I hate a push-broom;
there are times you
just can’t get
behind the dirt.
Chagall 2019
Category: Poetry
For as long as the flowers last,
the day lives on and you are still here
with me, my friends – the hope that was
our time together, the bright star shone
Chagall 2019
I’ve noticed that in today’s melting pot
no one melts
Chagall 2019
which synapse do I need to trigger
to forever remember the vivid lines
about her?
which emotions do I impale upon memory?
i will sacrifice knowing my own name
if there be a dearth of cells
allotted to the past
make my recollection of her, premium:
all of the senses, all of the time
Chagall 2019
this morning I awoke frightened,
startled by the abrupt start
of the backup engines that propel
existence
Chagall 2019
the moment – now – is heavy syrup,
laden weighted-down, such is the feeling
of timeless
I nod: “…until then, then.”
each memory is an interim
state before the next forgotten
what goes must start
from inside this edge
there! – a glimpse of firelight
all through my brain
stuttering,
uttering sparks
intended to kindle
being
and I bootstrap
another I
unknowingly
Chagall 2019
all the music ever written
is as was intended, note for note
Chagall 2019
the slightest drizzle,
the random rat-a-tat
of raindrops on grass blades
bent, snapping at the tip
like hipsters
leaves shape small trampolines
upon which the raindrops somersault
albeit tiny bounces
and I am afloat on a miniature barge
with a sail on a makeshift mast
lost in the puddle there
down beyond the swirl of the eddies
where darker water flows,
where the current picks up speed –
clean, clear
manic speed
gliding – a downhill racer through the calm crest that lasts only a moment
to the fall that never ends
in a froth,
an oxygenated frenzy
(all a-bubble)
I am no more than the sum
of the rain and the stars
that comprise me
it had started
as such a light rain
Chagall 2019
9
…she said the men on the roof would go away if I breathed regular and counted to…
10
Nothing here
is now everywhere
and nowhere is quite center
Chagall 2019
