You
the final ray of
sun on her face
Tell me,
did she lower her eyes and
were her cheeks flushed?
© Chagall ∞
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She’s a circling gull and
I am a flash among shoals.
She swoops me up and
then she releases
for I am not what she seeks.
I wash away once more to be beached
yet again on the sand down the shore
amid shells and kelp, content atop smooth
sunbaked eroded rock.
© Chagall ∞
In an instant the sound of the ocean ceased
and in that vacuum nothing remained
save the din of human voices.
© Chagall ∞
Calliope, pentateuch, kombu bay-bay
Chukka boot a Buddha yay!
© Chagall ∞
I am as young as this moment allows but no less.
Someday I’ll have been here again.
© Chagall ∞
Politicians, given the floor, feign this pensive, ponderous persona, 90 percent bullshit and 10 percent ill-formed question. I am amazed purple – red and blue, if you were wondering – that this is the cream of our crop. (Primal scream here)
© Chagall ∞
I am intrigued by her etcetera,
the ellipsis she dangles without
modifier, the comma of her petulant
being, the subtle contour of her fonts,
the page she splays open while she sings
hymns to the bare branch, the storm
she incites with mere thought. She needs
no blessing nor permission to spin
maniacally as she pleases, a dervish,
a twirl.
© Chagall ∞
I wink at the blind to catch their eye,
proposition the deaf for an ear, my lips move
to articulate tongues, arcane and garbled
chicanery, while fools wisely ignore the signs
to take heed.
In a tunnel that escapes me
thoughts meander, drifts blown ash
from fires once hot, close enough to burn
now cold, cinders reassemble not so easily these days,
but I try.
On the outside off the inside
under overcast tops ‘neath the shade,
is where I fail to succeed to be
what I’m not. And I find that I’m lost,
but I really don’t care, concernedly.
You are the essential wholeness of nothing,
everything wrapped into one and one,
she to others, just shy of a crowd.
As today marks the end
yesterday clears its promise
and I’m face-flat against the white wall
once again.
© Chagall 2014
The amaryllis she planted bloomed
when she was no longer there.
Red passionate flower unseen
follows the sun regardless.
A peacock-fan of fronds protects
the stem.
It’s a virus that striates the petals,
imbues them with streaks of pinks.
Where she kneeled to sow, the earth
holds two soft dimples still.
These well with water on rainy days
but dry quite sere in full sun.
I am overwhelmed by sight, smell
and sound, this day just like then.
I close my eyes, open my heart,
to hear and to feel her again.
© Chagall ∞
I will write free verse
of the universe, letters as galaxies,
implied points clear as constellations,
stars appear closer than they seem
when seen from light years away across
the paragraphs. I invert my event horizon
to search within and strew about the detritus
of my being, hence this ramble, these lines,
served up on the tines of synapse.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 