On (a) Sub_Mission

dim lights sprinkle dust-breath–
from the dancefloor sways
the scent of fresh plowed soil
& with tender hands you work
the wrinkles on my shirt,
———-we’re lost–

in webs of countless steps
that never matter really but
are pillars to the Now,
sticking closer to your moves, i
shut my eyes to feel,
Feel the way you wanna go,
———wade deep &

it doesn’t come
so easy to me, for the
crazy drummers in my head that in
such moments wake, with insane glitter
in their eyes, shout at me: “Re-
Gain Control”, that it’s dangerous
to submit, that with the giving in i’ll Fall
deeper, Deeper, towards ground_less,
clashing into yawning gaps–
———-but–

tonight, fertile clay clings
to my toes and i lean deep
into your steps, with bleeding fingers cut
tiny chunks of heartbeat from my chest,
tuck ‘em carefully between your ribs &

shift my naked body’s warmth upon you
like a blanket for the never covered,
fragile, molten wax & thick with what
i want our dance to be,

———i burn the veil &
ask you to lead me

.

it’s OpenLinkNIght at dVersePoets with Joy Ann Jones tending bar…so write a poem and join the party.. 3pm EST..

on def-ending / the Tuileries 1792

he protects the fleur-de-lis,
paws spread on dying breath &
it’s slow motion in my head when
he hits ground, sweat splatters,
cheek bones smash– and
it is always rainy when we get here

a small lake divides me from
laying hands in gaping spear wounds
in his chest, the morning swallowing
their screams, damp bodies as
they run, stretch strong & in their fall,
form puddles, the metallic scent
of blood mingling with saliva and on
my tongue the songs of yesterday,
the chirping of the birds, his semen
running down my thighs as earth
moves under him with maggots
feasting on big chunks of fear &
dreams left in the warmth

tssshrk—-tssshrk—click

the japanese group takes
some more pics and then moves on
and alls left is i– and years
wash by to when there was
no rock but flesh, still breathing
& i want to lay with you the night
before the battle, slowly moving
through the dark, saying that
it is not right and i don’t understand,
sweat splashing on you as i ride
you into safety, close my eyes

when the sculpturer drives
with strong & precise streaks,
his chisel in the sandstone, pausing
as you’re spitting blood across the soil,
across the lake, the morning mist,
painting magic patterns on your face
without needing any reason–
& again, i feel your soft breath
on my neck as i return, and
join the group to lead them on

.

The Lion Monument in Lucerne commemorates the Swiss Guards who died in 1792 when revolutionaries stormed the Tuileries Palace in Paris during the French Revolution. I often take customers from our company there and even though I have seen it many times, it still moves me deeply..

today at dVerse, Victoria Ceretto-Slotto has prepared a wonderful poetics prompt for us– get your chisel ready and join us 3pm EST when the pub doors swing open..

to all the poems i have never posted

they stare at me with hollow eyes
& really, i have tried to like them
but i don’t–

i scrubbed ‘em in the bath tub,
tongue-kissed, dyed their hair and
shifted them across the page like
a mad man’s game of chess, i

threw the pawn, bribed the queen &
kidnapped every tower
without much success–

now they’re spilled across the living room,
run in crazy circles on the carpet,
playing catch me with the cat and
some of them get eaten,
others disappear in cracks between the timber floor,
the rest lies bleeding on my lap–

“why not recycle them?”
my husband is a hands-on man
and even though he’s not a fan of poetry,
he has compassion for the words that
lie with ruffled hair and broken legs
behind the cushions on the couch
and he apologizes
when he sits upon one accidentally–
but honestly–

who wants to write a poem with recycled words,
labeled: “ i have been a tire” or
“my mother was a PET”
“maybe you should take them for a walk”
he says and wipes some from the glass
before he pours a drink–
“or what about a movie night–?”
nah, i tell him that i plan
to grow feathers in my armpits,
mainly cause i want to fly but maybe–

i could also nurse some
broken poems in the warmth–?

shaking his head, he
packs them sandwiches and pulls
a bunch of sparklers from the drawer,
takes a bow, distributes and lights ‘em, gosh–
there must be hundreds, then
he puts his arm around my shoulder
as we’re standing in the driveway
& with blurry eyes,
watch ‘em swaying twinkling flames
before they disappear around the bend
in a happy giggling firework parade

