Light leaves stars
360 trillion miles away,
at the moment of my birth,
and is just now arriving on the
glass of the lens of my scope.
It’s what a light year’s for.
The spark on the wick
of a candle on the cake
of a newborn, lights up
the world, the heavens.
Or what’s a Messiah for?
Chagall 2018
We fall, rather than orbit,
albeit quite motionless,
at rest in our own eyes,
but out there…
Arcs and slingshots,
perturbation, all in
the shape of parabolae
In the name of creation
Blue is the essence,
it dabs at our eyes
from without, within
Time stops on a ride
atop light beams
Light arrives everywhere, anywhere,
at the moment it begins
the journey
At rest in its own eyes,
but in here…
Chagall 2018
I have a fear of falling through the net, becoming homeless, and riding in
empty train cars for the rest of my life.
Call me hobophobic.
Chagall 2018
Irrepressible
this urge to resist dying till tomorrow
Chagall 2018
I returned many years later
to that place where summers we spent,
different this time than long ago,
to find there at the garden edge
the tall yellow sun-choke flowers
we planted, then expecting rain.
Their petals sought golden sun once
as we, naive and cavalier,
younger than now, of course, for time
moves as a wave before cresting,
we drown under water always
breathlessly awaiting the float.
From tubers spring vibrant color,
to tickle an iris or two,
the twin soul of our conjoined hearts
emanates eternal stamen,
anthers and pistils of sacred love,
though throughout we die perennial.
The sun-chokes have spread, moved downhill
beyond their original stand,
underground stirs desire to grow,
absorb, envelop, and conquer,
terrains outside of the making;
the soft rains still fall in one heart.
Chagall 2018
Tonight
I am scheduled to
ascend
in cold twilight
arms hung limp legs
akimbo
a flying
marionette
backlit
stark upon
ebon sky
At the
apex
looking down
I will miss you all
before I am cast up
away
Chagall 2018
I felt it die, quite tangibly,
the fire inside, desire
to reach for stars, not settle
sometimes I stare straight ahead
for minutes awaiting some impulse
to move
spun wheels
in a mud of my making
pretending the usual will do
I have grown to accept
being insufficiently content
lacking the elusive prize
occasionally I rally,
the moment rushes, wells
in my chest
but I’m a dying match
my conflagration
never comes
I miss having purpose
Chagall 2018
I eye the bourbon, the color of honey,
then dab my index and pointer fingers
into the surface of the liquid, catching
a bead or two of the liquor there
where the digits meet, I briskly inhale
to immerse my nostrils in the caramel pungency
of whiskey there at the tips – I follow
with the lightest of touches of the amber to my upper lip,
just a daub to get better acquainted, a deep breath and then
a long haul that traces the cascade from glass to tongue to
epiglottis to stomach to blood system – low bass rhythm stirs,
moves the feet a bit, incites meringue – or maybe samba,
a choice I ponder while pouring a second long draught.
Chagall 2018
He asked Olga, do you mind if we clear a spot to work here? We don’t want to bother you.
She said Ziggy, please stop bothering me.
He said Thank you, Olga. You’re a doll.
Chagall 2018
It’s just an old house settling,
sighing really, expelling laughter
under cold timbers
in autumn,
as houses do – actually a handful of times
each year, though seldom we notice
As spring turns to summer, sun on wood
pops alive yellow, breathy new petals,
cool dew, moist loam
Under rain gear, in galoshes, I dare
every puddle to step aside, I’m stomping in,
warm or cold, for somewhere a towel is waiting
Snow is never too heavy
on the rooftop, buoyed by the lift of moonlight
In the window under the eave, a golden glow,
a triangle of candlelight carved in space with your face
there in the glass
I am entranced by the amber glow of my neighbor’s light
there from the woods beside us – it spills into and fills
the night between our homes; I am elated by that promise
Once as a kid in the attic I lay on my back, my head hanging down off a beam,
the ceiling the floor, lights things to walk around, pretending
the world upside-down.
Outside the window the clouds are the ground,
I fall down but oddly sail up,
white on blue, I tumble
wildly
Once a kite got stuck round the chimney,
beautiful in sunlight through the day,
for many seasons, never to blow away
Until finally the faded-linen flyer released and slid along
the smooth contour of its frame, off the roof, pulling its
long braided bridle behind, to slice through the air in a final
throe, a goodbye wave in descent
It had been nearly 300 days since
the kite had left ground
Chagall 2018
Alphabet City 