Archive for August, 2017


In my yard a bird sings a simple interval hi to lo,
A to G, to rest a measure: repeat, indefinitely I suppose.
I back her on nylon guitar, soulful picking about A Minor, a little bit R&B.
The bird impromptu adds F#, I respond: arpeggios, G Major 7th plus
touching harmonics harplike percussively as I go – startled,
she flies away glissando.

Chagall 2017


Perhaps affluent, rather than effluent?  I suggested she – the poetess –  consider.
Had she thrown her drink then, how much sooner we’d have fallen.

Chagall 2017

In a Puddle

I am rain amidst onslaughts of flower,
daffodil and calla lily blooms by day,
primrose and nymphaea red flare by night.

Chagall 2017


I started to write a poem then shifted
to write a song

Chagall 2017

Mild Mannered Reporter

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

Sez Oo?

OK, drop your hands if you don’t love Flintstones!
Ah, Jacques non a dit pas. Bye-bye. À la prochaine.

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

Tuesday Morning Warm-Up

Artichokes aren’t breathing freely and
the melons can’t elope, may ICU in the garden?

(rotate neck, get the kinks out

going to make
French-roast coffee
with my favorite
Hawaiian beans

Loose lips sink tall ships
three times oh so quickly


Chagall 2017

Anticipation at Scree Lake

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

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