what just the mention of a scent can do to me

today is a million freckles, melting
on my face, an ice queen bloWs
with berry-red lips sharp, clear crystals
‘cross the land
&cars slip like boozed elephants,

get swallowed
by fog behind the next bend,
two guys buried in an avalanche,

time ticks

a useless snow plug//way too many cars
blocking the road,
my colleague’s back from cuba

“hey, i thought of you” he says
“you have to go, you gonna love it”
&the colors dance wild in his irises
a thick, carribbean wind sways
from the tanned crease of his neck

“p. is sick” i say
“can you do the tour for him?”
he looks up from an excel labyrinth
“on sat. i’m flying to japan– but yeah”

&i smell cherries ripening against the ice
that covered everything

the morning i took my skates
slid across the frozen mainstreet of my home town
&wished the ride would extend endless

like that one kiss

with no equivalent
out front a stable in a little village
while cows with velvet eyes
chewed tuneless syllables

my doctor said the other day
i’m too receptive//probably for most things i think

with a sigh untie the skates
&wish for spring//&snow
or both

or everything

.

over at dVerse, Marina has us writing seasonal poetry, about snow, being snowed in, iced in….literal or metaphorical

i couldn’t fit him into a cinquain//apologies to tony

the old part of zürich is a nest of alleys,
galleries, little shops&houses
that breathe history

a cold wind sneaking from the lake
the indian guy stops next to me
“you’re blessed” he says

“with a long life”
“oh really” &i turn around
into a foreign galaxy,
“you’re worried though” he nods his head
in half-moon shape
i smile
“who doesn’t?”

the old, spanish speaking woman
sent me this way,
her swiss german a bright symphony
of what is possible
if you add chile, costa rica or–

&on the way back to the bus
i stop by a paint shop
lean into a shelf with colors, wrapped
against the cold
in nickel azo yellow

&think about that baramuda filet,
sizzle-rapping in a pan
in a fast food chain at zürich central,
how words spilled from his lips
i tried but– couldn’t sign-read

the bare longing for a shore
was overwhelming
carved//into his eyes
“i hear you” i say
“even though i don’t&–”

type a poem in my phone
that doesn’t even sCratcH

the moment’s surface

.

it’s OpenLinkNight at dVerse today… write a poem &join us… doors open at 3pm EST

ok, so this is getting quite confessional– //ha

yeah - i know - it doesn't really look like i...

yeah – i know – she doesn’t really look like i…

.
i love ‘em//love ‘em not—my hair
the days before the period, looks like over-cooked spaghetti
in a tribal saltlake

“wanna go out for a date? my husband asks
it’s saturday, 7pm //painting the day away, i’m still in my nightdress
“no” i say “my hair looks like shit”
“you could wear a cap”
“hmmm, ok &on the way, can we stop at the do-it-yourself?
i need masking tape, a wooden panel&–”

the guy at the information desk
hardly looks up as we ask him for directions

&i tell you, if i had Rapunzel’s gold-spun hair,
curling like a basketFullOfSnakes right to my toes
things would be different
but most probably,
he just wants to clock off &go skiing for the weekend

snow flakes in their newest ballet dress
glitter in the shine of streetlamps
carrying muted messages on blue-ish frozen lips
as we walk to the bar

the weirdest thing that i experienced
with hair//actually
was an experiment//’bout growing time
i shaved one leg &thought i’d wax the other//to compare
but then//there was no time&
two days later i had a gynecologist appointment

“&what did he say?” my husband asks
“nothing”//though there was a faint hint of a smile
wrinkling ‘round his lips

i drink cappuccino,
candles paint distorted flames on the old walls

&life sits in the corner, smirking

with a backpack full of wisdom placed by his chair,
&wears a camouflage-green parka
with a band of brock-hair round the hood
totally relaxed, leaned back in a beanbag
looks like he miscut his moustache a bit i think
as shadesparkshades rotate//&change
the light’s diffuse though

&you cannot be quite sure if
what you see is real or

//just imagined

.

