perspective is an owl with tiny wrinkles round her eyes and spanish accent

Portobello Road/London

Portobello Road/London

“how’s it going?”
he steps close behind me
&i’m lost between a millipede’s long legs
with thousand shoes, bound in the wrong direction
“ugh, i’m struggling–“

“what is that up here?”
“it’s the people down the road”
he pulls out a pencil, balancing
its long grey feathery neck between the roof of Oxford covered market
&the flower booth

“see?– they’re almost on one level”
he grabs my brush,

“i didn’t see that”

&my lines are grizzly-wild- bears with dark eyes
in a black&spinning forest

he takes out a clamp,
fixes my watercolor box on the sketchbook’s cover
“makes it easier”

“oh thanks–“
the dragon near the coffee shop stretches his wings
his mighty head a ship
against a sea of fruits

“you have to learn to see what’s really there”
he smiles
“&not what you imagine”

lightning strikes the clock,
he whiPs his glistening tail towards the street lamps
“Noooo– be careful–“

dipping my brush deep
in phtalogreen//(to balance things) i ask

“that shop-sign would be over here?”

&i am
a book of thousand chapters with only one tale
of spires that stretch open mouths towards the clouds,
of dove song on a glassroof’s chest,

&hold a pen into the aisle to check the angle

as the dragon rolls up at my feet,
warm and peaceful,
“psssshhh, i’m just imagined– -don’t you trust me”
&he jawns with yellow teeth,

blowing whiffs of smoke
into my sandals


today at dVerse we’re using “unfiltered” images – ha  – avoiding the words “like” and “as” to describe things… doors open at 3pm EST

sketching on Portobello Road//the clock// is body-less

i, sketching on portobello road

i, sketching on portobello road

time’s measured in a thin line on a cat’s back
we sit on the floor//sketching on location

“what’s the difference?” she asks
“you could take a photo, draw at home–“

“it is not the same” he says
“on the street you’re in the middle of emotions, touch
temperature/the energy& tiredness,
& you will sense it later in the sketch–“

grapes of people in the midday heat
hunting between market stalls
fresh cooked food
from different nations, fruit and vegetables
we put ink to paper
spilling color washes from a box placed
on the lap/floor,

time stands still

tick //TocK//tiCk

some curious little kids check on our sketchbooks
“can i take a photo?” asks a chinese guy
we’re chasing lines//laughing//joking
with traders

later we will cross
tower bridge into the night
searching for cracks on boardwalks

toward midnight i walk up a plushy stairway
in an old house in the very heart of things
and cannot find my door
the cat grins

“i can’t remember” i say
&she purrs, a friendly smile upon her face
i try the first //psssshhh
second // a blond, russian girl appears
“sorry” i say “i can’t find my room”
“oh, it’s this one– round the corner”
she points sleepily

&that is where i lie
half-awake all night,
listening to the music//voices on the streets
the city’s scent
the waitress’ smile with meth-foul teeth,
my bridge

tick //TocK//tick
&time stands still
a stranger in the corner
with a piece of minty chocolate
on her lips


Mary has us writing “time” at dVerse today…
& i take it as a chance to share a bit of my trip to oxford and london last week as well…smiles

by the way – Sherry interviewed me for Poets United over HERE –  so in case you wanna get to know me a bit better…

Imagine//Bri, did you put the wardrobe here??

charlie's portobello road cafe by c. schoenfeld


the door clicKs
smoothly with a clinG/tssshhCk

&i often come here after midnite
once it’s quiet

scent of laughter in the air
still, million syllables piled on the tables//floor,
wood-worn, tattooed with sweat,
the ink of fountain pens in fluid flow
among the lines// between

it started with a dream, wings
st r e   t    c h  e d
bold and fragile on the ceiling of
as we took steps toward the opening
as i take a broom, swipe the stairs that lead up
to the little stage//set

for words to pour
forth between a poet’s quivering// lips
formed in that secret space of what the eyes trace/or expect
to find
between a rainpipe on an ancient building
and the union jack //or any flag, swaying
above the traffic in the breeze


i sit in the dark, fingers on the keys
of the old piano
it needs tuning
&my song climbs painted walls with pictures of the poets
that have been there
laughing// weeping//in a mad embrace with the next word,
arms wrapped round their neighbor’s chest

