Archive for December, 2018


this urge to resist dying till tomorrow

Chagall 2018


I returned many years later
to that place where summers we spent,
different this time than long ago,
to find there at the garden edge
the tall yellow sun-choke flowers
we planted, then expecting rain.

Their petals sought golden sun once
as we, naive and cavalier,
younger than now, of course, for time
moves as a wave before cresting,
we drown under water always
breathlessly awaiting the float.

From tubers spring vibrant color,
to tickle an iris or two,
the twin soul of our conjoined hearts
emanates eternal stamen,
anthers and pistils of sacred love,
though throughout we die perennial.

The sun-chokes have spread, moved downhill
beyond their original stand,
underground stirs desire to grow,
absorb, envelop, and conquer,
terrains outside of the making;
the soft rains still fall in one heart.

Chagall 2018

In Life I Fly, In Dreams I Falter

I am scheduled to
in cold twilight
arms hung limp legs
a flying
stark upon
ebon sky

At the
looking down
I will miss you all
before I am cast up

Chagall 2018

I’d Have Been There

I felt it die, quite tangibly,
the fire inside, desire
to reach for stars, not settle

sometimes I stare straight ahead
for minutes awaiting some impulse
to move

spun wheels
in a mud of my making
pretending the usual will do

I have grown to accept
being insufficiently content
lacking the elusive prize

occasionally I rally,
the moment rushes, wells
in my chest

but I’m a dying match
my conflagration
never comes

I miss having purpose

Chagall 2018

Tuesday Night, 2018

I eye the bourbon, the color of honey,
then dab my index and pointer fingers
into the surface of the liquid, catching
a bead or two of the liquor there
where the digits meet, I briskly inhale
to immerse my nostrils in the caramel pungency
of whiskey there at the tips – I follow
with the lightest of touches of the amber to my upper lip,
just a daub to get better acquainted, a deep breath and then
a long haul that traces the cascade from glass to tongue to
epiglottis to stomach to blood system – low bass rhythm stirs,
moves the feet a bit, incites meringue – or maybe samba,
a choice I ponder while pouring a second long draught.

Chagall 2018

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