i didn’t think i’d find him here in Aberfeldy//but// it sure makes sense

robert burns & i

robert burns & i

.

he holds a small book
letter-less
my shirt’s drenched with sweat and rain
& poem-wise
i have no use for landscapes

i sit next to him,
cool bronze against my chest
asking how much time he spent
to listen

to the birk’s brush
soft//against fall’s
wet face

the way up
————-is steep

i blow moist puffs in the forest’s lightgreen dress
“you were in love?” i ask

no answer
things// look different then,
my feet hurt// slaM against a rock
“we make the whole round?”
“yeah, let’s go for it”

“ya know,
it’s not the burnie or the birks, in fact” i say
“it could be a dirty sidestreet in a god-forgotten place
the difference is—”

the linn sprays cool webs on my face
a group of hikers cross our path,
one wears only flip flops

“Mr. Burns?”
but he’s in a dream still
and i only touch him lightly
“would you paint here?”
“i don’t think so” i say//panting

listening to the shaw’s rough voice
humming a lightsome melody

.

birks: birches
lightsome: merry
shaws: woods
linns: waterfalls
burnie: stream

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we celebrate our monthly OpenLInkNight at dVerse today… write a poem – no specific theme – and join the fun – doors open at 3pm EST…

bridge of sighs//and my knees are sunburnt //still

photo 2-29.

“i really like that sketch” he says,
seas of sunrays with me in the gravel on the floor,
burning my arms and legs

“one thing–”

and in a whirl of tiny windows he points out a few
“you didn’t do those with love–”

i stare at him
“i– heck, how do you know–?”
he smiles
“i see it”

&i can’t–
the way a dragon lifts its wings to find
the real thing

later
in the pub

we all draw something
tiny parts of what we are
or think we’ve been or will
at some point somewhere–

talking poetry
&love
&lust
in every vowel like velvet on the lips,
in lines that wrap
trustful round the sketcher’s chest
because they know

you’ll kiss them back
mouth to mouth//slides open
fumbling//buttercups&wire in your eyes//
finding the perfect line along the neck, spine–

“see– you’re off a bit here
but that’s fine–”

down// down//a bit more to the right
“dang–”
i run hands across the stone’s cracked open surface
slowly//thoughtful
til it sighs

there’s no wrong or right//right now
it’s just the line
&i
a moment’s slice
the dragon’s wide-spread wings,
gravel on my sunburnt knees//
a pen

&in the falling–

i will catch me.

.

 

tonite is OpenLinkNight at dVerse //doors open at 3pm EST… //i would love but cannot join as my internet is terribly slow here…
in italy where i just arrived for another sketching workshop (ha yes i know…smiles) and thought i’d share the last post from my Oxford workshop before it’s growing long, grey beard hair…smiles
will comment back on those that found me – it may just take me a bit longer than usually

 

on theA8 – Stuttgart //Basel //&my shoes are business blue but still– a little magical

the turtle in the rearview looks at me with old, dark eyes

autobahn singing grey-toned tunes
beyond the lane a smile
and on my sword

the blood of twitching dragons

“see” i say to my colleague
“i wanna do the right things, not just things/ right&—”

her eyes red with moonlight
“you know what i mean?”
“i think..”

my work phone rings— India
“ok – i’ll check the dates once i’m in the office,
when they stay in Zürich, do they really wanna go to Engelberg?
i would suggest—”

&there’s a weird intimacy in rubbing lips
with concrete at 150 miles per hour
rest-stops
trees
a red Ferrari

i want a fountain
sprinkling over me
dancing in my white bikini&plateau blue
in a cradle with the sunset’s
melting chest

“got a key code for the tank card?”
“yeah, it is–“

i grab a bucket
wash an insect army
from the windscreen’s tainted face,
send an image of my new blue sandals
to my man,

the sun’s fragmented spine&i
in every drop that spills
evaporating from the wiper’s lips
he messages

“oh dang, those shoes are hot”

&i climb back in the Mercedes’ overheated womb
white shirt and business suit
& through the rainbow text

“i’ll be home (check watch) in–“

press delete//deciding

to surprise him

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today at dVerse we’re celebrating our last OLN before the summer break… doors open at 3pm EST..

happy summer everyone… smiles… i’ll be taking a little blogging holiday and will be back on july 14… see you then..

all those latin names// it doesn’t do their beauty justice

photo-249

.

it is the way of first dates,
a little nervouesness,
changing my dress a hundred times

i bike there, on the way
find a place to stop & sketch
sitting in the sun on concrete steps
the geometric movement of my pen
a safety net

