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I hardly can wait to unwrap

The watermark across the sky says SPRING, wrapped in a light blue fabric
Do we look at life with a treasure hunter’s eyes? he asks and bends his headslightly to the right
As if the answer
weighs him down a bit.
My feet
are stripped bare, roughfrom winter
as they gently
touch the grass’ moist and soothing lips



Linking up with Poets United Spring is not my biggest treasure, but a Huge one

I forgot my head in the checkroom

“You always have a choice” I say,
standing in a sea of art, sipping champagne, talking first world problems
“You’ve gotta take the consequences though--- easy as that”
Supernumeries hang head first from the ceiling,
I don’t wear a bra under my suit
The floor is far away
“You always have a choice” I say


For Friday 55

U4

Her crown is almonds, brussels sprouts and fireflies
I meet her in the city at the entrance to the tube
She reigns a different kingdom,
sings a song that no one pays attention to.
Her hair a mess of light
Maps no one can read subtly woven into it
The city’s noise loops wiry around her chest
She rises in the half-dark, disconnected, balancing the edge
Then crashes, and shatters

For IGWRT

Growing up

The door is locked
I put my laundry basket on the lawn in front of it
I’m not one to break a lock
Eventually someone will open it, or not
I sit on a swing
My thin shirt puffs-up like a swan’s tutu
in- and deflating with each move
The northwind’s breath entangled in my hair
I deny that I’m not designed to fly,
push higher, stirring up a bunch of birds that held a nap atop the chimney
Down on earth, the janitor approaches with a key
Yet I’m too high up in the air already, he won’t see me
as I hum
a sweet but random melody



For Poets United Midweek Motif Doorways

Leaps

The sky explodes & eats the candle I glued to the rooftop
Neighbour's laundry shakes like drunken skeletons
It will never dry I think
Smell of rosemary & smoke,
We leap, forward,
The wind’s white needlebreath beating my face
We’re thieves
ina night thick with rainbows

A Quadrille with exactly 44 words and the word "leap"  in it for dVerse

Heading home

Black moves with the clock and white against it
No symbolism in that
We’re approaching midnight
He nods thoughtfully,
moves the checkers and wipes beer foam from his lips,
I fold a tiny swan, put it in a puddle on the table
As the dice roll it unfolds its wings,
quivering and majestically

55 words for Friday 55

Coz it lacks life

I buy him a cup of tea
He spoons sugar into it
Momentum hit him hard
He made some bad mistakes
He sleeps in a garage outside the city, hardly talks to anyone
I drink coffee, scribble poems in a tiny notebook
“If you’ve not learned to listen carefully” he says “you’re gonna be a lousy writer”
He gets up, peels a pea green woolen cap over his ears
“What are your New Years wishes?” I ask
“Take a shower, steal Rihanna’s bra - in that order”
“Good luck with the writing”
“Good luck with the bra”
The door squeaks hushed, dog-tired in its closing

For IGWRT

In-between spaces

He pours coffee with his left hand
The afternoon is grey rags in a rainbatched sky
I sit at a table by the window
It is smeared with lines and relics of a year gone by too quickly
He shouts something from the counter
I look up from my book
The goose rests her head friendly on my thighs
He waves a red and yellow checkered dishcloth
as if it were a flag, a treasure map
I smile politely

Getting ready for Christmas

The goose has button eyes
We put her on the back seat as we drive into the forest
I neither find the heart to cut a tree, nor kill the goose
I clip a candle on a branch
The goose stands lost
“We’ll have potatoes instead”
He smiles, pulls me in his arms,
the headlights of the car cut a bright triangle into the dark
We slow-dance, his hands warm and reassuring on my back, hips
The goose next to my leg fluffs-up her feathers foolishly
His lips are heavy with the scent of fir and half-snow
For IGWRT, exactly 100 words, the original longer version is below.  Merry Christmas everyone!

