if i was Mussorgski, i would write a symphony

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they discuss Putin & Obama
heated up a bit, circling round a piece of art,
set up on a table

creativity beats war

we eat trash&electricity
as tiny soldiers make their way
across a paper tablecloth
over a filigree invented script

the gnarly mill shares secrets–

“if you switch off the tv and have nothing more to say
to your spouse, your kid–“ the artist says
“or to yourself?” i suggest

art can be a series of awkward moments

the lady with an eastern accent asks question after question
while i bathe
my barefoot-in-blue-converse feet
in speechlessness,
the kind that holds you above water
in a siege&

later in the old town we sit by the stream,
“we could share a meal” i say to my husband

take his mobile//snapshot
pic by pic of him in front the stream,
how he leans into him

“i’m not much into politics//nor art” the river says
with watery tongue, a wanderer
between a world of frontiers stretching weightlessly,
he taps his gurgling hat// nods

&then simply disappears
just so
in thousand vortexes

around a bend of crossroads

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i’m guest-hosting at dVerse tomorrow and the theme is “layers” in the sense of poetry that doesn’t reveal everything on the first glimpse but consists of some layers that give it enough depth to hold more than one thought and make several interpretations possible – mine’s a little snapshot of an exhibition i went to this weekend…

words &ash will find their way– even without map, scribbled by a chinese waiter on a napkin

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city on a hill

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the birds in front the window chat//casually
leaned against a pillar, smoking cigarettes

& flap their wings against the rain

there are multilayered facettes to the everyday
touch ‘em
tender with your thumb, breathe in&
take a pen—

there’s a scent to every scene
like the painting that i finished last week
which smells heavily of coffee

“will it fade?”

“i cannot promise” i write
“if you buy it, it’s a risk–“
it always is

— the raw and unplugged
that i fall for– genuine

like a woman in the evening
her face cleaned of all make up
red spots, little veins,
uneven– beauty
in the small bumps on her skin
zooming in

i stand in the garden in my jammies, sieving ash
from last night’s barbecue
which will go into a tupperware, from there
into a painting
or a poem

or just fall
onto the raven’s nose
&make him sneeze
or smile

or both

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today at dVerse we’re writing about or in the style of the poets that inspire us i love the poetry of charles bukowski and bob hicok – my fav poet though and the one who taught me a lot about seeing the specialness & magic of the everyday is my good friend and fellow poet brian miller… so i just wrote about the everyday… or so… smiles

cops &robbers& –all in between

i’m from thin walls in a worker’s suburb,
a lawn between appartment blocks that morphs
quick as lightning into seas, a lake,
spaceship or deserted moonscape,
campingground & university for cloudshapes

i’m of branches like a cradle
arms and legs, scratched
heavy storms passed,
of a nearby highway where we climb
illuminated signs at night,

i am from stolen fruits,
potatoes we roast in open fires on construction grounds
smell of fresh cement and steeldust in our nose

i’m from a white dress
messed up on the first day

i am endless bikerides to the river
where we play robinson&friday
between chemical drainage and shards,
rescue helper
to a million earthworms

counter of the dots on ladybugs// y’ar highness? please,
is it age you carry sprinkled on your back?
(picture this ina sophisticated english dialect)
most of us survived them

some years at least

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where you’re from? is mary’s question for us at dVerse today…

dear 5 liter bucket of “sahara” colored paint,

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i slept in the desert once,
a ragged bedouin tent

the night
has thousand voices, sand
between its toes
and greasy eggs for breakfast
as the sun washes her face
in dew
in hidden streams
in thoughtfulness

i bought the bucket at the DIY
for 7 Euros/half price,
not exactly top notch quality
more mudflat,
slush, left in a city
when a flood hits

still it makes me think of venice
&i paint hues of english-red
bright on her cheeks

&maybe this is more a letter about comradeship
one third’s
the fear of losing it
one third wide
wide open space
the rest
i haven’t figured out yet,

i remember lying in that tent,
the distant howl of coyotes,
rustling movement
in the sand next to my ear,
a million stars pinned to the firmament

&each
a story/ in a story/ in a voice
i miss

so desperately

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wrote this to Abhra´s “write a letter” prompt – and linking up with OLN at dVerse

there’s probably no decent number for this call

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i’m not yet there, the dust of roads
i’ve been,
of fear, the scaffolds way too brittle that they’d hold
my fall,

a step forward,
three back, crashing through the net
life knots with rough hands
the base

shakes dangerously

in search of water for this plant

my first guitar, pen, brush
a million firsts
&craShes.

the machine’s hum as i sew my first pants
&the seams are paths into a land

i haven’t seen yet
thrill
i want invent//create
give birth with cooking spoon&paint,
needle&thread,
a chord, a smile,
a single word–

&i don’t aim
for being perfect
i don’t aim (laLa)
for fame

just wanna be

the brave inventor of a melody
in verse, or tune, or shades, in you
that creeps under your breath
&makes you

wanna dance to

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vocation is the theme for today’s poetics at dVerse

high-pressure cleaner//we just call them kärcher//that’s successful branding isn’t it?

windows..

windows..

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the easter bunny on my desk
is headless
someone asks

“if there were no consequences
–how would you want to live?”

a space for dreams

uncensored yet
of what is possible

there’s no such thing as neutral ground
&it takes bravery
to allow the mind to–

i stop in the middle of a thought
the size of africa– beyond–
windows&paths that lead like rivers in-
to something huge&beautiful

my colleague leans on the counter,
talks about italian cars,
and i get only half of it//because it’s foreign
and he’s talking fast

“&if he’s late?” he asks, caTching his breath

“he won’t” i smile
“he wears two watches”
filling in the blanks//t( )cK T( )cK

as if that is a guarantee
to get
the signs of time
//correctly

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for oln at dVerse

the beauty of not breaking when the storm slams rocks into your face

in the grocery aisle i stare into his eyes
all words have fled
except for
“let me hug you”
&i do
“–i’m sorry”

someone with a pallet truck
circles cornflakes boxes round the corner,
we stand in his way, sidDestep//sidE
i let him talk “she wanted to//was ready&–“ the art
of letting go what we can’t hold,
i envy those

that mastered
peace, a weird, wild beauty that in death–

“sorry” a blond-bleached woman
navigates a fully loaded trolley through the narrow we create,
a stumbling block, an obstacle

when i talked to a friend in that restaurant a few months back
“i’m doing good again”
today i heard that cancer hit her for the third time “f–“

&i swim//belly up
dig deeper diving

for the roots of a large tree
which stabilize his lean
into the wind, a home
to bugs, a bird, a spider net
&me,

sap on my lips, cheek pressed
against his chest
small dots of hope that spread
a beauty different from

what i have learned yet

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over at dVerse Mary has us write beauty other than physical..