Category: Writing


Progress

I’ve got 98 drafts but nary a moment
and darling I don’t mean beers.
Beginnings I write really really well,
it’s the endings that leave me cool.
So I pick one at random and here’s what I got.
Now 97 more to go.

© Chagall 2016

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Ecstatic Illogic

If
you’re aware
that
you’re praying
then
you’re not.

Chagall 2016

Once Again, Battenkill

Morning atop a large rock, a stone lily pad
in the middle of the stream a team-span wide
while cold waters lap at the edges, one can ride dry
at the high round rump. I’m here in perfectly old,
tattered blue-wool pullover weighted right against the vigor
of this new day; how wonderful so much morning remains
to while away.

Dense clusters of small gnatty flyers dance in ancient patterns
in the rays of early sun, radiant light, pervasive heat
waves in mirage, they flutter there bursting from vernal pools.

Rainbows used to dance here, leave small wakes, glide on eddies,
do backstrokes, with no one watching; masterful puppeteer of lightweight test,
set dry flies still, perfectly still, with but the slightest tremor, concentric break of the surface, from the rainbow’s vantage, just enough to stir curiosity,
a sniff, a poke, enough to spring the snap.

Nothing sadder than a rainbow in mid-air, regretting prior impulse,
the change is sudden, inevitable, decisive.

Snow on Battenkill falls in crunches, bunches in feet to yards
high, the wisteria that bough low to the banks, shaggy warm under cold,
lilac tongues out panting, with winter body heat home to dead butterfly larvae;
dome holds the sound in, the sound out; you can walk anywhere,
the terrain is level, white and wet.

Though not witnessed by anyone or anything, I left footprints in November
in the carry along the north rise, that held their shape and depth,
through March.

I look forward to final frost, to clear and distinct birthing,
of all that is, there ever was; the future is merely supposition,
isn’t it? The ice, the same as the dew.

I would rather choke on the freezing waters filled with silt from the moving
running bottom, than trapped in the upper layers locked frozen in time.

Chagall 2016

Please see here for the original Battenkill

1
The ray of light
on return to the sun
discovered she wasn’t
so special at all

(agonizingly long intermission, theater in total darkness, misty haze in lieu of vibraphone tones to alert the Watchers that the show is resuming)

2
Whatever your form
you’re divine

Chagall 2016

Not Just One

The world is soothed by soft refrains,
life’s lulling opioids amass to mask
all pain and sorrow

If you existed you’d know the same as I
in footsteps misted, feet of holy water
just barely enough to drown in

Chagall 2016

The 1

The pigeon mumbler
on East 12th Street
released his flock
at the same time
Papo’s kite took flight
resulting in tangled
echelon high above New York,
while I
on my fire escape
midway through 100
sun salutations got
caught in the fray
toppling 7 stories
to hard cement, dead
but for a moment exactly
as per the prophecy

Chagall 2016

J’Accuse

The shaman’s
a scam and
the sandman
knows it!

Chagall 2016

Camels – No Filter

Here’s what we do
’cause we’ve got to get ready

Listen to propagandists less
for what they say and
more for what they don’t

They all purport a hale hello
but we all know

They really mean
goodbye

Chagall 2016

She waits.
Starlight
appears
now. Then
she cries
softly
alone.

Chagall 2016

Tis!

Existence
is is-ism, isn’t
it?

Chagall 2016

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