Archive for September, 2018


ornithologically speaking, singing

Where have all the hummingbirds gone,
they’ve left behind sweet nectar,
nothing where their hearts beat madly once in hover!

away to the treetops, backwards dizzy
spiral to earth in a flash

in a beat the wink of an eye

I wonder where hummingbirds go when they disappear,
eyes awash with honey dreams, moonbeams,
clover, the scent of love

the smallest atop time
beats more than ever, the vibrant heart upside-down

thirteen licks from a tongue each second

Ruby-throated, sips balm, salvia,
honeysuckle, snapdragon, a body
run hot with a need for feed

with speed comes predisposition to leave, to migrate,
urged from deep in calls to another day

alee entwined in lichen, amid gossamer
lost high in treetops

aerially alive

Chagall 2018

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She asked could I validate her stone,
a nocturnal perspective

I told her I would,
“I would,” she echoed

Ballast is a thing
to discard, baggage on the trek

A one-track trick
she’d endeavor to remember
when hearts held fast in amber
ere embers

“All too many.”

She said,
“…it’s a crime to rhyme.”

“Maybe,” I pondered
“Maybe next time?” she lilted
quizzingly lyrical

I roll her around
in my mind, my mouth
my blood a roil

Viscera expands
to engulf the whole plain

“I’m thirsty. You thirsty?” she asks
and pours cool water from a blue clay ewer

She sees I am confused by
the sudden appearance of sky and wind

“You knew all along!”
“Wrong. Not all along.”

Well, just recently then
I succumb to her engulf

Swept windblown in dramatic arc
stretching tendon to body

En pointe
and flex

She and I are all the world
after all

Chagall 2018

It Too Shall Come To Be

Since it was so similar to that,
they chose to call it that,
and so fulfilled
the prophecy.

Chagall 2018

I sense now
we are all on an orb-ride.

Slow down, dance
the waltz in space with our star.

I was old before I knew that
these were suns too.

We are near in light or
dark from far away.

Somewhere it’s forever morning
while elsewhere twilight forms.

We fall more than we orbit,
than we bargain for.

Like a coin comes to rest
in the dying throe of its wobble.

Chagall 2018

I can’t stay awake
Lord don’t let me sleep

I mustn’t fall helpless
shut lids under wraps

In a world alee
not really happening

The wanton
ways of the night poacher

Who seeks
tusk and scrimshaw

At the cusp
where thought concedes

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily
life is so surreal

Chagall 2018

Purplinsky Haze

Acting funny,
but I don’t know why

Excuse me while I
personalize and polarize

Da-da-da da-da-da

Chagall 2018

Perhaps too esoteric, or just the end of time?

One person,
one vote,
every issue,
every second.

The Way of the World.

Why infer when
one can be certain!

We can be certain.

Shouldn’t we be –
yes…no?

Chagall 2018

Peepers are still out this time of year
though their song comes earlier in the eve these days,
fragile, almost not there; easy to listen beyond and miss them.

The foreground caw of a big bird, the bark of a dog
on my backstage, panned far left, a flashing beep
of some truck backing up, overhead gaggles honk and recede.

In echelon wildly, we ride the updraft, dip and soar,
aerialists cum acrobats, spun but poised nonpareil, sans apparatus,
relying solely on wingspan and pin-sharp charisma.

The V is impressed with its own formation, looks down and spies itself
in the placid face of the water; a solemn unified beat of blood-pumped wings
cuts swaths in mid-air, affirms partisans aloft in the primeval current.

So many songs harmonize around me, twelve-tone hymns and patterns,
colors in sound, or maybe more like touch – the voices about and within,
caress me more than paint me; ephemeral sounds, timeless embossing of our hearts.

© Chagall 2014

I have a solar-powered light
in the image of a Sloth, that I
rarely bother to charge.

Chagall 2018

I kneel
to pick ground cherries.

From high and far away comes
the caw of a big bird, I pretend
is more ominous than need be.

Such is the mood
I’m in.

I strip goji berries from their plant
knowing that I have alit on technique
that’s been known for ages, with
thumb and forefinger together, I erase
their trace from the branch.

From beyond the din far away
comes the caw of a big bird,
less of a portent than need be.

Such is the mood I’m in.

Chagall 2018

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