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


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

“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,
for the car keys


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