Archive for September, 2018

Head Liner

I’ll not write another
for it forces the last
off the page.

Chagall 2018


My mom – rest her soul – loved her son-in-law,
deemed him a good egg.

Chagall 2018

In the Mix

I have a hundred songs that you haven’t yet heard,
such is the lack of our intimacy.

Chagall 2018

The end of season is nigh,
harvest is sparse, I
put away three of each handful
– seed for the coming year.

Chagall 2018

Regaining the Soul

Barring invasive species,
plants will work together
to make the most effective
and efficient use of the
resources allotted. Heads
intertwine to create diverse
canopies, while stems sacrifice
leafy runs to enable the nestling
of neighbors’ branches, and they
in turn their stems, and so on.
The heavy soak of apocryphal rain
brings a florid melange of nutrient.
Roots intermingle, with fungi forms
mycorrhizal, to shuttle about the
essential elements of life. This all
takes place in the yellowest of sunlight,
in the winds that blow eternity steady.

Chagall 2018

The breadcrumbs I drop today
help me to find my way home
many years from now.

Chagall 2018

Tiniest spider inside the bud,
a mite – no more than that,
scurrying about atop my palm,
a partially stoned arachnid.

Chagall 2018

Chagall’s 9th

A quiet place, this long hall,
a proscenium, this pleated space
before the blank page, the curtain arch
ahead of acts, beyond the music,
below the loge, on stage: soliloquy

Set about pinholes of stars,
golden ages peek through a vast sky adorned
in cold-air, brushed blue, velvet night unwritten,
each moment implicate order, now
implying then, such is light

I can dance but I’m better in rain,
shake my shoulders and stomp, puddles
erupt to wash slow waterfalls

I love my galoshes, twirling topsy like a
dervish gone turvy, along slick walks I slide

I waltz in warm rain –
One-two-three SPLASH!-two-three!

With face upturned, the storm runs over me,
the seep of the Holy Ghost runs as a warm shock
from the top of my head down my spine to my toes

Aqueous, I am reborn in the moment yet to come,
the then

Chagall 2018


Her poetry is a ransom note,
an invite to an egg hunt

Obstacles in course while
she’s outside harm’s way

Her language is elliptical hedgerow
I sidle along, groping for opening

A search for gulps of air,
oblige me

I’ve got to come up
when I sink

Afloat I yearn
to dive down

My time is in the hold,
the capacity of lungs underwater

My capricious whim:
to let go and breathe

Chagall 2018

assumed poignant,
after all she’d written it

this one conceived
in evening dress

it was her
to don black tie

I loved her best
sans anything

without time
or place

in orbit

sleek along
sharp lines

Chagall 2018

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