Category: Poetry


Not What You Think

...and I alone eye the Eye alone, 
and I am the only One

greetings from the asphalt
to the roaring rock, where 
in small shops along the shore 
beside the sea, she sells
her art

the sequin
on the elbow is
brilliant

bright red buildings 
down by the wharf,
that color commissioned
by the cousin of a king,
the pinkest of honey-crisps

where the wind knows not to rock
empty chairs, and the devil is unsure 
of the backdoor whereabouts

that's where the piece 
spends its nights,
awaiting your return
in the bump

cc: Chagall 2021

My Point of View

Birds flutter 
motionless 
in flight
the world turns quickly 
to make it appear 
they are flying

cc: Chagall 2021

Salve

Weep for all the damaged,
this normal state of being,
a pretense of perfection,
the epitome of petty hubris,
corporeal preference,
outpaced spirit

Live 
where you are 
when you are
who you are

Breathe enough
for your mind 
to space, freely 
roam

Unplug,
sever the tether,
rise above
inclement
weather

Atop clouds 
go cast ground shadows

Be light airily, 
imperfectly
human

cc: Chagall 2021





The Interplay of Fingers

I cry at the shatter,
my make-believe worlds
strewn about, chains of colorful 
toys on the ground

I crawl in anguish
for arms to raise me up
to hold me high overhead,
my back to the sky, the warm sun
secure in the loving nestle 
between cheek and shoulder

lost without words,
buoyed on this ocean,
your face with every bob
above waves

you are beautiful
beaded in water
and the world is
wonderful for I am
of you

(thank you for 
not letting me drown)

cc: Chagall 2021



The Evening Tableau

Consider that we rotate
into beams of starlight,
they are always there
while we are not 

phantom pinholes dance 
as night settles, as stars shine 
certain in darkness we know 
where but not when

even in day
we are bathed 
in starnight

with each moment we leave what was
to catch up ahead, plain to see absent the light

I once shone down from the space behind,
to illuminate from atop and I can attest
that there are no wires

just zephyrs 
and complicit meadow sprites,
as good reasons as any
in the low moss 
and creeping 
thyme

at the base of the blades of grass 
where traces of moon yet are found 

cc: Chagall 2021









What Sheep Are For

Rather than go to war,
I would wear heavy sweaters,
wouldn't you?

Look at woolly you!

cc: Chagall 2021

Open All Night

The spirit of my dad helped me today,
and I responded by telling him I would
send a crisp gin and tonic his way, and 
he smiled down on me, and I said, 
I will send 2, one for you and one for John,
my father-in-law passed, and then I said 3, 
one for Uncle Rocco, and another for Aunt Aida, 
and two for each Aunt Millie, and Mom, and Cousin Joe, 
and then I lost count

I'll just keep sending up shakers and lime
until you tell me enough

I hear a Hurrah
at the tip of my 
crisp, tart knowing
they're there

Salud, old friends

cc: Chagall 2021

Music and Language

I am no linguistic scholar,
but I am a linguaphile, and
I use languages I have inherited 
from my parents and their parents

and I have formally studied
Latin, Russian, Italian, French,
and I have noticed that 
languages are irregular in the
same places

the many come
leave behind
their verbs for 
to go and to have

to have come 
and to haven't
and then to have
went away

oh, 
when are they going to go...
or shall they never return?

humble tables,
oddly-strung lutes perfectly 
tune to the sound of waves

fingertips slur intonements
across nylon and rosewood
bounce between frets and land
as if on padded slippers

here is where the melody is and
there is where's harmony

there

cc: Chagall 2021

Ergo Sum

Behold, in my hand, I hold nothing 
save the stillness of the hour, the scent of inevitable tidings

My fingers pop at you rapid-fire, 
petals open and close, throbbing bewitchment

The light from fingertips writes neon in the dark
What you conjure is what you breathe

cc: Chagall 2021


Triplet Noir

She was slippery, like a wet tangerine seed
sliding across a slick tile floor, 
a trail of sweet streaks

I dim the desk-lamp low,
and sweep away the fine leather blotter,
for what is the point

Somewhere something is burning,
kindled, aflame, charred petals of burnt flowers,
atop the heady salt of sweet grass

sisi: Chagall 2021

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