The candle is old, I remember when
its flame wavered in the window-breeze
behind the curtains of her walk-up flat,
the wick is waxed over, I pare it back
and light it one more time
Chagall 2019
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Category: Poetry
I just had a tussle – a major spat – in my mind,
in which I played both parts (I think there were only two…)
anyway, it went like this:
I, with a low-pitched voice, yell: Says who, you?
I, high-pitched now, respond: Yeah, me, that’s who!
A wrestling match ensues, and all I can see is
a ball of dust, an indiscernible mass of
these two entangled, rolling on the ground
Then, silence
As the victor, I have earned and am executing the privilege of
reaching out to you, to describe and to attest to
these events which took place
Chagall 2019
Maybe it’s time
to resurrect
an old question:
Have you ever been
experienced?
Chagall 2019
I say, “You have glitter all on your cheek.”
She says, “I believe those are nebulae.”
I look closer, see the stars, ponder, “Hmmm…”
She asks, “Why do you hum?”
Even amid the resonance, I can tell
she recognizes the tune, so I say,
“Hum along.”
And now we ponder
the wonder of her
together
Chagall 2019
When drowning in the short-term throes,
stick it out
This is as the long-term you
would want you to
Chagall 2019
I stare aimlessly while a stink bug – halyomorpha halys,
attempts to insert itself into the crack of
a crock, where the lid seams the sourdough urn
Chagall 2019
Additional
it is lured by the culture, the life that is there in the fermenting sourdough starter
I have flicked them from screens and they alight each time
in the spacings between the wood planks that comprise the porch deck
of the family Pentatomidae,
they are masters of the flat squeeze
oddly, they often end up on their backs and are unable to turn over,
an unusual and certainly less-than-preferred characteristic
(with respect to survival-at-large, for any species)
in France, these are
punaise diabolique
outside, barefoot, in the damp misted morning,
I listen to the calls of rising birds in the back,
and I raise my head to respond
not necessarily
do I
imitate their calls
but rather
I try to convey
the same gist as they
being certain to prelude each song
with the tag of the proper partner
– the one to whom I am intending to reply
for each has their own lilt,
it’s me, come listen…
there are many on the rise
this shining wavy day
Chagall 2019
Nightlight on the wall, two hand-spans above the baseboard,
glows amber under its shield, lacy-silhouette on the matte-paint-finish behind,
while the rest of the world tapers silently to blacker shadow
I stand back, illuminated, afar, without sound, to observe,
awaiting the event, I realize that I am the tableau before me
I hold her close to ground existence;
she is the figure
If ever displaced in time or space,
she and I will pretend the other is simply beyond the door, nothing more
But for now, beneath the nightlight, I place our blanket down, huddle under,
warm save the small breeze through the eyelet we leave,
for the coming and the going of air and light and spirit
Chagall 2019
Consider an imaginary line
drawn from the pupil of each eye
If these lines run parallel,
then – and only then –
can you be certain you are
focused on infinity
Chagall 2019
The diaphanous blurs I see descending are
surely falling angels
Chagall 2019