“you look beautiful” he says with dry lips&
“your top’s a little transparent,
is this on purpose?”
“nope”
we walk in and out of greenhouses,
humid warmth, blue & red birds
flattering round our heads
“look at this flower” i say
“what an amazing shape”

i’m careful not to touch too much,
he sometimes grabs my hand
and it feels like in 8th grade
“did i get on your nerves
with all my emails last week?”
“no” i shake me head “i just need time&— ”

in the next greenhouse runs a vid, a bee crawls,
drunk with longing for the scent the black&yellow flower
in her party dress emits from sprinkled pores,
then slips & slides along her stand, lip,
spit out, back-packed with her pollen
“goodness” i can’t get my mouth shut
“how amazing is that?”

we bike back along the river,
past old men who play pétanque, cigarettes arrested
in the corner of their mouth&

when we say good-bye
in front of the door at my friend’s apartment,
he holds me for a moment “take your time–
i love you”

gets on his bike,
turns around again
& kisses me,

shy
not sure where to put the emphasis
like someone reading
first words for the first time,
trying to outline //and understand their shape
and meaning.

.

for OLN at dVersePoets

So honestly// what’s the song that you could sing to Paris?

la tour eiffel

la tour eiffel//dancing//smiles

.

i still feel her on my skin
like when i woke– sky red with light
above her rooftops
4am//

and i’m in Paris

if i were a rat i’d slip out of the window,
walk those old tiles between 1000’s chimneys
&watch her wake,

past the homeless
past the nightshift man
past the officer who makes his way
along the moonlit Seine,

her moist breath on my face,
as we walk ’round the Eiffel tower
in a dress of fast ecstatic, flashing lights

and in the madness that she shares
with Artaud the writer and Van Gogh,
and how we fall back into Starry Night
again//again, despite the crowds of people

did she paint us?
with the knobby hands
of an old, gray-haired man at the Montmarte square?

on my way along the Seine to Notre Dame
her pulse is every cobble stone
&my wide open pores

did i make love to her?

“we had no time” i say
“i think you did”
“i share her madness”

in the dark my husband asks
“so did you?”
and i hold him as he sighs//within me

“what a match–
she’s Paris// i’m a rat with furry head
full of dreams and wonder–”

& i hum the dragon song

(the one, that made her smile)

as cut oranges for breakfast

.

for our monthly OpenLinkNight at dVersePoets… doors open at 12 noon already… smiles and yes.. i had a lovely time in paris

honestly, i’d trade my seaweed crown for one night in a waterbed

photo-205

on the 55 bus

.
the easiest time to get me talking
(without thinking)
are the moments when i sketch,

standing squished against the bus pane
sardine in a tin
i answer everything,
pen a mess of squiggly lines,
breathing//choking
with the movement,

we talk kids, friendship
&a figure drawing course
if i wanna join in? (one place available)

i focus on the pale man //baseball cap,
sketch him//not too obvious
& can’t remember what i said
a minute back,

beeP/bEep/beeP
my trade fair ticket isn’t working,
a grey parka man//
“pssshh– use that”
“thanks”

“so what time exactly is that course?”

we pass rows of leather coats,
nail art booth,
a race bike that i lift with one hand

by the waterbeds,
i leap– sink// thousand bubbles round my head,
i’m nautilus, a seashell//Neptune, crab//cloud// clown/fish
greenish swaying seaweed queen–

&moving carefully
feel water’s whispering lips

like in a dream

that’s too diffuse
to really paint it

.

for OLN at dVersePoets... doors open at 3pm EST

“hey, i’ll help you sort ‘em once we reach the top” i say to the little boy with messed up skis and sticks, sitting on the chairlift next to me

photo-206

that’s where we had dinner after our day in the mountains… i just fell in love with the colors after all the snow…smiles

 .
walls cRaSh in on me
i call my husband
“wanna take me to the mountains?”
“when?”
“tomorrow”
“dunno, really — have to check”

“please”

i so need to breathe
speed/fall in the slope’s white cleft
feel the wind whip
my face&

the same mad urgency
like asking him
to make love to me on days that–

“wait, ok, i’ll check with my boss”

“thanks”

in the evening,
i put my snowboard
next to the piano, rucksack,
piles of clothes, skis–
feel the moon’s unsteady heartbeat,

chunks of fabric missing
in my snow pants
“ugh, you need new ones”
“nah, i’m good”

“meet at 12?”
“yes”

i run fingers,
quivering & impatiently
along night’s wide velvet chest,
stripped bare
to the northwind  b l o  W   i  nG
million snowflakes
in my face

.

for OLN at dVersePoets

to be seen//between star wars & a man with seven sons

the thing with planetary systems is,
they have their own laws
you’ve heard about
in stories told by white bearded men
pool-deep eyes

yet you grew up
along the rim
of different galaxies,

he looks at me
across a cramped full dance floor

“wanna dance?”