“the price is high sometimes” i say
filling napkins in a wooden stand
“would you want it any other way?”
“dunno, i don’t think so– at the moment– i am good–”

i take down the drapes,
they need a rinse,
weigh the soft fabric in my hand

“you still like the pattern?”

it is rhyhtm//pace//the busker’s song//strum of strings
a streetlamp
somewhere in a snow-swept field
furcoats and a wardrobe door
(a bit like Narnia)

where the gnomes&tales&kings

will find us.


at dVerse we’re still celebrating our 3 year anniversary and today we’re writing odes to the pub… doors open at 3pm EST..

a ball, the poets songs//& journeying through time in just one night’s black dress



it’s a short balloon ride
from my place to italy

starting on platform /number-
less /the tracks&trains sans names
&straight direction

as you would expect
journeys of this kind to happen
seaweed in my hair
a curling metaphor
in lost play with the breeze

a chiffon dress

position flag on google maps
really needs this//

clinging glasses
flowers spreading red&pink arms
weedlove on summer’s chest

the cat
who sat with me on Portobello road
a purring mess of stripes

guides me safely out the maze

the ebb and flow
of hundreds poets’ voices
“glad you made it”
“hey, so nice to meet you face to face”

i cannot tell
if the sea is really close
though feel the current flow under my skin
the sky a band of light blue strings
in quiet symphony,
beyond the castle//sculptures//maze

the cat stretches

all his crazy stripes//
with a wicked grin.

into the sunset


today at dVerse we’re inviting you to join our three year celebration ball…see you at 3pm EST… in Florence in fact… smiles

i too//blame poetry

a globe-spin-open pond,
i slip through time
in ancient cave paint
&highway graffiti i see//

what reflects
bound loose//
protection gear after the game
scratched&sweaty on the floor

“i dunno” i say

“it is just–

mere words


dragonflies dance
on the glistening surface,
frogs//a deer with velvet eyes,
concerto in F-flat

&further down

the sound of rainbows
aborigines with fur-stringed drums between knees
double-pace my heartbeat
freckled fish // ring-a-ring-a-rose
play tag

first step in/to the wet
then jump//head first


when i dive up–
spraypaint, gnomes & mountains in my hair,
a paper-clip, pink chalklines on grey concrete
&your scent–


sogentle on my lips
i lick
last drops of sweetness

the pond’s soft glistening DNA
spread all across my face

&delicately wraps
my naked chest

with the last syllable


wooohoooo!! we’re celebrating the pub’s third anniversary and writing odes to poets… doors open at 3pm EST….

on theA8 – Stuttgart //Basel //&my shoes are business blue but still– a little magical

the turtle in the rearview looks at me with old, dark eyes

autobahn singing grey-toned tunes
beyond the lane a smile
and on my sword

the blood of twitching dragons

“see” i say to my colleague
“i wanna do the right things, not just things/ right&—”

her eyes red with moonlight
“you know what i mean?”
“i think..”

my work phone rings— India
“ok – i’ll check the dates once i’m in the office,
when they stay in Zürich, do they really wanna go to Engelberg?
i would suggest—”

&there’s a weird intimacy in rubbing lips
with concrete at 150 miles per hour
a red Ferrari

i want a fountain
sprinkling over me
dancing in my white bikini&plateau blue
in a cradle with the sunset’s
melting chest

“got a key code for the tank card?”
“yeah, it is–“

i grab a bucket
wash an insect army
from the windscreen’s tainted face,
send an image of my new blue sandals
to my man,

the sun’s fragmented spine&i
in every drop that spills
evaporating from the wiper’s lips
he messages

“oh dang, those shoes are hot”

&i climb back in the Mercedes’ overheated womb
white shirt and business suit
& through the rainbow text

“i’ll be home (check watch) in–“

press delete//deciding

to surprise him


today at dVerse we’re celebrating our last OLN before the summer break… doors open at 3pm EST..

happy summer everyone… smiles… i’ll be taking a little blogging holiday and will be back on july 14… see you then..

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