Her dreams, like kites strung from her heart,
never take flight so she has severed their strings
From her roof, so near the edge,
kites on the horizon appear
half-way already to heaven
Chagall 2020
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the involved mind is reams bound, perceptions woven,
crosshatched, all that we are
the assembly of tidy bundles,
of things that need to be
I open a window to let the strong breeze blow and scatter it all about,
oh, god how delicious the salt on the air, the wet primeval scent…
“…wane light, timeless light, faded surf on sand
foams slower tonight than when we used to stroll…”
all motion, sound, the heart…
simply stop
let us vow to continue to roam
in the face of this newfound vantage
Chagall 2020
It is better to make some money and regret not having made more,
than to lose and regret not having made any at all
Chagall 2020
Fully follow through on positions you’ve abandoned
to understand where you might have wound up
Chagall 2020
she dances to Take 5
in 4/4 time while I spin
her hour glass
Brubeck glances
furtively up from the keys
black and white
like the cookies
not the people
in the high registers I find my night chills
solemn intervals, visceral melodies, the highball
glass forever a-tinkle
with ice
crunching down on
ice
gnawing, hoping
pining, swaying
watch her bounce a bit
her bottom bulbous
left hand stroll through the bass – or a standup slap-thumb
to drive a beat, walk the chromatic path up a thigh,
down a lane, to and fro, and Dave just keeps groovin’
in and out 5/4
Chagall 2020
I left there then
thinking life here
was passing me by,
and now it does, and
so it has
Chagall 2020
I wish I had loved you
and been loved by you
more
Chagall 2020
never pass on a pancake
mop up some syrup and put it in your pocket
snack on it later in the day
perhaps after vespers
Chagall 2020
All would wait till the car braked at the end of the path to turn,
before they stopped waving, but not me. I would run to my room and cry
for having not seen the red tail-lights.
Chagall 2020
I’m not looking for a writer
so much as I am a reader, and I’ll know
by what you write
In your hands, at the behest of your mind,
via the grace of God, lies potential timelessness
Fingers that hold a pen or shape a chord
can reign immortal in a moment
Count off…
Chagall 2020
