I prompt the dancers
to let go of keepsakes,
become moppets, droplets,
the rhythm of rain.
Chagall 2018
Archive for October, 2018
What hasn’t been said, which words
left unpaired, what insight has poetry
impaired, has thought impaled, imperial
designs, impeccable mosaics, mossy memory,
pervasive prevention of forward-motion,
emotion precedes reputation, nowadays
nods knowingly to the past, pastoral
settings, idyllic leas, doughnuts of glaze,
who said there’s no time for snacking?
Forsaken. No thyme or tarragon to
carry on. Carrion. Clarion epitaphs,
cursive epithets, bold strokes sans-serif,
sands adrift in foam, loam aroma rises,
nostrils flutter, epileptic rabbits
breed, breathe, breathe, breathe…
Chagall 2018
I tried. I stared at the photo,
70 years old, felt the sunlight,
the breeze on the roof, you in dress
uniform, just back from the war,
love, relief, and new beginnings
sailed out over the sky. But
I failed to go there fully, could
not leave this time and place, though
I ached to do so. I’m sorry.
Chagall 2018
The poem lacks rhythm,
the song a lilt, each heart
its beat, your life me.
Entwined trails of fireworks
consummate in peonies, bursts
of rainbow erupt from hollow black
sky, reverberate under the dome.
Moonlight, oblivious to the cover
of clouds below, is all we have
left once the hot lights spark
then fade, millions of colors
in the wake that moves the darkness.
Nothing holds me. Fortunes slip
overnight. The better days I’ve
contemplated no longer hold promise.
Poems for no one. Songs for no voice.
Hearts without blood. Pumping. Exsangue.
Chagall 2018
Watching a pet for a friend, and already twice now
I’ve exclaimed, “You are one fucking crazy dog!”
Chagall 2018
A dog, not mine, safekeeps her rawhide chew-toy
at the base of my guitar stand, alongside
the dangling coil of my leather neckstrap,
there on the hewn plank floor.
Chagall 2018
“Close cover, strike gently, keep away from children (Book of Matches, 1:1).”
Chagall 2018
It is time we revisit
the distinction between
can I and may I.
Chagall 2018
My mom used to ask,
“Who does he think he is,
Any How!” as if
Any How was a name,
like Joan or Bob.
She advised me
not to upset
the apricot.
To burn bridges
before they’re crossed.
Fooled thrice knows
no shame.
Chagall 2018
We waltz to the door of the last room,
walls of fir trees weep in the shadow light,
early evening, vespers here while elsewhere whispers,
how lovely an arc we cut, the angle of the quarter-moon crescent,
a drawn bow torqued, string-tight ready, we propel us,
no one else.
Over the transom in step we sidle, without aim
we dervishes twirl, devilish dust tornadoes arise
where our feet once were, warm air lifts our wings
apparent now in sunlight, the huge gold disks about us
pulse our time, vibrate the gossamer strings, tiny harps
arpeggiate ever so slightly…audible, tinkle our ear.
We break the three-quarter time of the dance,
to promenade squarely in four, about and around
then again, and on, such is love past this last room.
Down the fire escape
we glide.
Chagall 2018
Alphabet City 