I did not think I would write today,
living life had more allure until
I reached too far, I felt too
deeply, I fell ever so gently
from such a short height,
that’s all it took
to be here.
© Chagall ∞
Archive for July, 2017
Lately I’ve insight into the timeless,
so subtle, perception of beauty of light,
of truth, of love, needing not yesterday
nor tomorrow to be, the clearest field
of space for mind to dwell, to frolic –
indeed to play and touch, weightless.
Light engenders objects with the characteristics
of the timeless, yet I’m certain the blind
sense forever, they can stop their day
as you and I can.
I shall not believe that those with five senses
are nearer to God than those of us with just one.
I believe sight is possible without eyes,
as music is sans ears, a sigh without a heart.
We are immersion-in-sensuality regardless
of the state of our senses.
It is night, only she by the ocean
where moonlight bathes in her hair,
the luster of shadow along sand
invites her to lie and rest.
In morning sunlight she arises
refreshed and timeless.
© Chagall ∞
Really excited, bought a 3-pack of lighters,
I now have enough fire to last me a while.
© Chagall ∞
Distracted this morning, I attempted
to drink from my cup of pencils,
nearly poking out an eye with
a sharp #2.
© Chagall ∞
My drafts hold nothing of interest, some nonsense I scribbled
in a vain attempt to infer Sara from the existence of stars,
some ambiguous mumbo (tiny, not jumbo) plus
a line about life in the canopy over
fields at the apex of gloaming.
Nothing of value to work with here
so I turn to birdsong to quell
my ache for expression.
© Chagall ∞
Find a hill, a dimple of land, lie down,
wedge your cheek into the hollow
of rich organic debris, breathe
deeply the years of the regolith
beneath you, grind your pelvis
to bedrock, mold to gravity’s
pull, feel yourself ride
the earth, Gaia ’round
and around
Wheeee! See!
We’re falling!
© Chagall ∞
I wonder in colors that she sees only while coming. I race
to stride beside her; we dapple the ground with the shadow of our gait.
Time is evident, a mist evaporates off hot gray pavers, leaves behind
a dotted line, a seam that closes, and is gone. I have always been destined
to love her. I am compelled to protect her from sadness and in so doing
I bring sadness.
Vast fields of primary colors heather, wash
and bleed with the passing of each new tone, sacred intervals;
we are naked, splendidly hued, we are eyes
imbuing elegant rainbow bodies.
She is laughter, healing balm
for the brow, under a tarp
in the rainstorm, we embrace,
human beneath fading colors,
just barely dry.
© Chagall ∞
It’s not that I’m bipolar, so much as
I have got a thin divide twixt extremes.
© Chagall ∞
Once we count the stars, what then
will remain to sustain our love?
© Chagall ∞
Sometimes you do – Yes, you do!
– a switcharoo.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 