Category: Poetry

E.g. Corners

I hate a push-broom;
there are times you
just can’t get
behind the dirt.

Chagall 2019

After All Gone, After All

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

The Sum Greater

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

Time To Continuity

this morning I awoke frightened,
startled by the abrupt start
of the backup engines that propel

Chagall 2019

Cognition Ignition

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

uttering sparks
intended to kindle

and I bootstrap
another I


Chagall 2019

The Score

all the music ever written
is as was intended, note for note

Chagall 2019

First There is Silence

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

Fingers Crossed-Eyes Closed

…she said the men on the roof would go away if I breathed regular and counted to…


Nothing here
is now everywhere
and nowhere is quite center

Chagall 2019

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