Anthony has us write “hair” over at dVerse for poetics today… doors open at 3pm EST…

AliVE//no historic villanelles were harmed in the breaking of this one

Alive//by me

Alive//by me

.

thrill of creation in her eyes
her coat of armour feeble in black trees
what she sprays on the wall will come alive
she Is a maniac, a thief, &tightrope dancer, torn &federalized
with dim pink creatures grinning bright

a chest-shaved lion with one hand raised for peace
thrill of creation in her eyes
&they were skaters once
with mittens, scarves, wild hair and thick coats carved
with palette-knives into the ice
covered with snow now so that no one sees

what she sprays on the wall will come alive
a velvet sigh
and thousand bear-roars carried by the breeze
thrill of creation in her eyes

she stumbles, sprays, erase/s, drops of
carmesin red in her hair as she slides deep& deeper in a world
she faintly sees
what she sprays on the wall will come alive
the point //when it feels right

a squea/king sound before the nozzle dies
&one last squeeze—ppfftssshhhhhhhh
thrill of creation in her eyes
what she sprays on the wall will come alive

.

the thing is… if you like my pics…it was a secret til today but… i have a website with my paintings now… smiles…and i even sold one already to a nice guy in london… so if you’re curious, you can take a look HERE

for dVerse Bri wants us to choose a form and then break it but Not to take away from the old but pay homage to it… mine’s a villanelle and i kept strict to the rhyme scheme but took a bit of freedom with the meter… smiles

the origin of the name is unclear– it could mean “immortal” though

photo by totomai martinez

photo by totomai martinez

day steps through a portal of just leaves
and mountain view, the emptiness
of clear blue sky’s peaceful possibility

i drive on the highway in the rain
hyperactive wiper’s rap&we talk this and that
as we pass giants that know of japan
only from a special fountain pen brand
that they sell on amazon

we stop by the roadside at a small café
her hair grown grey after the chemo&
not many people on the boardwalk
as whole battalions of rain disappear
loudless in the city’s gutters.

“what about your car?”
“the battery is dead but–“
“get it done” i say
&want to throw her into life
with all the force that piles like hordes of wild dwarves in my chest

a torrent’s morse code on the pane
&she eats chocolate cake
colors accumulate outside the front door
“red, blue, yellow– you just need the basics” i say
“then go from there”

the mountain watches us with snow-capped head
“you know its name?”
“is it Fuji?”
“doesn’t matter really, we fall off this one,
we take the next” i say
&soaking wet, i slowly pull the car
——into the traffic
.

today at dVerse we’re writing to totomai martinez’ pics
photo used with his friendly permission

TenWords

she stores laughter
in the pink folds of her dress

**

a pair of rubberboots
leaned against a wall;
dream rain

**

a small purple car
beams boldly
ina tin/grey sea

**

the odor of a wolf
nestles warm
in your chesthair

.

today we’re writing TenWords at dVerse, a form invented by the awesome Brian Miller… smiles… pub doors open at 3pm EST

Probably it’s how Rémy felt when Ego took the first bite of–

i wrap her//careful, with both hands
&the paper crackles soFt
against her cheeks//breast
“you’re afraid?” i ask
“how long will it take?”
“about three days”

she falls silent in my arms&
how she came to birth, i cannot say
a streak of thoughts,
untraceable &never questioned
really in a moment’s storm

“you like her?”
“she looks like— //and yeah//for many reasons”
my reply is shallow ponds towards her bareness
and fragility

“you’re gonna love the city” i smile
“&he’s nice
&thoughtful”

“that makes 19.50” says the postman
his grey beard- thick steam on a far out track
i watch him carry her away

towards the backroom
cold wind heavy in my face
as i step out on the boardwalk,
fumbling
for the car keys

.

over at dVerse Abhra has us write about secrets… pub door open at 3pm EST…