Archive for June, 2017


Lost in Transformation

Autocorrect changed kiss off to kiss all without my knowing;
it’s probably just as well, all things as they must be.

© Chagall ∞

Grandpa would flash a spray of cool water
each morning on the panting gray cement
stones about the yard, colors and hues
of the earth’s minerals flushed deep
brought to life in small puddles
accumulated there near the clover tufts
holding tight in the cracks, the crevices
abutting the frame, the scene at large,
we pan higher than we did that day,
all of our life there in neat little
bunches of boxes in boxes where people we love
carry on, carry out their days, turning on and in
and out and back, to a different way as hope goes,
newly baptized, in deep commune, confirmed, wed to all,
in repose amid the somber hymns of concluding rites,
beneath grandpa’s spray, a flash of silver liquid,
an old man’s giggling face lost in the brilliant sun
of a promise forever solvent.

© Chagall ∞

Lonely Chirps

Creatures of the kingdom appear to have homing instinct,
still I feel deep sadness for those who succeed to be lost.

© Chagall ∞

For The Gusto

Today I planted four new trees, my goal is
to outlive each of them.

© Chagall ∞

The kids outside are playing their version of fear factor,
lying down in lavender amid dozens of lazily fuzzy bees.

© Chagall ∞

Lavender amulets tattooed on her legs, release their scent, tender zeal,
a vernal pool. Approach me my melancholy rockabye baby, cuddle up,
never turn blue.

© Chagall ∞

Hitting It Off

The little blue light of the vacuum continued to pulse;
my referring to it as the umbrella at first had set us off on the wrong foot.
And she – basil – with the emphasis on the second syllable.
no frying z, just a clean s, like in seal.  Who does that?

© Chagall ∞

B Sharp

My best friend borrowed a guitar, I told her to return it
with a full tank of gas. She just shrugged and said Huh?

© Chagall ∞

Not Bergamot

No word is as lavender, in scent or color, is in life,
as a film is longer than a poem or a sigh is,
pointillists revel in innuendo, a pout once hidden
behind a shoulder, turns as time turns, twice bitten,
nipped on by lips and a tongue most tender in touch as in life
as a year is longer when newer as younger was a smile
awash in sun that clouds had hidden
away behind serious-nimble strata
upon cheeks

rained down like kisses, a softer sense, what’s ahead within
dappled then mottled, the shadows of waving leaves, offstage: the sun,
adept, persistent, a beacon perhaps, a sentry, a guard on the nod,
a star

There is no creation more possible than this one
she flies laughing-deflating, a wisp of her vanishing self,
a balloon losing air, she is ground around figure once was,
and no one is she, in blood nor marrow, as in life
as a day is longer than a poem or a sigh was.

© Chagall ∞

The text describes interception and subsequent sublimation,
not of people, but conifers of rainwater
where little precipitation
ever hits the ground.

© Chagall ∞

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