There is the sound of water that hushes
each and every time I am near enough to listen
Chagall 2018
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Red hawk flies in snow
a visual form without sound
save the friction of miniature ice pellets
grating through the air
She recalls the sense of
having been once in echelon
Alights
alone on a frozen branch
to gaze into barren woods
intently
Warm for now
in updraft
Chagall 2018
You, with the strange telephone numbers who keep calling throughout the day
– go away!
Chagall 2018
I wish my mother was alive
so I could confirm with her
a memory I have of a song
my grandfather used to sing
Chagall 2018
I am the samba that remains unwritten
For the space between sand and sea
The dance upon rocks polished
By time made smooth in deep-water indigo
Bluer than wet waves, sails settle thusly at dusk
On horizons under constellations
Ceased to fail to bring grace
The incalculable wonder of eyes
The ponderous pout that poets beget
Forgotten before fadeaway
For the body, for warm city nights
For carousels, the songs they play
For the march of grand horses
Somewhere glasses touch, soft mallets
In search of the warm tone, the sensual rub of globes
I am that samba that snaps you back to the beach
In cool day, in bright coveted morning
A tip of the hat with a wink
Today is elementary sparkle
The samba that returns like the surf does
Though sometimes it stops
It’s true, so samba through
To the space between sand and sea
Samba to where you want to be
Leaning over the rail, a low balcony overlooks surf
A small fox at dusk darts furtively through the rough sandy brush
The backs of houses along the dunes along the beach along the ocean
Darkness settles on salted breezes aromatic with land crabs
Less fearful to exit their holes this time of day right before night
When the number of stars and wan atmosphere rival the majesty, the ocean’s roar
In pitch blackness, the world of the blind
The roar of sound dominates the ear
So goes the body
ere the fall of the mind
I am the waves you hear
Of this there is no denying
I am the song of the samba receding
Chagall 2018
Once in a landslide
I came to the edge
two steps away
from the fall
Carefully balanced
as if on trapeze
I prayed for
the crumble
To fall steady down
wind from anywhere
Anyone who cared could tell
I’d been asleep for a while
One final fingertip
scratches the ground
catching my breath
precedes free fall
then gravity
sinking, no water fills in the space
between me and the sky I float
down parting ways
Astride this time
unlike any I’ve ever ridden
must be the final wave
In crisp articulation
impressed on bottom sand
Running wild water angels
Awake in their trace
I lie down
© Chagall ∞
To Wit
I’ve yet seen a sign to point the way
I’d surely high-step if it were
Chagall 2018
In the warm release of night
moist air brings humid soil
smell deep into the lungs
a reminder of earth’s saga
rains from long ago still fall
each sad hope misted in gray morning
pastels of ancient chalked lines upon ebon rock
my heart’s ebb and flow
beats solemnly if not persistent
in the first shadows of new day
through the golden light of noon
at odder angles than any before
I reach to clutch to grasp
the meaning but rhyme rears her head instead
maybe I am better off dancing
perhaps I could sing lullabies
syllables of beautiful melody
signifying sunsets and falls
In the warm release of night
I breathe in deeply
to breathe out
to cease to shake
uncontrollably
in awe
awakened
rapt in the star field
Chagall 2018
lately we have grown more
accustomed to dissonant tones
songs awash with odd intervals
persist on tongue before mind
despite all of our efforts
to shake and rattle and roll them
to forestall outcomes not yet
a far gone conclusion
the quality of light this late in the day
fills me with hope for yet another
Chagall 2018
No need to read this, or to like it, or to comment.
As you were.
Chagall 2018
Alphabet City 