let’s call him seven//teen

he was three lines,
5-7-5
dark shiny hair
and inksvy drenched
dreamed rhymes beyond–

of groWTh

into an ode, sestina, rondelet
with a black cap//a bear
&shades, of rap//bebop//hip-hop
in torn jeans, on a trash-can ride
toward the uniVerse //& back,

a love song//soFt-
est half-beat, french ballade
nocturne, pleiades,
in countless metric units
starry-eyed&

on the frog’s cool back
he jumPs
with basho breathing down his neck
&floating in the wet–

5-7-5 expanding ripples
on a pond//
the big red sun in a white dress
singing the sound of change

.

alright– tony wants us to write nonsense poetry at dverse today, which i can tell you is no nonsense at all… doors open at 3pm EST– up for a challenge? grab your pen and see you at 3pm EST

the weird intimacy of tires, pressing rubberlips onto the road//&where this journey starts

trier, marketplace

trier, marketplace

.

the market place shines yellow
in the half-dark
“loving those street lights–”  i say
&my daughter smiles
“the city gate impressed me more
than the leaning tower of pisa”

&we carry
bits and pieces of our breath
under our coats
the night wind
“so tomorrow you’ll collect your bike?” i ask
“check out the university?”

we drove here on jammed streets,
passing Strasbourg
“never made it back there” i say
cappuccino in a rest-stop on the highway
&the rain pours beats
we don’t know
yet

the beauty about traveling
is in its essence, smell, the rub of tires on a road,
&marks we leave
as we move on
it’s in the small things, in the way the light leans carefully
against her cheeks
now

in a turkish snack bar
we eat lahmacun and yoghourt sauce drips down my arms
into our drinking in
the city’s fragrance,

small bumps//curves of cobblestone,
throw sepia shades
as we walk to her new flat
that she shares
with a future lawyer&a girl with angel hair,

“it smells of change” i say
to the old roman city gate, built in the year180 after Christ
“it shrunk 4 meters since then,
one day you will too mom& i’m taller then”
“ha”
we link arms,
and on my back i feel the Porta Nigra winking//

with soft, charcoal sparkling eyes

 

.

Gabriella has us write travel poetry at dVerse today… doors open at 3pm EST..

why i do what i do//although the bumps along the margins wear me down somedays

tttsssSsshhhsshhhhhp

enveloped in a haze //n-butyl acetate
i spraypaint letters on the bridge’s grey//crackling forehead
cars and trains rumble across,
a little boy fogs up the pane
his nose a flat peach on its sunlight-glistening surface

a guy in a blue raincoat says
“it’s never permanent–
someone else will come and brush thick layers over it”

that doesn’t mean i’m gone
yet i get cold a bit
it’s dangerous //CAPS&
concrete skeletons lean heavy in the breeze

“and why use words that no one understands”
they’re all in a hurry
heavy bags//chocolate chips against autumn’s first chill,
a dotted dog pee-marks his territory
“they could google it, i mean–”
“they won’t”

he lights a cigarette
a thousand magnifying glasses shimmer in his beard
i want to run my hand
across the secret that sits hidden in the crevice of his lips
as color-rivulets run down the wall, legs,
puddle at my toes,
they’re penciled  red still,
a bit damaged though

“what makes you get up on this scaffold?”

“the way the wind whips spraypaint on my skin”

“that’s it?”

“i think”

his lips are dry a bit
as we sit by the highway
on an island, cyclones spitting froth across the waves

“if that is gone, i’ll stop”
“i know”
&we throw flat stones, skipping on the lake’s unbroken surface

.

“following through a metaphor” is karin’s theme at dVerse tonite… doors open at 3pm EST

on the Fringe’s seam//

the night is bumpy,
frayed out on the edges
i trace with sleepy fingertips
juggling a teacup
on my knees

“you should go to bed” my daughter says
“cuz you don’t sleep enough”

“i will– in a few minutes”

van Gogh said for him the night holds much more color than the day
i let my hands run close along its seam
extract the half-dark on my tastebuds

finally we talked about that night in Edinburgh
when i submersed in the crowd
ignoring all his messages
and let the city swallow me//alive
a small pub, bathed in yellow street lights

“at least there’s hope now” i say to a friend the next day in a café near st. giles
my freezing bones dug deep into the city’s bustling web,
the writers that we met
“i didn’t know Sir Arthur Connan Doyle lived here”

“that’s why we call it upper case” he points to the CAPS on the rack above the letterpress
“that’s awesome” &how things make sense i think
considering their background

“mom, it’s almost midnite– go to bed”
“i’m talking to van Gogh”
“oh”

“thanks again–
for showing us around&”

i put my teacup in the sink//

“good night sherlock holmes
sleep well harry potter&i’m sorry mr. jekyll
things turned out for you like that”

with a soft cliCk cut the light
&let the night// devour me

.

