he talks us
under the table during lunch break
i feel for trees beneath my naked feet,
& times i spent,
wrapped up in the Shire
of another time,
(hair colored blond and red,
wearing dad’s old army coat & fly-
ing was considerable option),
Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,

i pluck (in the village
where my mom grew up)
tractor fumes from boardwalks,
wind them into beads
with rows of buttercups,
what has grown
on us during a hay-less summer,
as we sit & read
cross-legged on the demarcation zone,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in halls of stone

on the edge of evening,
bring the old pipe to my lips,
wet tobacco bites
trails in crevices and creeks
while all the rest of me
tumbles skyhigh
on uneven deals,
(coat wrapped close around me)
stepping out into the width–
Nine for Mortal Men, doomed to die,

glow of bonfire, dew pearls (still)
on the soft curve of my hips
(no One prepared me for–)
“this
is about ownership” he says, i take the ring,
bind it round my neck, diffusing foam
on the horses’ nostrils, in the
fields, orks and riders gather
joining in battle song
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne, &
—(all the way, i feel
his breath
———-upon me)

.

Sam has us write glosa at dVerse today..

The glosa is a form from the late 14th century and was popular in the Spanish court. The introduction, the cabeza, is a quatrain quoting a well-known poem or poet. The second part is the glosa proper, expanding on the theme of the cabeza, consisting of four ten-line stanzas, with the lines of the cabeza used to conclude each stanza. Lines six and nine must rhyme with the borrowed tenth.

as it crashes,
mug in claw
my coffee floods the scale,
floor– board–

—-& even trickles
——–through the small slits
——-of the fridge,

——-(his tea falls

—–for no obvious reason),

1:1 //Draw (ha,
mine was better placed though)

we talk travel, life & art,
over a glass of wine.
“see–? this painting has two suns–”
i search the sky

“look at the shades”

“very cool, you think
there’s a message in it?”
“no, just poorly painted”,

&i wonder
at the shades of life,
equally uneven & confusing
sometimes,

from above, the kitchen lamp,
a grass-green ufo, showers light rays
on the antique table underneath
(& it may beaM Me uP
inTo the womb
of a gigantic space ship)

“i lined up for an hour in the rain
to get into the Lenbachhaus”, i say,
“well worth the wait”,

“so, have you heard about
Kandinsky’s art group,
the blue rider?”

& it happens
that i lose myself sometimes,
like soft breath,
exhaled from a horse’s nostrils,
blending with the cool air
at some point along the way,

& life & art is never separate,
but continually intermingles
with the shades it throws,
in awkward angles, so–

“did you like living in Dublin?”
“yeah, it’s a cool place”
“&Luxembourg–”

we travel
‘round the world,
stopping here & there
just long enough to take
another sip of white,
then move on,

the munich rain outside,

humming a quiet night song

.

over at dVerse it’s OpenLinkNight again and we spill poetry all over the place..so…grab your pen, write a poem and join the fun… doors open at 3pm EST

& being seen, or not,

always circling, hungry,
wings spread, stuck, again, again,
in the same spot,
when she asks,

“did you ever fall in love

———-with someone else?”

(her babe asleep, the stroller
grinds solid rubber teeth
into the gravel)

—–“i—no, (followed by
a long monologue in which i find
how excellent i am in lying
to myself)  —but

——————–never

—-Crossed A Line”

there’s no hidden mystery
in trees and buttercups
that beautifully dot the grass
around us, how they (natur(e)ally)
turn their face toward the sun//warmth,
mostly, so predictable, yet
——we don’t get it–

& i press my hands on things
that seem to fall apart,

back at the party,
leaned onto the banister,
red bonfire glow, & flames,
flickering bright against the night,
a blackish forest breathes
mist like spraypaint on my head,

“it’s so quiet here–” i say,
& it feels odd–
“i mean, beside the kids, the music,
all the people–”, start to laugh,
but–

———in a way

——————it is.

in munich, in pouring rain..

.

“i know nothing
about dragon toes” i say,
he glances sideways
in the sub between
Isartor & Munich Hauptbahnhof,

a minute back,
i placed my suitcase
in a locker, bought a travel guide
in an overheated bookshop,
(there i saw him first–
on the front page of an Asia mag,
between lanterns
& a shouting crowd)

little sweat drops
on my forehead mingle
with the rain,

& he looks out of place,

“don’t draw me” he says,

“if you do, erase the claws”

“i–”
“you a painter?”
“no–
what about you?”

