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..

Glass-door-warmth messiahs// &all else allegories won’t carry

F-20098-01 is not a secret mission,
Missiles or 007-fied persona, shiF-
ting fragment-ized ions from shadows,
plate-pernicious in their weight towards me
Lum/inous// divided
into 0 and 1 binary codes

most of them get lost
inside my handbag
Between tampons, coins for shopping carts
& irish moss drops
Those that end the coughing of a world
which spin-wheels epochal-y wayward round my head
“i need to buy a loaf of bread on the way back” i say

my colleague nods (absent-minded),
cheeks& tie //square-dipped with black x’s
yeast and wheat-whipped, phospo-r-hythm/d boxes
sans a satisfying beat

“the shops will close if you don’t hurry up”
i lean towards depigmentation of the day// vitiligo
the ebony of sound which grounds them
as all windows shut
Micro-soft //&peaceful // in the rearview//
in a way

“Messiah, Allegory, Luminous, Plate, Shadow, Door, Persona, Glass, Vitiligo, Epochal, Pernicious, Warmth” is the word list Anthony provides us with to pour into our writing today. Use a minimum of 5 of them and join us when the dVerse pub doors open at 3pm EST..

tonight i found a pea under my mattresses – and yes // i woke wrecked

morning, with blue eyes
balances along the windowsill,
a dancer
among birdsong
& the soft wink a hill makes

my jaw still aches

from a 3 hour dentist marathon
he – bent over me//drill in hand
pressing fists against the left part of my face
to gain stability
& suddenly
a mind-flash//
scratching razor blade skates
i won’t have sex

for quite some time
and yes
it bothers me//

“ok – now close your mouth//bite on this strip”
my nerve aches
and the birds take to their trumpets

“you’ve been added
to the oxford sketchers FB group”

i browse through pages

“why are there so many architects that sketch?”
i wonder

is it for ideas?
to get a sense how line feels
as it grows under your pen’s breath,
re-defining space
that you can co-develop
or for crooked bends in a straight job

“psshh be quiet” i say to the birds
“it’s not yet 5
or help me sort the peas/grain— ?”

“you get all your fairy tales mixed up”

a nut
falls to the ground,
a dress wells out,
a white horse,
ash smeared on my cheeks

“hey” the morning twinkle-smiles

and i accept the group invite
but haven’t
introduced myself //yet


Karin has us write slant rhyme at dVerse today… doors open at 3pm EST

The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago. The second best time is now.

night’s a chess-board
on a kitchen table
rows of  players in the half-dark

bent over its polished face
i see no queen//nor king //yet pawns
in hand-carved wooden white//

from the apartment house
between the mountain and road
through half-closed blinds
wink light-rays in a weird escape
towards us

like a deeply wrinkled woman
who has seen too much// squirms/aches
yet in a wild, ferocious act
str e  t   c  h es her womb,
giant steel bars
scraTChing over concrete
to embrace the horses, robbers,
knights and everyone in need
for rest

a little boy– father, mother next to him,
pours milk into a bowl of cereals,
(checked tablecloth)
a business man,
browsing tightly printed sheets
a single mom in a blue dress //
half-empty glass of wine

“let’s pray” i say
before i fall asleep”

& though my roots are pulled//
& scattered

on the ground
right//or wrong are molecules//
black holes
in crazy twisting loops,
i’m throwing seeds&

though my body’s stabbed
and cold in a dark road
behind the garbage bins

i dig hands deep in the soil
& plant
a tiny tree

Mary has us write poetry to quotes at dVerse today
my title “The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago. The second best time is now.” is a chinese proverb

“where did i put the duct tape?” hmmm… i used it for my tilus’es”

spring leans on my chest&
feeds me cher-


i duct-tape dreams to a
balloon// let


chinese words play marbles
on my tongue


raindrops polka-dot my
winking eye-


the sun dial streaks the hour,
a lover’s


twelve paint-cakes, cheekBYcheek
brush revel-


at dVerse, we’re exploring the Tilus [tee-loo-hz] today, a form created by Kelvin S.M…. it falls under the category of micro poetry. The form is divided into two parts: the first part is composed of two lines following a 6-3 syllable count; the second part, a one-syllable word to close and/or complete the subject layered in the first part. doors open at 3pm EST…