The till girl hisses at me “That’s pre-ordered, so you cannot change your mind”
which makes sense
I feel sorry for us all
Her eyes drown in a pool of shadows from the shifts
The goose is stiff like wood planks as I carry her out in the rain
My arms ache
In the evening we drive to the forest in a borrowed car,
we put the goose onto the back seat
I brought an axe but cannot find the heart to cut a tree,
I find a candle…

A solution of Lambert’s W function

“It refers to the universe’s density” he says, yellow sprinkles in his eyes like lampions
“Or the lowest-ranked wolf in a pack”
His smile is tide and flood, an animal about to jump
“In chemistry it is a stable isotope of oxygen”
My breath gets flat and wonky
We’ve been sailing out into the storm with nothing but our bathing clothes
We’re past the point that math could save us
His voice deep as ships about to melt into the sun
“In topos theory…”
I close my eyes, all molecules in flight,
surrendering
For IGWRT 
A writing exercise
My starting point was the 24th letter of the Greek alphabet

Icedance

Snow is a gamechanger, he says, slowing things to breathable
He has one hand on the stirring wheel,
with the other lights a cigarette as we slither on the highway towards dawn
The lighter throwing forest fires on the panes
Smoke settles in his beard like fairies
Trucks and cars, half-swallowed, clumsy, figure skaters in a weird show
I lean back in my seat
and watch them dance
without choreography

For someone who will live

When they baptize him, his hair stays dry,
so thick and wiry that the water sparkles diamonds in the air, on everyone around him
His smile is reggae beat and Bach
Skateboard stored under the seat, he shakes my hand
“I’m Yafet”
“Hi”
His mind's a cage of birds and butterflies, set free to fly into the sunset
The next day Delilah takes an axe, a missile, hand grenade, some cancer cells
He stands in the front row, arms stretched high in praise
They shave his hair to do the surgery
But he’s not Samson.
For IGWRT 

#293FE7

His shirt suggests he’s Superman
The S-Shield on Palatinate blue ground, the Kryptonian symbol for hope they say
His cape a faded grey instead of the Geranium red you would expect
Eyes restless
The city wears christmas lights around her wrinkled neck
Litter and spilled liquids on the pavement where he sits
He unlearnt flying
My own coat seems worn and frayed
The wind blows ice across the land
I reach for the bus change in my pocket,
smile as if that helped reminding him
The coins clink a small melody as I drop them in his can
I too forgot how to fly I think
At least I can walk though

Break room

The neon tubes breathe nicotine with yellow teeth
Each day I count them during lunch break and write the sum into a little notebook
You would not suspect it but the figures vary, daily actually
nineteen
twenty-one
one hundred and eighty
The scent of coffee hangs black like Batman in the air
We discuss trivia, tell halftruths in different languages
Put band-aid on our battered minds
I yawn
The count is thirty-two
I take my bag
On the way home I talk to the shopgirl in the bakery
She doesn’t judge me by the colour of my skin nor by how good my german is
The dimples in her face bounce in perfect sync with the movement of her lips
which are green today
which makes total sense to me

Rent a bike

The groove sits in the center of his hips
Only he can hear it
He half-dances through the room
Smell of oil and rubber
Dreads coil like a bunch of snakes around his shoulders
Do you have a credit card?
I shake my head
I need some deposit then
His face moist and dark like freshly roasted coffee
What? What do you think? I can’t give you a bike just like that
His legs move in a drum roll 
He leans back in his chair
Flies circle in trance around an unwrapped sandwich
If you lose it
I won’t
I bike into the crowded streets
The air is charged with sun and exhaust

P.

He draws straight lines with a chewed down pencil
Graphite crumbling loose across the page
connecting tiny dots to paths someone could walk
A baby cries
Smell of petroleum
The hum of insects in sticky midday sun
A sickly coughing moped
Sweat drips from my brows,
gathers on the faded plastic table, forming lakescapes
Backup plan?
His beard’s the hue of chia seeds
Gaze dense like Osmium

This night I dream of snow

Sunday, early morning in bed

Wind howls like an injured dog
It drives snow flakes through a slit beneath the window
Spinning, twirling
Ballerinas on a secret stage in white tutus
Lit by a single candle


Rivers

We stand at the border
A strange way to put it when I think about it now
My knuckles red and swollen from the cold
The mark between his eyes makes him look alien
He speaks in a calm and subtle voice
so far away though that I can't decode it,
no matter how hard I try to put the wires right
I take the basket, stumble,
snow capped fir trees rise like giants in the dark
The river’s breath goes flat and heavy


Jester stories

The king sits on his horse with a red tie around his neck
He spits on the globe
He refuses to look left and right before crossing the street
and blames the traffic lights for changing colors
He puts missiles in his peoples' mouth
and plays with a lighter
Velvet cape, a laurel wreath draped on his head,
sandpaper smile
He shuts away the jesters
When I see him on TV I change the channel
He’s unimpressed by that

Almost home

We drink wine after the nightshift
at the table in the neon room
I count tubes like sheep
It makes me sleepy
Later I walk home in freshly penciled daylight
The woman in the bakery talks fast today
I cannot follow her
I smile and nod with dark rimmed eyes