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Twinned Soul

low angle photo of bird flying during night

inside my head
I call out to
the other inside
her head

I sense
her there

without words
as colors do
we blend to
new meaning
in a way only
felt, sensed

we are as children
at frolic on sand
laughing in waves
that roll to shore

hand in hand we glide
on our heels downhill
kicking up pebbles
and dust in our braking

around curves and
squared corners

till full bore
in open field

I scream out to
the other outside

never let go
hold tight

Chagall 2020
Photo by Martin Lopez on Pexels.com

Zen Again

wood nature forest trees

I have not read accounts about forest trees falling,
there is no witness who attests to a felling

but I have seen – have heard – a fall,
the snap, a moment of silence, then the oceanic rush of sound
as the upper-half of the tree crashes through the canopy freefalling
to the final percussive thud, you can feel it hit the ground
and resonate deep bass, then silence again briefly that begets a steady hum

a hymn: new light through the new gap in the landscape
where fluttery insects and dust-motes swirl merrily in backlit haze,
the felled wood, a cacophony of debris that appears to be
hundreds of uprooted miniature bonsai trees
that call from the forest floor

trees only sometimes fall
when no one is around

Chagall 2020
Photo by Markus Spiske on Pexels.com

 

Me and a Hued Deuce

Bird right outside the window
keeps repeating how bobby was really cheap
but there is no bobby in the story, let alone
one who would not pay her way – no way!
– a rhythm now stuck in my head

It’s a brighter color than your song is loud
(peek in on the wire behind the breeze,
I once was startled by sunlight suddenly glanced there
amid triangles of lush land and polished mirrors of blue sky)

All upside down
felled by the rapids, a rush
on foam newly diverted and funneled by tight banks
that now etch these novel swerves that move me along the run to the rise
where the deeper swift water flows from thereon downhill for many miles
through trees over polished stones to a break where a dwarf eddy turns
like a slow screw in the flue of a warm draft, so humid,
mist so moist it clings to the brow just by its passing

These are the largest fronds
I have ever been
under…

Magical figures so real at the edges, beautiful primal greens,
striate lush life throbs photocells, clung-to tightly until relinquished,
solar caresses bestowed by the day

Life is sweet invisible disturbance – indivisible distraction streaked with time
flavored of salted water, the windblown in from the coast
settled upon dusty planks

We spill lime
upon which we dance

Tonight – this moonless night,
hear the waves more than see them!

Hear the water joyously rush shore
but only imagine the warm froth of that joy
as there is not enough light
to illuminate it for you
at this time

But as a sound
it cascades lusciously
to tickle the ear
over and over

(I drift too close to the rock
and am diverted by a chime on a buoy
in the harbor fog)

Chagall 2020

Not Taciturn

grayscale photo of two man walking on floor tiles
whisper clearly

Chagall 2020

Photo by BERK OZDEMIR on Pexels.com

Meet Me at the Garden Gnome

I lay walking stones in the Garden,
knowing we will someday have to cross it

The moss grows in the seams to blend them
perfectly in: miniscopic canopies

Life at times
seemingly so far away

I once knew a stoner who posited
that we were equidistant between all things
at all scales

Where we lie
is where the octave is

We see that receding
as coming to us

All of the flowers all wrong
all of the time

Once on the prow of a boat
I was immersed in salt briny wind
so lovely and strong
we blew timeless

and I dove in
even though I can’t swim

here now at the 4-way stop
of the Garden’s pavers

Chagall 2020

blue textile

hashmarks of yearly calendars,
each of those contains a December passed

and You’ve got one more Spring
in your step

a last strand
of violet Bougainvillea

I pray a staircase
of those remain

and one final Fall
long deferred till
100 years and more
of Happiness my Friend
under a cascade of beautiful
burnt umber Leaves

may Your Winter be a time for birth
and Stars ere ultimate rebirth;
a season for crystalline Moonlight

Summer ripe with heady haunting aroma,
heat beating deep, the Sun
at it’s best

Your footprints never vanishing
from along the wet sands of the coastline

Chagall 2020

Double Talk

There, there.
Come, come now.
We find out
what’s what
about who’s who
in due time

Here, here!
Oye, oye!
Man, oh man!
Do we ever

Then
bye-bye
ta-ta
ciao-ciao
bay-bay

Chagall 2020

Too

how much oil does a lamp need
to burn itself out?

how many hours do we live?

how much rain can a field absorb
before it drowns all its seedlings?

how much light left to read?

how much wind is required
to fell sand castles?

how much water in a wave?

how many thrusts can a spirit withstand
before it deflates and withers?

how much love can a heart hold?

just so much,
so many

Chagall 2020

Again

the day after the party,
when everyone is gone,
I try to hear the voices
left behind trapped in the wood,
pretend to see graceful forms
yet move about the grass

the breeze is cooler,
the sun more wane

will yesterday
ever come again?

odd how aroma lingers
while sights and sounds
and the touch of hands
disappear

I inhale deeply to savor
this real relic of what was,
and decide to forego exhalation

Chagall 2020

Morning Elvis

small chickadee on the very corner of my roof,
where east and west meet north and south,
head thrown back, full throated with song,
in the downpour of a sun-shower

Carlos 2020

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