“what?” i
don’t even know him//why–
“nah, sorry, i’m a lousy dancer.”

“ah, come on” (winning smile)

“hey, i’m invisible” i say
“you cannot even see me”

“but i do”

the thing is, i’m not blond, looong legs,
blue-big-lashes-heavy eyes
nor tall (or sexy), usually

i’m outside, under a dark canopy,
in work pants//tending sheep
as nights throws glittering stars
upon me

scratching marks in desert sand,
visible for just a moment
string-pick melodies  that glide
on cobalt/blue/winds— inside

Samuel, in Jesse’s house
is searching for the king,
(staff and oil jar in his hands)

& cannot find him

.

written for OLN at dVersePoets – doors open at 3pm EST

that’s the thing with genes// sLides// fliPs & oat flakes– they’re a bit unpredictable

photo-197

my kitchen//oat flakes package next to the sink…smiles

.
ssshhhhrrrkkk//tsshk
“love that sound”
weightless sliding on a sparkling carpet,
juMpFlY
rail/box//double cork&
spiNFliP

shoulder to shoulder
we watch the olympics
slopestyle men
iPad, backed up
by a book on outstretched legs,

suitcase packed & ready
“21 kilo sharp mom”

4 of them are chocolate,
presents for bolivian friends,
sweet weisswurst mustard
for one of the nuns

“so what’s the first thing
you’ll do when you get there?”
“buying pills against anoxia”

(which makes sense)

“wanna go out for a walk?”

coat thrown over our pajamas,
we pace giggling through the dark,
sideway alleys, rainwet boardwalks

later she’ll text me
from Miami airport
“up for 22 hours —
3 more til my flight goes
but afraid i’ll miss it
if i fall asleep–so–“

just out of bed, i write back
check my watch– too late
she’s taking off in moments,

i brew coffee, slice an orange,
breathe deep, smile&

raceDroP oat flakes– gOGo!!
tuRn/ten-eighty backSide
liPSlide//
sPin

& spoon in hand,
watch ‘em land,
(safe & happy)

in a bowl
———-of 5am milk

.

for OLN at dVersePoets – and it’s my turn to serve drinks behind the bar… 3pm EST…
my daughter flew to bolivia on sunday morning…. arrived safely… anoxia is height sickness…

at one point, i scream/laughed “i am flying—flYiNg”—& i did

photo-193

back on my snowboard last friday, first time after 7 years…

.

i didn’t think
you could forget the magic of those snow-capped trees,
of curves carved into powder sheets
the echo of a wondrous, sparkling landscape,
spitting tribal sounds into your ear
only muted by a hand-knit-by-my-daughter cap

i didn’t think
that i could trust the mountain’s tongue //again
as she says “throw yourself, arms spread wide
into my chest, head first
& test if… ”

in the car my lips press tight
in a small line
i don’t say a word
as we wind our way up thousand tiny roads

&put the shroud line on wrong leg first,
shivering against my husband’s chest
as the chair-lift moves us to the top

after seven years you have to re-learn
how the snowboard beNds sensitively
left or right just by the slight adjustment
of your hips, didn’t feel it//first

i’m sweat and ache, card doesn’t work
& hubs lost somewhere in the white,
an old man fall/crashes
lift stops// he climbs in, sits next to me,
shyly smiling as we float //parallel
to the slope’s white& mighty breast,

he shakes his head “oh my, oh my, i dunno–”
& i wanna put my arm around him
“hey, it happens, you’re good–”

& leaning in the wind, relax
slowly re//cognize her thumping pulse,
washing up like waves against us,
brEAthe, adjust the straps &
trust she will catch me

hours later,
we sit on the trunk rim of the car,
hubs feeding me cookies (lips quivering)
hot tea, massages my aching legs

& i will wash his later in the shower
as a bunch of rainbows carve-trails
down my cheeks, neck, hips and–
“you did well today”
“hmmm” i say,
eyes closed & mouth a gurgling water-
fall
———-fAll

—–faLL

arms spread//inHale
the mountain’s breatH
still snowWet // on my face

.

for #OpenLinkNight at dVerse Poets… pub doors open at 3pm EST…