i moved my blog...

i moved my blog to the moon....nah...just to wordpress...hope to see you there...

www.jaywalkingthemoon.wordpress.com

mr. linky, the magic button and moving on

..it all started with mr. linky and the fact that for some reason i didn't get him to work in my one stop poetry posts..

i felt i need some private space to practice and started a wordpress blog...then i started to browse the themes and thought of a nice blog name...of course i wanted mr. linky to feel comfortable... he never felt comfortable though... but i did - somehow...and then i pressed the "magic button" (never do this without reading the instructions properly...) and wordpress started to import 338 posts and 5492 comments from  S P L I T T E R G E W I T T E R  to "jaywalking the moon"... I was speechless and felt a bit torn apart..

well - and then i thought it may be time to move on.. so i decided to continue my poetic journey over at "jaywalking the moon" .. hope to see you there...

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..

no winners left

they say War Will Die

left bleeding

on the side of the street;

dust on blind men's blades,

still warm and

lips in sneers

They want to sing rosy cheeked

kids to sleep before

darkness reaches them

and the scent of steel still

on their tongues as they

lick their way up her

thighs to drink to life, to

shut out the swords, the spears,

the coughed blood and

the - he didn’t make it...

They greedily gulp

humid warmth, suck

parted lips, tasting freedom and

See the trenches in her softness

There are no
winners left


..woo hoo it's One Shot Wednesday again and the wonderful Adam Dustus will be your host tonight...write a poem and join us or just jump over to read what some fine poets brought to the table..sign up opens at 5 pm EST

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...)

sunshine flash

we share such things as salad, meat balls and
chick-yellow scrambled eggs, sitting in
the spring on wooden benches, inhaling

life smoldering fat as Cuban cigars,
roll it in our mouthes like russian Rs and
swallow greedily, moistened by german

beer and the rough music madness of a
Porsche nine eleven. I pick up the
vibrations, tame 'em with my tongue and let
them shake us to the brink of sunshine flash


this was last sunday in the black forest...family lunch and on the pic in the front is hubby with nephew..smiles