Sunday early eve
eastern standard
time
Her parents are old
but still alive
and mine are still
quite dead
We both hang on
we four
Plus others within
our gravity
We call
family
Our love traces
many roots
to get here
We are leaves, we are buds
on a tree growing
Sunday early eve
eastern standard
time
Chagall 2015
She passed, the lady
who crocheted scarves
for favorite toys
Stuffed pandas sported
lilacs and greens
snug against cold
muffled happy in sound
wool splendor
Her nieces and nephews
all loved her
lined up like urchins
in top hat and dragging tails
Life cleaves carved
runners in the snow
they fade behind
or loom before
who is certain
in the blur
crinkle of snowfall
a solitary bell
She nods, beckons
Godspeed, good night
clutching her bag of yarns
Chagall 2015
She said You have a good ear
My mind choked on the flood
of potential and witty retorts
Instead all I said was Thank You
Chagall 2015
slow moving clouds golden linings frilly peach
white edges glide through blue sky
i dance like a zephyr
in treetops i listen
frosted wintry stars
ancient calls to yonder
window breaks she reaches
my hand slips she falls
falling backwards
in midair
float
gently
down
to
the ground
Chagall 2015
And when he leaves she finds small gifts
tucked away, odd corners
nonpareils
cherries
bittersweet sandies
Chagall 2015
Intrigued, I asked her
could I peek behind the veil.
She obliged.
I’ve been immobile
since.
Condemned
to a single thought.
Intrigued, I had asked her.
Chagall 2015
Hey, don’t look at me
if you don’t know how
to use the ingredient
My taste tests
are pretty fine
Chagall 2015
A shooting star
twilit celestial filaments
across my lashes no longer than half-an-inch
yet up there the fantail of light
is twice many billion miles
nearer than your lips and heart
to mine.
We caress at time’s edge
under corona, or maybe it’s umbra
but who’s to say?
Steady pulse
of shade to light
shadow to crown and
you to rain.
We are leaves invert
we are tips of roots
we are that from which all is derived
we are constellations.
We have begat
the universe
that which is
out there
is small.
Chagall 2015
The faster I plunge
the better I feel.
Getting dizzy near blackout?
Shut down.
Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 