 

bill webb is guest-posting over at dVerse today and in his “nod to Rilke” has us write in a humble and sincere way either about the things around us or find like Rilke inspiration in A. Rodin’s sculptures and write about one of them in the same way…

20&87

my mom & daughter

my mom & daughter

 .
you lose distance
drawing people,
doesn’t matter if the setting’s public
in a restaurant
like at my daughter’s birthday
bowls of salad on the table

“i’m gonna eat mine with the main dish” i say
&take out my sketchbook, brush, watercolor box

“you’re painting now?”

“hmmm, while i wait– you can start already”

i don’t touch people quickly
even though familiar//usually
there’s a shyness&
i trace them with my eyes,
each line and curve, discovering
a bit like braille maybe
as you see shapes//grow
from the wet tip of the brush

“where’s my napkin?”

“oh– i used it for the color puddles in the box lid”
“ha” he smiles

&i’m planted in the moment,
comfortable like a tree, spreading its limbs
to this side and that
breathing in the scents of summer’s slow fall,
bee’s hum, mushroom pancake
&the wild cry from a bird’s crooked beak

“i like that one mom”
Prissi says
“gonna take it as my profile pic”

she’ll be leaving by the end of month for university//
a foreign city//new start

“oh, i’m gonna miss her” says my mom&
i am proud and— adding all the shades i see
In the soft shimmer of her hair

“she’ll be fine” i smile
feeling the soft touch of her skin
across the table

.

for dVerse..

i was so full of own song that i didn’t hear hers once//she trusted me &sang

highland sheep

highland sheep

.

highland wind howls–
a huge wounded bear
&purple//heather stre T c h  i  N g fragile limbs
on endless green& stone-rough houses
that errect– wombs with empty eyes
we drive a big mercedes with soft leather seats
which doesn’t fit
the color of the road/deeP

chucKholes buMp the street// wooly sheep with blackprint faces
rain pours
&a stripe of blue–

“that car smells strange” i say
we pull out on the left side,
pressing buttons to unlock the hood
it won’t open
sharp wind
i put on another coat

“you need help?”
“i used to work for them– mercedes, trucks though” he smiles
finds the lock,
brushes through the task bar,
it looks good
“probably remains of a dead animal on the hot engine”

the street climbs small&curvy
“don’t you think they’re getting wet?”
“nah, the wool fat keeps ‘em dry”
“the place reminds me of the last james bond,
where he grew up–“

i feel full //and empty//weak
&
drawn in by the magic of her shades
they pull me in-
to story after story

“could you live here?”
&i see me sitting with the sheep,
a sheperd’s staff//book in hand//thick boots,
“it’s not romantic– life is rough up here”

surrender
to //the sileNce
falling// circles, tantalizing, in a weird dispute
with every fibre in me that shouts city
&her pink breath
smells of all i never knew

.

Mary has us writing to my sketches at dVerse today… pick one, write a poem and join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST…

i didn’t think i’d find him here in Aberfeldy//but// it sure makes sense

robert burns & i

robert burns & i

.

he holds a small book
letter-less
my shirt’s drenched with sweat and rain
& poem-wise
i have no use for landscapes

i sit next to him,
cool bronze against my chest
asking how much time he spent
to listen

to the birk’s brush
soft//against fall’s
wet face

the way up
————-is steep

i blow moist puffs in the forest’s lightgreen dress
“you were in love?” i ask

no answer
things// look different then,
my feet hurt// slaM against a rock
“we make the whole round?”
“yeah, let’s go for it”

“ya know,
it’s not the burnie or the birks, in fact” i say
“it could be a dirty sidestreet in a god-forgotten place
the difference is—“

the linn sprays cool webs on my face
a group of hikers cross our path,
one wears only flip flops

“Mr. Burns?”
but he’s in a dream still
and i only touch him lightly
“would you paint here?”
“i don’t think so” i say//panting

listening to the shaw’s rough voice
humming a lightsome melody

.

birks: birches
lightsome: merry
shaws: woods
linns: waterfalls
burnie: stream

.

we celebrate our monthly OpenLInkNight at dVerse today… write a poem – no specific theme – and join the fun – doors open at 3pm EST…