if i could paint i–

you may think
that the extension’s endless,
you can
pull—– pull—–

further–
longer— strong_er,

bit of pain—
bEArable,
but then—

the heart– suddenly
snaPs back like rubber strap,
to where the roots lie–
driLLs big holes inside your chest&
striPS you NA_
ked, if

you’re Joan Miró, you etch
reD and Black, blaCK // Red in
small-scale, & your hands smell
of blood and charcoaled earth of civil war,
touch DEStrucTION&
no matter
where you are, you’re–

stretch//– sCRAtch//– NooO!!! you’re

neVer sAFe,
oil-Rage

Picasso-like, in painting Guernica,

bombs in your eyes, fall
when you hear about the kids that die
in a school on Placa San Felipe Neri– &
the only thing that you can do is, take the
crumbled stones and build anew, i
was a teen, working

in city hall, social welfare branch,
when a group of refugees came into our
town, and they were sitting in the office,
smiling, smiling, a bit lost when my boss
explained assistance to them,

only now,
i think,
i see what spans like rubber band,
reaching
from their bare, white teeth,
deep
into the choking chambers of
a badly savaged land

.

Karin is the woman behind the dVerse bar today and she has prepared a prompt for us that takes us to the heart of exile and beyond.. Miró and Picasso were in France when the civil war savaged their beloved Spain and they both captured some of the terror in their paintings.. the school on Placa San Felipe Neri was hit when Hitler bombed Barcelona and they rebuilt it with the crumbled stones that were left…learned about all this on my visit to Barcelona last week..so really thankful for a journey that taught and touched me on different levels…

i think i felt the catalanian heart beat

i’ m not sure if there’s a poem,
one that stays with me
and does this city justice–

someone said Miró
helped us understand,
this world is made of instability & beauty,
things that last, only for so long and–

who can tell what comes
next, standing

in the nave of the cathedral where
Antoni Gaudí poured
forty three years of his life
to make these stone walls talk,
then died in the streets of Barcelona,
in an accident, knocked over
by a tram, clothed in rags,
they didn’t recognize him &

i weep for all the dreams
that might never come true,

a woman on the bus is blind,
eyes closed behind dark glasses,
fingers trace the buttons on the pole,

i feel her concentration, gently
focused on the next stop, next step,
period– there’s dignity

in every move of
an old trashman as he empties
bins by hand &

i sit on the stone steps on
Placa de Josep Oriol,
a homeless, bent, felted beard,
asks people in the street cafés for coins,

a handsome guy with long braids
swings a rope between two sticks,
conjures soapy bubbles
& in seconds–

plop
——-plop

————–plop

they’re gone–

leaving nothing but
glistening rainbow droplets
in the blond curls
of a little catalanian girl

.

a bit of a capture of my time here in Barcelona, will fly back tonight and visit back as soon as possible… linking up with dVerse where OpenLinkNight goes up at 3pm EST