetics poem yesterday and somehow was so fascinated by the story that it stuck with me…
hubs and i are doing a communication training and things develop nicely… i think about going back in a bit in fact..

a journey// in a journey in—&where// i am

“i see you” //tears
down my cheeks, he speaks, soft tongue
on the moist curve on my lips&makes me
wor/ship, arms spread/stretched&bowed in grace towards–
“–so take me// to the place–“

i run carpathian peaks
big bears on my heels,
surf killer waves in search
for one who carries more//than–
pen in hand

in Rome//the pantheon//
on the top ranks of the colosseum
Nero /insane shine in eyes/harp/walks his terrace

wind-tousled hair//at Brighton beach
an ancient broken pier//seagulls
shrieking in my face, sleep in a paper bed
under a bridge in central park
with kebab stars staining my shoes

chase tunes in San Diego pubs //saxoPhone&
beats bend against bloodloops in my veins
the parachute banGs up

//Red painted woodshag—


a boat

Pippi’s stockings soap-washed in the breeze

the globe– a waterball
Atlas– shuts his eyes

&i tell all the birds to keep// flying—flying
as beyond the fjord //is priVacY/smooth
feather shift to shivering nerves
beNeath my fingertips

&in the rippling surface
of your seas

i find me.


today at dVerse Abhra asks us where in the world we would love to be if we could choose… so pick your place, write a poem and join us when the doors open at 3pm EST..
on a sidenote… i’m all day in Davos today so my commenting back will be a bit delayed

don’t laugh//this was my evening//morning or //first the blinds, a vase&then the window //almost crashed &yes, i don’t exaggerate

some mornings are the way a question mark curls masked
head-strangled strawberries in dotted dress/es
half the globe falls into maple juice loops//just un-sweetened,
skyline// city trash bin with a black/white sprinkled cat
upon it, licking metaphors
from rain-sick boardwalks,
i eat cherry toast on country//cross sabbaticals

mustard speckles the gator pattern of their shoes
they serve lobster soup in test tubes
testing/testing/check 1-2
the mic vibrates,

a mix of oxen blood and frankincense
delirious/ly spreading,
with a dash of elton john shades
we talk ex//pectations
cooked in blank steel steaming pots
until we cannot feel
the taste,

even the multi flexible’st vowels don’t work
hung in motorcycle lines//crashed blind
with an apple pinned between their eyes
i check my mails
john a.s. posted a pic
in oxford urban sketchers group

go push//
your boundaries
a black dove flees
worm in her crooked beak
as i type hyroglyphs
checked scottish skirt
on a sprung-slightly-off the frame pane

&collect the shards,
fluff of dust
a single paper bloom
a tack

that once held something.

at dVerse today we’re connecting the unconnectable & work with mixed metaphors and images… pub doors open at 3pm EST

i wish we could’ve helped him find//at least coordinates or–

there’s a black hole where his past should be
uneven hammered imprints on a slightly bent A4 sheet
of an old olympia typewriter that made my knuckles ache
when i learned typing first

he on the kitchen table,
papers strewn across the flower-printed cloth,
there were no photos of—

he with mom&dad?
an ocean weekend
with a shovel/bucket in his hand?

mom peeled new potatoes,
let them glide into a water bowl
so they don’t get brown// roots, ocher earth & straws
of summer hay blown upon her hair
carefree// long forgotten

in the evenings he watched documentations on tv,
WWII, a 5th beer in hand, life blurring
uni//formed young men on the death row of a dance
no one can win,

he never told us anything

a slice of tree, uprooted from a land
that he tried hard to– &i cannot say for sure
–either remember or forget

it ate him//finally
bent deep over the keyboard,
from the scaffolds of a life
devoid tonality,

only the fingers move
in a weird beat

Grace has us write ancestors at dVerse today… join us when the doors open at 3pm EST…

tonite i kissed one in a dream//it was pretty intimate

i prefer silence
over words somedays,
which sounds strange for a poet,
balancing on the rim of something
that i can’t and won’t
Hold //even if i tried
so i

make love to them instead
on dew soaked bikerides to my workplace,
clear-sky space to breathe,
expectation-free//or desperately
in humid nights
clinging sweaty to–