.

it’s FormForAll again at dVerse and we have a special guest, tending bar today.. jump over there at 3pm EST when the doors swing open…and in case you meet some giggling poems on the road…just bring them along…smiles

below 96th street

i plant words
in rubbish bins and under
concrete spiders with long legs,
lick graffiti from subway walls
and wonder silently
what magic line the 96th street is

& if you find more poetry
above it or below

or none at all–

but maybe all these words stand
in a line at Starbucks, dip
their nose in Caramel
Macchiato, tell each other they
can’t sleep at night because
of all the caffeine
& cause the sirens shriek
through noise proof panes,

i’m gonna search for them
under a bench in Central Park
where i’ll sit and wait for spring
as if nothing in the world is more important,
& of course i know–

but it escapes me like
verbs and nouns in foreign tongues
that have no meaning and accordingly,
make not much sense, no matter
if you wrap them
with a tinted steel rope round your chest–

instead i hang them carefully
on new born branches,
blow warm breath upon their sur_face,
rub their icy fingertips &

finally forget that i’m a guest
to all these lines that harbor in me
for a while and then— move on

.

it’s OpenLinkNight again at dVerse Poets pub, where our lovely host natasha head will dish out verse and caramel macchiato…doors will swing open at 3pm EST…can’t wait to see you there..

munich & return on water wings

flapping wings,
i’m drifting in and out of sleep
as sun beams break
in the perpetual & endless ripples
of a yawning sea–

i sleep best in cars,
limbs spread wide across the highway,
grazing Austria, then Switzerland,
kissing Liechtenstein in flight,

voices dimmed down to a distant murmur
and Lake Constance glistens
like a bride in fading evening light–

just a few more miles to go,
the mistral’s tongue ruffles my feathers
like you did when we ran on the lake last night,
breathless, gaining speed & water prisms spit
diffusing droplets on our face–

the moon –or was it just the dim lights
from the diner at the end of yesterday–
engraves uncharted galaxies on naked skin,

i wake as we drive in a traffic jam
and when the car stops, sleep flees, roused
like fish ballet formations, shaken by
a hungry seagull’s shrieks before i

drift away again,

and you stand, waving–
on the shore’s moist mouth

.

smiles.. my business trip to munich yesterday mingled somehow with the beautiful picture above, which was shot by Reena Walkling and is used with her permission.. my colleagues shook their head because in the car i was either sleeping or typing poetry into my iPhone…smiles

over at dVerse, brian miller has prepared a wonderful poetics prompt for us…he will unlock the doors at 3pm EST..

maybe we need another hero

the quickest way to calm me down
is placing me
in the middle of a stall–

the warm, moist breath of cows
transports me back to childhood,
reminding me of my aunt Lina,

i used to join her when it was the time
to milk, when she sat bent,
head placed comfortably,
soft against the cow’s warm belly,

catching flies with dirty hands, my words
dripped in the rhythm of the milk machine
& straw stems wound their fragile limbs
around my toes–

many of my stories hung upon
that cow dung squirted walls—

and she just listened,

listened to an angry, desperate,
helpless child–
listened carefully while cows released
their milk into a stainless steel can–

i lay folded at their hooves,
knowing that i would survive
another day, another week—

with the scent of grass and dying flies
pinned to my fingers,

all my heroes–
have smelled of cow since then,

and on cold days i still find
traces of those hay blades,
hidden in the childhood chambers
of my heart

.

yes…this is me on the above pic.. and yes…it’s MeetingTheBar again over at dVerse and Victoria has prepared a wonderful heroic prompt for us… see you 3pm EST..

between cherry blooms & rubber band waits spring

Leaning on the counter,
i fold paper boxes,
run my fingers over scraggy edges,
wrap them carefully to go
into the land of origami where the
cherry trees will soon start blossoming
& where a lady with dark eyes
will put ‘em back together,

worlds away, lost in the moment–
i think about the conversation
with Akio a few days ago, telling me
about the city’s power shortage,
that he has three dogs and
walks them, not in parks but

in the streets of Tokyo with
twelve.point.nine.eight.million people
living there– we smile

when we discover that
our birthday’s on the same day, same
year, different month though &
he hesitates a second as i ask how
they are doing now, after the earthquake–

in his eyes i see a country’s dignity,
well-anchored calm, respect & humble discipline
you can’t shake easily

i wrap elastic strap around the parcel,
tell the guy in the dispatch department
to be careful cause
there is a certain magic in the frugal
& there’s spring–

already on its way and
they’ll be lying under trees,
drinking cherry blooms with
winter wind still hanging on them,
and with warming lips spit hope
until the sky’s an ocean of blue tint
with Kanji sailing south,

