GrEEn–bLaNK–gREEN– &

see, i didn’t kiss him
cause you never  know
what they turn into,
i’m not

Miss Piggy,
after all,
we collect trash

in separate bins, re-spin
empty yogurt mugs
into a Versace spring collection,
flavored berry-ish and lick
my lips (aaahhh) at a certain point of
seam to thigh,

in the land of black, red, gold

we even have a party that calls
green their name, a proEarth claim,
goodbye atomar, nuclear power plants,
a relict of history?

i got my doubts
as i switch on 30.000 neon tubes
&with a single touch
the office turns into
a star wars scene,

BrigHT, oHso bRiGHT—right, everything’s so
wOnderfully bright here— ha

at least
they use
cardboard cups at Starbucks,
consciously recycled in a homeless’ hand
to gather coins & get another drink,

i fall on the bench, right next to him,
planet earth in his green eyes,
“it’s blue in fact” i say
“we are, oh Dang, we Are”

“care to share a burger?”
wrapped in just a hint

of paper & we fold it afterwards,
smirched with whisky stains
into an little plane “be careful with the wings–“

& then
(“really, you should take a shower”)
cruise the planet

carbon free

.

smiles… Karin has us writing Green for St. Patrick’s day poetics.. environmental, envy, Kermit the frog.. whatever jumps to your mind when you hear the word green.. see you at 3pm EST at dVerse..

painting alice in wonderland

he was upBeat in a funny way,
eco touch, & we’d walk my dog for hours,
talking life, sense- and senseless
while a weary forest breathed
oxygen upon us,

all the songs we sang,
oFF path, one sun on us from
different angles, we drank

black tea (flavored caramel) on icebergs,
bungee jumps on spider threads high in the air,

& in falling, i smoked hand rolled cigarettes, he
chasing off the puffs, i blew in his face,

he picked me up for school in his old car,
& his yes was without judging,

my best friend.

& my fav police song playing as he asked
me help him fight the angst, the insecurity that
was about to drown him, we were Gala and Dali,
vice versa, he read from his book & i painted
watercolor, transparent, fluent,
picking up the shades, energy,
showing what i saw, where i’d go
by the slightest touch of him, giving direction,

the room smelled of wet paint,

i traced tobacco crumbs on worn down carpet fibres,

always felt that he had given me much more
than i could give him back (craCKed,
as i was)

“hey” i say, “you’ll be doing good”

& we both smile

. 

ok, couldn’t resist Gretchen’s prompt over at dVerse.. my fav police song– “every breath you take” was humming it all day yesterday..smiles

last week i was in Berlin at a Dali exhibit & really impressed by Dali’s Alice in Wonderland paintings, Gala read the book to him and he painted..found that magical…

it’s his scars, i fell in love with first, then his hands

street art in berlin

.

we make our stars of folded paper,
urban night sings loud around us,
not of love, but
from a scar spiked chest,
providing

effervescent hope & nations
mirror in his eyes,
Berlin is male.

He loves you on the edge of brutal,
grows, groWs, GRoWs & thrusTs
himself into you, i can hardly walk, but
still want more, see

Salvador Dali worked bread crumbs
in his paintings cause he said
Art should be edible, that there is meaning
even if you can’t explain the moment

you hold brush to paper, it goes
deeper & with soft down tickles
at your heart,

cops patrol in the park, a little snail
leaves glistening trails in moist grass,
& i write an email on my phone,

walk on earthy paths towards
the Siegessäule, climb up
all the stairs that bring me to the top,

& look at him,
with wobbly knees,

his proud face, slotted once,
now scarred & shimmering
in the spring sun, he will love me
without many words, diplomacy’s

in Brussels, here’s a soldier,
not covering the wounds,
taken for the land he loves,

there’s nails & eagles,
bears roar on his chest, &

knowing how to hold a sword,
his hands are far from tender

– and his kiss tastes

of a freedom suffered for

.