what’s left  of us
goes on a page //or not, we
sit benches next to pawn shops/waterfalls
“we see//your soul–” they claim
“you don’t”
i put them in my mouth,
careFul, vowel after vowel,
rough side down&

know how tough it is for them
to ride// into my silence,
listening to the wild roar of falls
“go and play” i say
watch them slide//carefree
giggling on the day’s wet surface/
when it is their time /not mine/
they will be back,

i hold towels, rub ‘em dry
&side by side, in our pajamas
we play chess //hide&seek , watch blacklist&
the sound of crackLing popcorn on our lips

suggesting pace//


language and words are bri’s theme at dVerse today… write about language, the moment words failed you or those when you just found the right words..

what we spill //on life’s plowed & jagged surface

dry & grainy in my palm,
i pour seeds//words on the page,
across the soil & in her left breast grow
fields of flowers instead–

we sit head bent
on the kitchen table, praying
night pokes its dark curly head between a street lamp,
curtain, pane–

In the fun park yesterday
i didn’t even realize
my colleague’s back on the bench next to me,

“you’re watching people?” he asks carefully,
“yes– loving it”
and we sit //silent
til others return pink-cheek-laughing
from a roller coaster ride
seeds sun-warm inside
my pockets, hungry for rain’s soft embrace

on the highway, bus ride back,
tires press rubber lips against grey concrete
in a mad kiss
& i think about
sneaking in my husband’s house,
into his bed &—-
–leaving before the girls wake
though there is a time
for sowing// wisely

“Yes” a colleague leans across the seat
“i’ll send the presentations
by tomorrow morning”
“great. thanks”

i let tiny grains
from the depths of what i am
fall on the night-black street

—with tender hands
pull lakes of soil&wind
upon it


Shanyn has us write seeds and sowing in our poetry today… the dVerse pub doors open at 3pm EST..

all those latin names// it doesn’t do their beauty justice



it is the way of first dates,
a little nervouesness,
changing my dress a hundred times

i bike there, on the way
find a place to stop & sketch
sitting in the sun on concrete steps
the geometric movement of my pen
a safety net

“you look beautiful” he says with dry lips&
“your top’s a little transparent,
is this on purpose?”
we walk in and out of greenhouses,
humid warmth, blue & red birds
flattering round our heads
“look at this flower” i say
“what an amazing shape”

i’m careful not to touch too much,
he sometimes grabs my hand
and it feels like in 8th grade
“did i get on your nerves
with all my emails last week?”
“no” i shake me head “i just need time&— “

in the next greenhouse runs a vid, a bee crawls,
drunk with longing for the scent the black&yellow flower
in her party dress emits from sprinkled pores,
then slips & slides along her stand, lip,
spit out, back-packed with her pollen
“goodness” i can’t get my mouth shut
“how amazing is that?”

we bike back along the river,
past old men who play pétanque, cigarettes arrested
in the corner of their mouth&

when we say good-bye
in front of the door at my friend’s apartment,
he holds me for a moment “take your time–
i love you”

gets on his bike,
turns around again
& kisses me,

not sure where to put the emphasis
like someone reading
first words for the first time,
trying to outline //and understand their shape
and meaning.


for OLN at dVersePoets

honestly, you can’t replace a lemonade tree with–

the man in front of me buys cherry juice, cube-forced in a tetrapak, produced in sweden by a bunch of robots on a grey production line– while Pippi’s baking pancakes in her kitchen, with a set of brushes strap-bound to her shoes// i have her hair, i think & long for lemonade trees.

earlier i typed rows of figures into a cash machine & suck-licked densely condensed songs from car panes in a traffic jam on my way back from work.

at the check out i find piles of cross/words, tumbling frame-less on the floor

“why don’t you eat them?”
“what?” the cherry juice man frowns his forehead
“i mean// why don’t you find a tree &– “
i never seem to understand this,
&don’t need an answer//don’t need my butter smoothed-out with an ivory, even surface, there are things that scare me well beyond// irregularity, i put my groceries on the counter—-

spring, a bee dashing
in a cherry blossom tree,
pollen as her dress


Björn has us write haibun at dVerse today… doors open at 3pm EST..