Alphabet City

It transcends race, gender, and nation

The most profound heartbreak
against another being

A crime against sentience, existence,
tender life

Chagall 2020

I am torn between two topics today,
how to encase the eternity of morning, or a diatribe
on those who would dance on yesterday’s ashes and broken glass

But perhaps they are one and the same,
a duality of wonder and hate,
the absence of the other
in the other

the promise of life
the negation of promise

celebration that there is mourning
disconsolation over inhumanity

the blurring of the outline of being
human

Me? I still breathe in the sun, the early breeze,
and cry over birdsong that lilts from the trees,
I rejoice in the infinite shades of greens
that God has bestowed on my eyes,
the blues on my ears,
salt on my tongue,
warmth upon skin

…and I will lie down in heady fields of lavender
when I die, my face to the sky, tickled orange by tiny ladybugs,
rather than be consumed by flame

Chagall 2020

The sun died today
In the throes of final light
Sky turns so lovely

Chagall 2020

at least once a day, I lie on my back,
to watch the sun in the sky

we are often both
lost behind clouds

at times like those I tolerate the darkening,
then consider how large – how long – is the offending cloud,
the direction and speed of the wind, to estimate the return of the light

the sun always eventually returns,
except one time there was this cloud
that came and was going according to plan
and once it had went, had taken with it the sun

as if in passing it had dabbed its backside with our star,
made it stick, and continued with it hidden in tow,
such a fluffy magician

but of course this was just an illusion,
a result perhaps of sleep interceding,
some lapse of time that moved the sun
from here to there, the loss of my mind
for a moment, maybe a different cloud
or a different sky

and I thought would a cloud like this
have a silver lining, as I’ve heard it said
all clouds do

I pondered this for what seemed to be ages,
finally deciding

when our sun, our local star,
is down to its final moments of burn, spitting
hydrogen, helium, oxygen, and neon, after billions
of years, in that last eight minutes of light, before
the collapse – the eternal shift – of the Milky Way…

I would beckon this cloud to reappear to release
the beautiful sun stolen that day

Chagall 2020

There are stories I have not written,
paths I’ve not walked, nor trampled,
bramble I have yet to tangle with

Outside
there is peace in the dust

Footprints in the lie of my heart,
narrow heel and textured sole, your well-worn moccasins
left to dry upon sun-warmed wood

I have rarely seen yellow so blue

The absence of you,
the anticipation of someday

There are words to you I have not spoken,
ideas I have not explored, nor endured,
webs I’ve not woven

My mind is a round I sing,
a duet I perform, a half-verse behind
with you a step ahead, a whole-tone higher

And I am a stray astray,
bled in thick bramble

Chagall 2020

I have no patience to be profound,
I’m a fast truth junkie

Chagall 2020

I prepared to harden young vegetable transplants,
which is getting them accustomed to the sun gradually
over the course of several days, so that they do not burn
when ultimately put in the ground

I conceived to put them out at sunset, rather than sunrise, 
to take advantage of the cooler solar light of early evening

and then to dial back to noon's harsher rays, 
to start with an hour and to add each day 
a quarter-hour more

For example, set them out at 7 PM, and bring them in at 6, Day 1.
Set them out at 7 PM, and bring them in at 5:45, Day 2,
and so on, until the seedlings accustomed - inured - to 12 o'clock sun 

This sounded crafty and so on Day 0 I readied to proceed 
until it dawned on me that I was planning to use time in reverse, 
contrary to its natural flow

But it had felt so possible

Like a seed, all of my futures splay before me, 
while my past converges on a single vanishing point behind me

I am a prism that diffracts existence
to reveal its constituent parts

Through me run seemingly
parallel lines

Chagall 2020

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Which came first, birds or people?

Were there songs in the trees before 
houses and paths between neighbors?

When this was just limestone and tufted primeval moss, 
at the birth of new birdsong, practiced trills emerged 
from the canopies of beech forests, afar from distant firs

Call and response, coo and reply, 
was there yet another about to answer
the searching cry, to refrain the melody, 
to embellish harmony, to complete the haunting
interval?

The flutter of these first wings
grips the heart outside of time

Whistlers in strong winds,
did they love the sun 
and the morning
as much 
as we?  

So busy making nests then, 
though the need for shelter was itself
brand new

And there will be time enough to kill today,
and there will be eons to burn

Even now

Which will last longer, birds or people?

Chagall 2020

this is a poem from my “award-winning” book –
won’t you take a look?

…at the cafe eating macaroons (or was it macarons?),
any-hoo…

buy me a mug of java – put something in the cup –
…drink me up!

and thank you, I your nominee –
oh my gawd, the Jeepster award:
my favorite color is blue,

va fa in cul’

I still dot my eyes with tiny hearts
in real life, my letters are block,
no cursive here, you bet

my influences (influenzas?) are
Mickey Rooney and
Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī

…every bond you bind, I break…

my epitaph? I tried

(don’t be silly toto,
scarecrows don’t talk)

…and that’s when I yelled out
why not flying monkeys!

Chagall 2020