For five days and nights the ghost dancers moved in solemn step
to implore the return of the buffalo, the turning back of time.
© Chagall ∞
Archive for July, 2017
The crescendo of cicadas
Morning is hotter
than yesterday’s noon
A nonchalant wind imbued with the scent
of a distant ocean I’ll never see
blows by
(inspired by Celestine’s work at https://readinpleasure.wordpress.com/ )
© Chagall ∞
Why erect a palisade
when one can simply vanish?
© Chagall ∞
The stars will guide me home one day,
I’ll follow their path until the edge
where the furtive eyes of seers peer
from beyond the eddies of time that spiral
amid the shallows of predawn, in waters
formed succeeding the impetus, immediately and
forever, I’ll be awash in the brine,
soaking, absorbing, adsorbing, and engorging,
until I burgeon and explode
into nebula-cum-universe.
© Chagall ∞
Our music will always exist while remnant
of us ever having played it mightn’t
No photograph in black and white coarse-grained
in the morning coffee and the light of new day
coming through the window
A voice, a life captured
in a vinyl groove, we dig it out
with diamond styli
Trapped in overtone
due to expire, reliving
the last time touched
Sere earth in rapture over the horizon
lines recited in subtle gesture atop
fallen and graceful wonders
The music’s more than bulbous slanted dots on stave
windblown rests and italicized Italian
We are intended
to be sung
© Chagall 2014
beyond the horizon
approaching machines
© Chagall ∞
My vices are tinted
chartreuse, emerald, and puce.
© Chagall ∞
1
Songbird calls two tones
Lilts sadly this crisp morning
Beckons from treetops
2
High, a breath, swoop low
I respond then flap my wings
Perched beside my love
3
Memory of flight
Overcomes me so I soar
Guiding her back home
© Chagall 2015
I expected to wake to cold and sorrow, but instead I rise to nothing but desire
to perform spectacular acts of radical kindness.
© Chagall ∞
From atop the altar, a humming sound,
the sweet scent of imminent grace,
morning light imbues stained glass
with timeless palpitation, what is old
is new once, ancient olive wood
balustrades provide steady ascent.
What’s that hovering o’er the assembled?
My soul resonates with the dissonant voicing
of the towering pipe-organ.
Chant, all you chanters.
Mais oui, absolument, chanté!
The good news is that
good news is
Truth.
From here atop the land-mound
I sing to the sun gods,
I reflect light back
To The Others on the land-mounds
Below Me, and They to Those
Below Them and on
We are One upon rich green rope,
buttery young olives.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 