..really this city went under my skin..
over at dVerse Brian has us asking someone to give us 2 nouns, 3 verbs, 3 adjectives, 2 random words and with these write a poem.. mine were…star, snail, effervescent, loud, slotted, grows, provides, sings, bread, tickles….. we also have a second prompt option today, given by Gretchen who asks to write a poem, inspired by a song.. so…wanna join the fun..? see you at 3pm EST when we open the pub doors…

catching flies on the lips of a lion

piCture him, like life,
like wrinkled neon tubes,
a path of question marks in both his eyes,

that’s how i meet him on the tram stop,
quarter to eleven, wrung out, late,
he shuffles with a ragged smile

along an aisle, invisible,
an early spring sun though
throws dots & dots & dots

upon him

.

smiles..time for poetics again at dVerse and Fred tends the bar with short verse…doors swing open at 3pm EST 

Rhapsody in 2He

.

we pull rustling
green & yel-
Low documents
across the scanner’s lucent tongue,

shchrKc—sshHhcchRrrK

page, by page, by page,

upLoad, reName,
folding tiny paper boats,
not ocean-going,
soaked with blackprint,

she turns ’round, overstrained,
& tears driP– liMpid
back- and forward flips
from her lashes to the ground,

“hey, you’re ok?”
& snuggle her up against me,
with chestnut curls
a velvet storm,
we tie

collapsing waves
to a little, red balloon,
then let it fly,

& i hum Gershwin
Later

.

over at dVerse Kelvin is hosting Poetics for the first time and he brought some of his artwork to the pub and wants us to write to it in an artistic, impressionistic and suggestive style which he explains in detail in his article that goes up at 3pm EST…see you later..

maybe that’s where eve lives–

uphill, in the vineyard, immediately,
behind the house, i walk,
four little kids in tow & muddy
rubber boots,

on balmy evenings
before dark, quiet paths &
barefoot on brown soil,
breathing

craZy at times, in a downpour,
orientation lost like that funny
woman, who walks her dog
by letting him
run behind her car on noGo roads, &

exHaust in my face as

autumn throws
her golden gown,
absorbed in thoughts, pressed
in the wind, i sit

by the grapes, (too close– i know),
giggling daisies brush my bare knees,
passed the “DoN’t pAss” sign
already (I’m just– dang it– I’M
No thiEf) &

through slightly split lips,
distance shrinks,
just oNce– touCH their

firm, warm skin,
peel back& rel//Ease

—-stripeS of
——juicy flesh, their
rib(Less)cage
——–against my teeth–

tabooed teRritory, in a
sudden shiver, pull my hand back,
blisters on my fingertips, i
DaMnKnow– StoP

iT.

though the loNGing

almost kills me.

.

Mary has us writing Leonard Cohen or sense of place poems– first thing that jumped to my mind was the vineyard behind our house.. took the kids there for walks, rain or shine..ha… and when hubs came home from work in the evening, i left him with kids and greasy pans and ran up the hill, just to have a bit of space to breathe…many good times up there, many a battle fought as well..smiles..dVerse pub doors open at 3pm EST

there’s a morse code in the wet spots, left by snowflakes on your face

she slinks through the house,
books & pens under her arm, a stray cat
sans her sister, LOST sign blinking

in her deep brown eyes “mom,
won’t you come with me to the aerobic training?”
(usually they go together) &
we ring her up, early morning, speaker on,
in the half-dark

she sits sleepwarm, silent next to me, face pale,
breathing deep to inhale her scent,
continents away, still lingering &

talks spanish with her Sydney homestay host,
a 70 year old lady from Peru, who prepares her
fresh-pressed apple-carrot juice for breakfast

“i can bike to university”, she says,
“how cool” &

———–there she is,

wind in her hair, that impish smile spreading
from the corners of her eyes, changing color
like a summer lake & how she shook her head
when she got a ticket once for biking freehand–

downhill– &

——the room gets wide–

——————cracks open,

i throw arms

around my little one, it’s snowing and
we lift the face, thick snowflakes land
(helicopters without pilot) on our nose,
& in the car to work, i smile, turn off the wipers
til i’m covered, coVerED up &

just the BLiN–kiNg faces
of a freezing bunch of one-legged traffic lights

———-remind me faintly

——————of the road ahead

.

we’re writing about the Art of Letting Go at dVerse today.. daughter’s doing good, arrived well in Australia and has a great time…so i’m mostly a happy let go-er.. little one is doing good as well again..smiles… see you at 3pm EST in the pub..

