I started to write a poem then shifted
to write a song
Chagall 2017
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Sometimes when my wife is not home
I wear her clothes pretending I’m
a once-petite girl who has put on
the pounds and can no longer fit
in her wardrobe, the only consolation
being inordinate amounts of mint
chocolate chip ice cream. I remove all
evidence of this practice before her return.
Chagall 2017
I hear music in wind and machines, voices in the trees,
harmony amid the sleek hum of gears finely-tuned,
who vibrate on cilia to haunt me, to trace intervals,
motifs of being, a soundscape to mark me aware,
you are the rest between motion, a buoy in time both
solid and bulbous, a weight against storms,
a body of reckoning to counter the onslaught
of melody.
Chagall 2017
Artichokes aren’t breathing freely and
the melons can’t elope, may ICU in the garden?
(rotate neck, get the kinks out
RAY DAVIES!)
going to make
French-roast coffee
with my favorite
Hawaiian beans
Loose lips sink tall ships
three times oh so quickly
one-two-shoulder
shrugs-done
Chagall 2017
I tread healing water in a thick energetic pool
sheltered upstream, a peaceful sunlit eddy
The water is warm and syrupy with the crisp scent
of lemon balm and mint
Maybe it reveals itself today
or maybe it’s still in the making
The land dips away here in a graceful arc
where form gives way to ground then air and ultimate nought
The horizon fades as it is want to do at the end of the day,
swooning on rarefied air too soon to touchdown
Chagall 2017
I think it’s wondrous, the long essing wave of butterflies –
at least one hundred, I have never witnessed such whimsical echelon;
she glimpses up, from afar shouts “Beautiful!” and comes running
beside them, breathless in her escapade.
Chagall 2017
…Albeit, a short one!
Chagall 2017
Everything I write suggests you fly away
or will you have flown?
Who would resist that you are leaving
and why you’ll be gone?
Simply put is
where I stay
Not really
solid ground
You’re so lucky to be lyrical
meant to be sung
La tra lala, is all I will ever breathe
Chagall 2017
I brood the nighttime fantastic while
she plays castanets for after all it is her fandango.
Out back there is a circle of trees that funnels
moonlight down to the ground. A place to lull
ancient hymns amid crickets after twi-star.
This is where we twirl, the reason why we dance –
trip the light. Slap palm slaps to palm to keep pace,
so many tambourinists! She is my dervish by constellate light,
I know more than merely her big stars, I’ve combed eons that sketch
her mythology, made fine pencil drawings on empty sky.
Clouds enshroud the light enshrouding the garden, we are on
the shadows reflected there as moonlight on rain, so far
removed, right here.
The softest feather of far away thunder rumbles soothingly in my brain,
a grainy living presence there in my ears and mind.
Chagall 2017
