Meeting the Bar: the Word is not enough

i mostly find them lying somewhere,
could be on a city sidewalk
smutted with a hard day’s dirt,
spray-washed by smooth summer rain
or bleached in the september sun

no one seems to see them

on the way back home from work
i pass them with my bike &
sometimes hate it when they call,
yet i stop, pick them up and then–
don’t know what to do

some feel heavy in my hands,
others sweet or ugly and they mingle
with my heartbeat

i put them in my pockets,
feel their pulse against my thighs &
then forget how much they move me

in the night i hear their breath
swaying tenderly towards my sheets,

with tousled hair, i rise,
pour them on the floor,
light a candle, spread them on the carpet,

for a long time we just sit and talk
moving them around, i
try to understand,
press them soft against my lips,
weighing how they feel–

some never seem to fit &
those i like the most

when the morning dawns i’m naked,
wounded & enraptured on the floor,
never make it back to bed,
never make it anywhere–

But i already knew that
when i saw them first

this is my entry for today’s Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft at dVerse Poets Pub, hosted by a wonderful Emmett Wheatfall. Gates will swing open at 3 pm EST

dVerse: & so it started


i found you lying
in between the gravel in the driveway,

Someone put you there
while i was vast asleep

When i picked you up,
it was still dark outside,

mist hung in my hair
like cobwebs,

You looked small, adventurous & vulnerable
and i liked the way you felt

between my fingers,
there was weight, worth carrying

Through the day i realized
that you were my dream

Poets, weaving webs around the world,
tossing ink pots over polished floors,

sitting soaked in shining pub light,
talking nights away

like we were never strangers ‘cos

we found art in one another’s eyes

so while we’re still busy, polishing floors and hanging curtains, we are in DESPERATE need of a poetry break.. and just can’t wait until the official opening on the 19th… and brian already ordered 300 pounds of crab legs for today.. haha… so hope to see you there for sharing your construction, beginnings, start-up, pub life, whatever verse with us at dVerse Poets Pub  ..pop in and say Hi.. 3pm EST

The questions of the World

.

still smell the scents of
machine oil and leather; you
bent atop your work and i
somewhere across the place,

hide and seek between
the shelves,
dusting greasy machines
with my sleeve, jumping
up and down the aisles on
.
just one leg and each time
i’d come round the corner i
would run my fingers through
your hair and weigh how far
you got – Talking you up
.
and down the seams you
stitched and ask
the questions of the World
and you would smile, take
them with brawny hands
and sew them carefully into
your work until they faded
.
and you’d switch off the light,
take my hand and lead me
all the way home.

.
i had no uncle or dad like him but an aunt and spent hours in the cow stable, talking her into deafness…smiles..and today when i open a bottle of milk, i still find some of my questions swimming there….
.
Today at One Stop Poetry, Chris Galford spotlights the work of photographer Rob Hanson. The above image is shot by Rob and this poem is my response to the picture prompt…check it out, grab your pen and join us..
 

holder of the grail

.
on rays of light
we let ourselves into
the city,
approaching with the sea,
giving in

to the illusion,
we’re heroes over
heaps of steel,
concrete strongholds,
knights from
nine to five and holders

of the golden grail,
your smile is dark
between my thighs, your
city walls invisible,
you ride on swords of
light beam ads and

when we least expect,
you’ll chop off our head &
smeared with coal tar,
swallow us
before morning dawns.

.
linking up with
 One Stop Poetry…the above photo was shot by photographer Scott Wyden

close beyond

.
you’re painting me in pixels,
filling them with
color, shapes and patterns,

cell by cell detected
by your brush,
flowing up your fingers, shoulders,
and then rest

between your eyes that want to
understand and see

beyond the obvious -
leaving space to

have me breathe and tell of
what i am or more important
of the places
i have never been,
circled with soft strokes and

shaded with the magic
of a moment’s inspiration,
i am held
between your hands, divided into
tiny parts – then flying

..linking my poem up with friday poetically, inspired by Chuck Close’s paintings

gone with the last song

i didn’t realize
i was crying for so long,
clothes drenched,
keyboard soaked,

sitting here forever
in the space between
the end of a day – not
yet night and you

hold my hand,
telling me it’s not darkness,
reaching out, that
your lips won’t stop
searching mine
for the words
we never said and

the music is loud from
my headphones; i forgot

how it sounds when birds
chirp love into the air,

how it feels
when my hair starts to curl,
when there’s space to dance
between two breaths

and nothing but
rhythm, solace, wind -

and silence –  a moment
growing wild like weeds
in enraptured gardens

and i’ll be gone with the last song ..

spring sound & belgian chocolate

dancing colors into
brittleness of sound, i’m
pirouetting to the scent
of rainbows and wet soil;

parachuting clock seeds
tumble scattered on the lawn
and form to bluesy major sevens
beneath a cooing sky with just

the songs of now between
the night, the birds and
pollen on my lips,
wishing for nothing more

than lying in the grass,
bathing in morning magic

and on my tongue
some belgian chocolate
melting with the spring


..linking up with friday poetically over at one stop poetry..the challenge was to to write a poem, inspired by some day or night nature sound …really inspiring..you should give it a try..

helicopters

falling from the trees,
we let them spin and drift
like sailors, drunk with gin,
watched them circling
towards the tongue of the river,
then.. disappear

faces hot with sweat
and dreams of the real ones,
smelling of big adventure,
Platoon - Apocalypse Now
and named Cobra,
Black Shark or Mangusta

They would take us
to places we saw on tv with
bold men fighting for what
we hoped was right and
all afternoon, dirty hands and

scratched hearts we let them
fall and fall until the sun came down
and our knees started bleeding

until the rotors spun in our heads
until we were almost there and
until the trees had lost all their seeds

linking up with emily at imperfect prose..

the art of rolling down summer hills

It wasn’t that she was not used
to faceless alleys, clinically clean
or disgustingly dirty – just as life can get

and it wasn’t that she was not used
to fight her way along the gangways
of some nightmares, side by side
with people she had met along the way

She shakes her head and pauses,
measures life in thirty minute slips
and they feel easy in the pockets of
her dressing gown

What really bothers her
is the lost art of rolling down these aisles
and make them smell like summer lawns

Remembering the scent
when flowers fell to dust in curly
hair, wrapping her nights with
deep blue summer groove – she sighs

Today, it’s drugs and wheelchairs
standing in her way -

another thirty minute slip

She smiles a bit and turns her head,
wrinkles her nose and for a moment
she feels lightweight,
leaned against the wind, her world

getting green again

This poem is my response to the One Shoot Sunday Challenge. The above photo was shot by Canadian photographer Greg Laychak. Check out the interview over at One Stop and I can highly recommend to jump over to Greg’s website to see more of his fantastic photography.

Miri

the first rays of spring
bring you back,
freckled like Latte Macchiato
wet paint on your shirt.. nose..

brush in hand, dreaming
your bike summer green, dotted
with butterflies and your
smile tastes of
Ben & Jerry’s

i sit on the edge of a tear,
wrinkle my nose, twinkle
dust from the sunshine
and hum, prepared for

……new colors

(just a sentimental moment when i saw my daughter Miriam’s bike in the garage the other day…and she’ll be back from bolivia in june…)