“i am symbolism
of a dynasty, a folk, a hope–”

“i’m not familiar with your culture”
“yes, i know–
i wanna taste the rain,
& followed your red rain coat”

“royal blood?” i ask,

“kinda–
whole clans got executed
for not following the rules”

“i never do”
he smiles (for the first time)

*next stop– Marienplatz*

“Mr. D.– your royalty?” i say,
offer my arm & hot breath on my cheek,
we get out of the train,

“i didn’t lose a single toe,
all the way here”
“yeah, but
you came on a mag–”
“oh, that doesn’t matter”

“let me show you something” i say,

——–& we walk out in the rain

.

smiles…kelvin has us write Asia in the pub today…food, culture, travel, experiences–good and bad, people, tradition…wide open field..he will even provide us with some Tagalog (Philippines’ mother tongue) words to weave into our poems once the article goes up at dVerse at 3pm EST.. see you then…and happy saturday everyone..

——————————-smiles–

at the pansies’ violet face,
flitter//flatter doves,
a homeless at the curb–

& me–

as if the day– world–
us are nothing but
tiny, timely, dots, nurtured only
by the slight sense of desire,
between roots&fly,

as if she, (If she spread
her dimpled arms)
could hold & bead us
into weightless(nes),

& i sit with my coffee
in its shared//womb,
soul sinks in, &

i dont write,

dont think

———-beYond,

but let life glide as it wants–

——-and later
———-maybe go

——————-&catch it

.

velleity and volition is Anna’s theme for MTB at dVerse today.. she has prepared an excellent article which will be up at 3pm EST…
I’m in Stuttgart on a business trip at the moment and probably back late, so my commenting will be a bit delayed….see you then..smiles

munich, karlstor

.

it’s the depth

as if you could
Crawl into
a careful painted landscape,
rest your head on–

& i do
forget
the world is round,

we’re moving
on the surface

mainly

a few feet up or down
seldom make it
to the core (of things)

you say:
it’s just a painting
(estimated 4 hands wide,
3 high, i never
get the math right),

in a city of a million raindrops
splashing
on the concrete,

i press ear to breast,
trembling, deep sighs
of her roots cause

there are things
the sun can’t teach us,
(even if we’re listening
closely–)
& i stay

3sub stops from the center,
which is What

eXactly–

soaking wet
& freezing,

there is something
in her gaze
that makes me take down
the umbrella,

turn my face
toward the drops’ wild tumbling wombs,
invite ‘em
for a roller-coaster ride
on tousled curls we loop
arms up—up—Up

until we’re crazy dizzy,
(& a little breathless)
with the magic
——–of the day

.

it’s raining poetry at dVerse OpenLinkNight today…write a poem and join us at 3pm EST…

people gasp
for breath when she parts lips,
babies cry, & fortune tellers
search for the extension of her lifeline
in the crooked beige and white.

but unabashed, free climbers hang
with messed up fingers on the bearing-out, then jump
onto the cushion of her tongue– (ha, fun), &

painters comb her hair
into diffusing clouds, shadow-dye her eyes
“looks like the lake geneva”
oil paint—driP DriP droP dRop dRip
to catch her odd, odd beauty

they meet in a sidestreet, he a dentist//straight,
measures & fills gaps with self-stewed amalgam,
sits on a streamline aluminium chair,
starEs at her,

boOOOm phUOng cLash //
————1000Volt flash,

pearly beads of spit drip from her slightly skew
corner of the mouth– someThing
in her wild smile touches him (doWn
to the intestines)

&he drops the ruler, between passionate
lip on lip //valley hiLL Hip hiGh pEak sEEd e-
Ruption–

lava dust, crest to ground–

marries her–

at the breakfast table– tUliPs, butter seas,
gold on honey sweet/Soaked wheat rolls,
bees hum drunk, turkish delight lakes on
the soft spots of her thighs, he takes
the waterscale– with scrutinizing gaze
divides, adds, multiplies, explains—

“these teeth need work–”

the painters shake their heads, “this—
you should love her like she is”
the dauntless climbers freeze in shock,

& she stands naked in the kitchen,
washes dishes in the moonlight,

————–liPs

—————–sealed close

.

