Here at the center of all creation, light must pass
through me to arrive on the other side
© Chagall ∞
Category: Poetry
I pour water into the earth to watch it dissipate and percolate,
wondering where does the time go. The backs of my beach shoes
worn flat from my habit of not slipping in all the way,
my bare feet on warmed wood slats tell me I’m more alive now,
the sun underfoot, I am square, balanced atop the regolith,
a planet that spins and falls amid a din that I no longer hear,
the world that I see
as I follow the fan of my hand, implies all that there is
or nothing, depending solely on who I am, or no one.
© Chagall ∞
Don’t look at me.
© Chagall ∞
Which way do you read – up or down
How do you smile, like this or …
Kiss is universal, yes? Or do you vary
your pucker slightly
© Chagall ∞
I cup strawberries in my hand under a stream of freezing water
The sun’s heat, stubborn at first, relents and leaves the fruit
© Chagall ∞
I find my rightful place on the pin, thanks to the grace
of a million dancing angels
© Chagall ∞
HOW COME WE DON’T HEAR THAT MUCH ABOUT THE LUNAR PLEXUS? HUH!?!?
Rain.
My neighbor is playing classic rock, lost in the din
Of rain.
Cardinal calls pierce the sheet of sound, lovingly embrace
The rain.
All of life cascades in a downpour around me, I am lost as preordained
In the rain.
Saturation. Virginal daisies or is that camomile?
I am the rain.
I am every scent of lavender exposed in mist on warm nights
After the rain.
The softest drop of dew about to flee from thirsty petals
Before the rain.
Moonlight, peeking out from dying clouds,
Dreams of rain.
I lie beside you, fall through your gravity, you ask What’s it like inside?
I whisper Rain.
© Chagall ∞
1 on 1
between you and me
the irrational root
of this 2
has us puzzled
Chagall 2015
I search for the source, a vantage point
over which I hover to resonate, in order
to speak with alacrity, honored to be
the medium, the clarion voice,
le trompettiste; I flow and so
I’m a flower, a steady stream
of warm words awash in your ear,
the storm before the quell,
not merely a silent hour,
an end to separation,
a prelude to the loss
of the throb.
© Chagall ∞
