I would swear she just said
philo-phis-ophical surpise-isses
Chagall 2018
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I project the softest of thoughts into the weathered image,
appropriately round to resemble the heather edge.
I mute my colors – a darkened frame,
the rustic ground on which I lie.
The smell is a cave’s wet mildew, dark cool echoes,
an intensely exciting sense of something about to happen.
To pause now is good – to cease perhaps profound.
I escape what I see, elide its impression so that
it’s seen like a fallen tree having made no sound,
felled and silent, without remnant of trespass.
The day adorns itself with spectacular patches of sunlight
here and there, now and then niched in a place I know,
almost but not quite forgotten.
Away to windows lovers will fly like flashes to see starlight
tonight before clouds roll in.
The day turns to a dark powder, a granular graphite that is
oddly breathable and invigorating. I inhale deeply.
Chagall 2018
A young african-american child on a plateau in full-sun sings angelically – operatically
(Not sure if it is a boy or a girl – is that relevant?
That the child is african-american is probably not needed either)
So a child – a young human being –
a being?
innocence really – from atop this majestic plain
yes?
rears its head and in clarion voice
exalts the heavens
Chagall 2018
Concentric rainbows
Not merely arcs of color
Full vibrant spirals
Violet, blue, indigo
These soothe unlike the others
Chagall 2018
I haven’t seen many philatelists lately
with their square tongues and perforated bubbly saliva
affixing stamps in neat little pages of boxes
Prizes from all over the world and times
of yore, tiny vignettes of who we are and
who we have been in square-inches
Marked in currencies frankly no longer around
in denominations too small to matter any longer
but I knew a girl from there once
To convey ones thoughts at one time was much dearer
As a child I would send self-addressed unstamped envelopes
in envelopes addressed to the government (stamped of course)
requesting first-day-of-issue stamps
Pristine inaugurations in thumbnail landscape
postmarked to commemorate the christening event,
a landmark in posterity – oh, a new stamp!
The idea that we have ideas to convey
to others that we would pay to have delivered
in good faith by others
But now
feeling un-affixed and postage due
I upload this onto my pressed wordblog for you
Chagall 2018
I shall start quite arbitrarily
thousands of pages in
with To Wordsworth
P.B. Shelley
1792-1822
and read
up until
the end.
Chagall 2018
The other side breathes
Eulogies in haiku verse
Exhales into God
The other side breathes
Creating equilibrium
The ledger righted
Indistinct voices
Eulogies in haiku verse
Enchanted mantra
Sound astounds the air
The earth stirs when resonant
Exhales into God
Chagall 2018
Revises and extends earlier posting of same name
The other side breathes
Eulogy in haiku verse
Exhale into God
Chagall 2018
Sometimes I sit at the piano and shape chord forms freely in space,
handsome constructions of arched fingers in opposing motions,
in search of dissonance over harmony
While she randomly intones beautiful sonority, sounds like words
aimed at the more resonant chambers of the room, her voice round
with a touch of rasp to engage the world-weary
Her melody shifts at odd intervals, the tempo-free meter floats
in time and heart, in perfect poise aligned without tonic,
we resolve at will, or not at all, the upper partials of our tensions
We modulate to a better point of view on life, its victories
and more often of late, its sweet despairs, which no one key
can capture, paint, hold or release
How many times we have stopped mid-phrase
and have kissed madly – over the top – operatic,
without losing the tone nor the shape of our song
Chagall 2018
(This is a revised excerpt from an earlier piece found here)
Reciting what’s on my mind,
in the same vein,
a similar wave
Around those corners
again, colors seen before,
yesterday’s song on the breeze
What’s new,
or old but newly seen,
or rarely ridden?
Atop looking down
I brace against a steep dive
aloft in the timberline
There’s water in the wind tunnel,
hot pellets belt my face,
sting then drip warm, turning cool
In S-curves at high speeds,
aimed for the apex of the turn each time,
carefully – blending quickly
You are only the gap between fingertips
away from me now, hold on
but the waters let go
I once stood in awe at a sepulcher
for someone I would never have known
if not for you
The water washes away chalky words on the ground
that once appeared to have so much meaning
so soon right before the rains
Boxcars and oxtails, firelights along rails
where hope emblazons faces seen
still from so far away
Hear songs from a fell
in the forest, dark evergreen
intervals of tone – listen
There beyond lies the hem of time
weaving an edge, unraveling
the fabric ahead
I heard her by the pool say she was 55,
her boy was 9 – had older brothers near 30,
and their relationship was a joy to witness
How long have I been
bobbing, suspended
here?
I try to find and ride
the random but plentiful updrafts of life
naturally on offer
The immediacy of sunlight in mid-air,
in flight from out-there to us
is earth’s joy
(Pardon me, I need to step back a moment
to see if I have alit yet again
in the same vein)
Chagall 2018
Alphabet City 