temptation is what mary wants us to write for poetics at dVerse today..so…grab a pen..smiles… i’m in munich for the weekend, exploring the city (in pouring rain..) but back at my laptop by 3pm EST when the pub doors open..

waterWet sprinkles on my nose,
rippling wave worms set a yawning pace,
fishes, (wiNkWinKwiNK), belly up along the boat-
side, (nah, not dead– for sun tan reasons)

blowing seed(s), dande(Lions) in your face,
i say, “cycled without helmet to the moon,
once” (true)a tight against the lightspeed race,

the thing with oxygen is– it’s lun(e)-
atic(ly) important & i’m not a mermaid
(tickle me), a seaweed wig (thangGreen) &soSoon

i’m panting– brEATHLesS
anyWay–

.

smiles…my (almost) terza rima sonnet for dVerse where tony serves drinks behind the bar..

my roadbike at the entry to the Hodler exhibit

.

a mountain chain, extensive,
blue (the only color we endure
in large amounts), thin stripe of green
few earth brown cows, (tiny)
along the lower margin of the painting,

i sink in, digesting what i heard
about his childhood,
mother, dad, five siblings,
lost to tuberculosis, all within a few years,
&before his eleventh birthday,

in another room,
a picture series of his lover, Valentine Godé-Darel,
1913, beautiful, neck like a swan,
circling on a summer evening on a swiss lake,

1914, cancer just about  to wake, 
holding her baby daughter, an apparition, sketched

1915, in her sickbed, hair dissheveled
eyes that ask thousand questions, looking–
looking at him

as he paints (She, sHe, shE), obsessively
trying to hold–

eye contact //inteR-
Rupted, tension robs my breath,
& i imagine,

sitting by her bed// silently?, brush in hand,
she, thinking of her kid,
trying to withstand
the pulling–

on the deathbed, clothed in a light-green dress,
tiny feet, shoes with fine, brown straps,
hands folded, rosary entangled fingers,
on the wall behind her three, blue lines,

how long did he sit before
packing away the paint, hope–
Paulette, the little girl, he takes home, raises her
with his wife, & life disturbs me,
someTimes more than death,

a mountain chain in blue,
(the only color we endure
in large amounts, he said), a stripe of green
few earth brown cows, (so tiny in relation)
graze along the lower margin
of a— life

is never smooth, it’s spring
& people drink café on chairs that turn
their face toward the sunshine,

as do i, unlock my bike,
& cycle home,

———-escorted only

by the shivering creek’s moist whisper

.

a little snapshot of my visit to the Ferdinand Hodler exhibit in Basle last sunday… linking up with dVerse OpenLinkNight where Tony is in charge of the mic today.. write a poem & join us when the doors open at 3pm EST..

fairy tales are nothing but–
my assistant says, “i know him, see–“,
he holds a phantom drawing in the air,
signed: red riding hood

“come on”
later
in the yawning lamp light,
(“pancake yellow bulb spits on a greasy surface”,
my colleague’s denotation for interrogation room),
i tell him his rights,
he asks for no lawyer though,
squinting tired,

“it wasn’t her” he says, “it was the cake,
the stuff they sell in bakeries,
just crap–”
(i silently agree)

“so you said the hunter
let escape you? why?”
“haha– it was a deal– i had this decent
sporting gun collection, stored
in different caves over the years”,
(i don’t ask where he got them from,
i should’ve though, i know)

“playing the gentleman, ha–“ he rubs
his fur, weary, grey streaks in the black,
yellow teeth from the nicotine,
“see, we all make our mistakes”
“you don’t even have a drivers license”
“i got other problems”

outside in the street lamp’s warm glow,
drizzle, his colleague– black leather jacket,
silver rivets, crazy hair, a shade red,
paces up and down the road,
could be a fox, my expertise
to this effect is less than marginal,
(i collect roaches in my free time)

my last day before old age pension
(which explains things)
when we step out in the haze
of night, (too cool for may), i shiver,
opposite the school yard, cherry trees
wear wet, white wedding gowns

“what happened to the girl” i ask
“she’s working as a waitress”
“well– you still have contact?”
“no, i told you, it was just the cake”,
i shake his hand & on the way back home
buy rhubarb, flour & eggs, (i haven’t baked
in ages– actually)

.

smiles…fred has us writing myths, fairy tales and folklore, especially rgd. the myriad of creatures that appear within them… give it a go and see you at 3pm EST when we open the dVerse pub doors..