& fears fall silent–

as i walk back to my desk,
hands still smelling of rubber &
the earth
beneath my feet is shaking–

just a bit

.

(Kanji are the adopted logographic Chinese characters that are used in the modern japanes writing system along with hiragana)

it’s OpenLinkNight at dVerse again and i’ll be serving Sake and candied Cherry blossoms behind the bar…hope to see you there…3 pm EST..

find me in the dirt & planting when the moon falls down

tracing earth worm’s trails,
fingers buried in the soil, my hands
entwine with fragile roots, i
walk the edge and know

tomorrow’s—
just a delve of spade away,

behind the orchard,
a pale sun’s already going down,
i drink the soil’s moist breath
with quivering lips, heavily worn

from digging and my back bends
under new moon weight, night coming
closer– and i’m lying

spread across the earth which
trickles in the chasm between t-shirt
and my jeans “this is—

a waste of time”
they whisper, but i’m–

pressing closer, moving harder, hot
sweat pearls my face, hands bruised
& swollen from the labor, sinking
down and ’round the corner is—

the scent of apple cake,

reverberation—

of a fire on your cheeks & we drink
coffee steam from purple dotted cups
as if the winter has just died across
the street when we lay in the orchard,
pouring us to seeds– abundantly as

myriads of fever-freckled winds
lick dust crumbs from our skin,

part of the magic, isn’t it?

part of tomorrow if it comes,
i take the spade, stretch wide, inhale
the cold breeze of fugacity
and plant—

another tree

.

One of my fav quotes by Martin Luther (1483-1546), a German priest, professor of theology and father of the Protestand Reformation is… “Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.” Think that’s a great way to live life..

Charles Miller is tending the dVerse Poetics bar today…and who knows..we may get all philosophical…can’t wait to see you when the doors swing open…3 pm EST..

Same, same but Different

it began with snow, a wind
that tore my brain, parts of
the Black Sea froze &

Hongkong lost its money (all of it)
i’m not political– no, this
affects me very personally

cause we stand and pull
the triggers of emergencies
as if we’d find an easy Way Out–
as if doors would open suddenly,

i keep walking in the snow,
mobile on my ear & blood drips
from my fingertips into the keyboard
as I type:

This is Real Life
This is about Losing– losing
everything and never
finding it again,

my veins keep PuLSinG–pULsinG

in the rhythm of the day, the rattling
of the tram, the opening and closing
to a frozen world outside, eyes–

getting heavy, want to give in, they all look
same // Same // same but Different–

from the cold,
an icebear walks the aisle,

and we stand frozen,
clinging to poles like marionettes
with limbs too heavy or too sick
to run towards the exit–

& he crawls my back
in circles from the outside in, just–
as i like it, just like vinyl records
on a player–

Listen // to the melody
between the screeching,
in an endless loop // and weep

like madmen until terminus,
when morning dawns &
when it’s time to finally arrive–

somewhere

.

and it’s OpenLinkNight at dVerse again– where we get warm by wrapping poetry around our frozen hearts and ankles…and brian miller will be rocking the mic..wanna join us..? doors open 3pm EST..

for better days

 

Moscow, winter 66–
we walk the cemetery, black and white
a giant, wrapped in exhaust fumes
with open mouth–

she’s gnawing on our skeleton,
feasts on my brittleness,
we’re centered–

in the coughing of the dead, yelling
louder than their newborn’s cries,
your eyes shine blue–

beyond them

i see ships, trading their freight
for better days and know

you gonna kiss me
when we reach the top

so i prepare my lips since then
with honey from the black bear’s cave
and Death Sea salt to neutralize
the pain, we walk

on lanes with thousand names
between us– & the snow

rests like a pillow
on the hardened leather of our shoes

.

this is a magpie tale..