Archive for August, 2018

For Betty

A butterfly alights on my arm, flutters
vigorously then settles, says you saved
me once when I was a mere caterpillar.

Her monarch wings on my cheek brush ever so slightly
as thank you, then to the treetops she zigs, invisible
in the angle of sunlight she rides, zags unseen in
intercession, having flown away.

Chagall 2018

Excerpt 51

We move as a magic hand, our chevrons
sketch the same subtlety as our synapse,
similar circuitous routes we take
over the landscape, this ecosystem
is home, we are the flight we imagine,
the patterns we choose, gestures we make,
bonds we forge, one in the all.

Chagall 2018


Now autumn’s gone, I’m hoping spring is near –
(crescendo, harmonics fade to silence)
Skipping over winter…
(dim to blue spots)
…this year
(fade to black, hold 1 beat, voice echoes to final rest on 2)

Chagall 2018


Word of Honor

If I had money
I would be a
big spender.

Chagall 2018

The cherries ripen more swiftly now,
the days are hotter, nights colder,
sugar sets up to engorge the red drupes
to dangle provocatively off the stems, curved
burgundy skins reflect morning sun
like windows under mist.

A large bird caws, unseen but heard, says
all but the fruit is poison.

Chagall 2018


Alphabet City

A shooting star
twilit celestial filaments
across my lashes no longer than half-an-inch

yet up there the fantail of light
is twice many billion miles
nearer than your lips and heart
to mine.

We caress at time’s edge
under corona, or maybe it’s umbra
but who’s to say?

Steady pulse
of shade to light
shadow to crown and
you to rain.

We are leaves invert
we are tips of roots
we are that from which all is derived
we are constellations.

We have begat
the universe

that which is
out there
is small.

Chagall 2015

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At the Sound

Skeletons tinkle too despite the lack
of a urinary tract, see how graceful
the clear liquid streams, an arc
of calcite regaled florentine.

Language is pretty much
the same way. A mouthful,
wadded ideas all
garbled up in tongue, lips,
palette and aspiration.

Sighs are so puffed and pretty, especially expelled
along necklines, anywhere there’s a pulse,
the heart of a lover’s palm, inside the wrist.

Along the long tendon of the leg
to the instep,
the sole.

With pressure to every pulse
we build energy to lift ourselves

Ideas invert. They go inside-out
and in again – an endearing enduring

Trinkets. Souvenirs. Memory
enabled. That time we had wings
before arms, when we’d soar
wildly ere twilight, low over
crisp nightfall, the winking yellow
flicker of home.

Chagall 2018

Frigging caterpillar
crawling down

I gently get her
to wrap ’round a chopstick
and return her to earth outside.

Chagall 2018

When the Water Breaks

He asked What’s the plan?
I replied by asking what he meant. He elaborated.
I said Oh! No plan really.  You call me and dad – tell us when we need to be there.
And like magic we’ll be there.

Chagall 2018

Zero G

We are the flight we imagine,
inbred patterns in echelon
where the self is all,
akin to sky-writing
crop circles in the air
to mimic life below,
it is colder here above
earlier as a sign, at times
the wisps filigree all the way to earth
as ice, but not today, I am left
with face upturned,
mouth wide-open to receive
rain, buckets of drops
in gulps, a blessed christening
of water and time, equally apportioned
to the deluge, forever
against the gray unbounded,
weightless without dimension,
tracing ancient veers in unison,
aligned to primal throbs for rhythm,
in the throes of sunlight and wind.

We are the light we’ve imagined,
the eternal unity, whorls:
the fingerprint of who.

In graceful arc with universal yaw
we dive to clear mid-air where
we imbibe wildly on the wing.

Chagall 2018

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