Copenhagen & aWindThat–

copenhagen / the little mermaid

.

between shade & light,
the wind leans into us,
we drift, after

the parade
to the royal palace, changing
of the guard, &

i’m not questioning
anything, feathered white
wings spread, in a dotted dress
& military boots under a
group of snow clouds,

carrying their weight
furiously fast, with ease,
on the church bell tower,

we test centrifugal forces
throwing us a–round &
round&round, “so, why
are you so nice?” i ask

“you said you’d leave me
otherwise” “well, that’s an
argument–” standing

by the mermaid, shade–’n
light//ShAde– next to us,
a little lady (japanese) with
colored socks, and

by the sea, a native guy who
watches her opposite
the rocks, catching sun rays,
liGht–LigHt–sHaDe–
a mosaic of opportunities
on his wrinkled face, under

a speckled sky, giant
cloud-speed-race, his bike
against the fence,
reflects moments bet-
ween shimmering spokes,
shadeShAdeLiGht–a morse
code, (get it now)
smiling, through

the wind i shout “it was worth
it, right–?” she blinks,
sHadeShadELigHt

–& never answers

.

it’s groundhog day in the states and all depends on shade and light then..that’s karin’s prompt for poetics as well… had a great time in copenhagen and happy to be back just in time for when the dVerse pub doors open at 3pm EST..

TheTimesWrapUP

i wear mostly bLacK–
priNt on a neutral soul
(if there‘s something

like that– yeah,
i doubt as well), in wartimes,
sold, for 3 pennies each,
a freedom headline, torn
on windy corners
from a capped boy’s hand &
dead by day’s end,

fading checkless yellOwing,
obituaries, dripPing restTears
water-wave the page, sun
in my face

i end up on her desk,
tightly wrapped around
an apple & a tuna sandwich
while she types

columns in ExCel
that spread from London
to the Chinese wall, outDated
with the last line,

curd soap scent creeps
from her arms along the window
sill, a sparrow (she’s got freckles,
and the palest skin) sits in the
church yard opposite
the bridge,

i wait,

 ——& listen

(hrtHshlClacKClack–)

until lunchbreak

.

we’re writing Media at dVerse today…television, magazines, newspaper, commercials.. join us at 3pm EST when Brian switches on the lights… oh..and you can recognize me by the yellow rose & The Times on the table in front of me…smiles

prego–

street scene in front of my rome hotel..the restaurant was close by..

.

it’s a sidestreet place, no tourists,
a little group of old, italian men, the only guests
checked table cloth, la notte sinks
on Rome and i–

order pizza, un bicchiere di vino,
rosso, secco// & a steady pul-

siNg rest-day’s heat creeps
from the asphalt up my legs,
under my black dress, lingers–

“parli italiano?” sepia teethed &
wrinkled smile, across the room,

i smile back, “no–” “germane?
o inglese?” “si” –
the chef joins from the kitchen,
sweat pearls on his forehead, apron twined
around his hips, we’re

on a stage, playing, recitare,
linguaggio mimico, &

later, buried in the pages of my book,
rinsed soft by una lingua whose
pronunciation makes my name sound
like a goddess, and she is, actually
hidden in it —dia,

moth formations circle in a tranquil dance
around the street lamp, “buena notte”

stepping out into the night,
il mondo, drunk with heat, spins slowly–
backward, forward– stops.

& i roll up, into a perfect ball,
along her sinuous axis

.

we’re writing poetry in a language that is not our own in the pub today..actually, i do this all the time as my mother tongue is german…though…thought i’m going for italian for the prompt…flashback to Rome..sigh..