It transcends profession, race, gender, and nation
A most profound heartbreak
concerning another being
Crime against sentience, existence,
tender life
Chagall 2020
It transcends profession, race, gender, and nation
A most profound heartbreak
concerning another being
Crime against sentience, existence,
tender life
Chagall 2020
I am torn between two topics today,
how to encase the eternity of morning, or a diatribe
on those who would dance on yesterday’s ashes and broken glass
But perhaps they are one and the same,
a duality of wonder and hate,
the absence of the other
in the other
the promise of life
the negation of promise
celebration that there is mourning
disconsolation over inhumanity
the blurring of the outline of being
human
Me? I still breathe in the sun, the early breeze,
and cry over birdsong that lilts from the trees,
I rejoice in the infinite shades of greens
that God has bestowed on my eyes,
the blues on my ears,
salt on my tongue,
warmth upon skin
…and I will lie down in heady fields of lavender
when I die, my face to the sky, tickled orange by tiny ladybugs,
rather than be consumed by flame
Chagall 2020
The sun died today
In the throes of final light
Sky turns so lovely
Chagall 2020
at least once a day, I lie on my back,
to watch the sun in the sky
we are often both
lost behind clouds
at times like those I tolerate the darkening,
then consider how large – how long – is the offending cloud,
the direction and speed of the wind, to estimate the return of the light
the sun always eventually returns,
except one time there was this cloud
that came and was going according to plan
and once it had went, had taken with it the sun
as if in passing it had dabbed its backside with our star,
made it stick, and continued with it hidden in tow,
such a fluffy magician
but of course this was just an illusion,
a result perhaps of sleep interceding,
some lapse of time that moved the sun
from here to there, the loss of my mind
for a moment, maybe a different cloud
or a different sky
and I thought would a cloud like this
have a silver lining, as I’ve heard it said
all clouds do
I pondered this for what seemed to be ages,
finally deciding
when our sun, our local star,
is down to its final moments of burn, spitting
hydrogen, helium, oxygen, and neon, after billions
of years, in that last eight minutes of light, before
the collapse – the eternal shift – of the Milky Way…
I would beckon this cloud to reappear to release
the beautiful sun stolen that day
Chagall 2020
There are stories I have not written,
paths I’ve not walked, nor trampled,
bramble I have yet to tangle with
Outside
there is peace in the dust
Footprints in the lie of my heart,
narrow heel and textured sole, your well-worn moccasins
left to dry upon sun-warmed wood
I have rarely seen yellow so blue
The absence of you,
the anticipation of someday
There are words to you I have not spoken,
ideas I have not explored, nor endured,
webs I’ve not woven
My mind is a round I sing,
a duet I perform, a half-verse behind
with you a step ahead, a whole-tone higher
And I am a stray astray,
bled in thick bramble
Chagall 2020
I have no patience to be profound,
I’m a fast truth junkie
Chagall 2020
I prepared to harden young vegetable transplants, which is getting them accustomed to the sun gradually over the course of several days, so that they do not burn when ultimately put in the ground I conceived to put them out at sunset, rather than sunrise,
to take advantage of the cooler solar light of early evening
and then to dial back to noon's harsher rays,
to start with an hour and to add each day
a quarter-hour more
For example, set them out at 7 PM, and bring them in at 6, Day 1. Set them out at 7 PM, and bring them in at 5:45, Day 2, and so on, until the seedlings accustomed - inured - to 12 o'clock sun This sounded crafty and so on Day 0 I readied to proceed
until it dawned on me that I was planning to use time in reverse,
contrary to its natural flow
But it had felt so possible
Like a seed, all of my futures splay before me,
while my past converges on a single vanishing point behind me
I am a prism that diffracts existence
to reveal its constituent parts
Through me run seemingly
parallel lines Chagall 2020
If you follow a butterfly's flight intently, hold it unswerving in the palm of your eye, trace every turn, each subtle winged gesture, emboss on your mind her cursive persuasion... ultimately she will alight on you Chagall 2020
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Which came first, birds or people? Were there songs in the trees before houses and paths between neighbors? When this was just limestone and tufted primeval moss, at the birth of new birdsong, practiced trills emerged from the canopies of beech forests, afar from distant firs Call and response, coo and reply, was there yet another about to answer the searching cry, to refrain the melody, to embellish harmony, to complete the haunting
interval? The flutter of these first wings grips the heart outside of time
Whistlers in strong winds, did they love the sun
and the morning as much
as we?
So busy making nests then,
though the need for shelter was itself brand new And there will be time enough to kill today, and there will be eons to burn Even now
Which will last longer, birds or people? Chagall 2020
this is a poem from my “award-winning” book –
won’t you take a look?
…at the cafe eating macaroons (or was it macarons?),
any-hoo…
buy me a mug of java – put something in the cup –
…drink me up!
and thank you, I your nominee –
oh my gawd, the Jeepster award:
my favorite color is blue,
va fa in cul’
I still dot my eyes with tiny hearts
in real life, my letters are block,
no cursive here, you bet
my influences (influenzas?) are
Mickey Rooney and
Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī
…every bond you bind, I break…
my epitaph? I tried
(don’t be silly toto,
scarecrows don’t talk)
…and that’s when I yelled out
why not flying monkeys!
Chagall 2020