I never wanted anything more
than nothing less.
© Chagall ∞
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Imagine silence
Barren fields glow red neon
Now torrential rain
© Chagall ∞
Is poetry the poignancy
of thought or is it the
syncopation, the flowing
water of sound from page
to ear? Rivulets of tone
wash over you, leave you
untethered; to slip away,
stealthily glide to the
ether, is all I ever wanted.
© Chagall ∞
In my tub there is a dish
tied to the rim with a rope
and in that dish there is a bar,
a bar of raspberry soap. One day
I scrubbed and lathered clean with
my bar of purple delight, I went to
work where people asked if of me could
they please take a bite. I fought them off
the whole day long, quitting time rolled near.
Soon I would be alone with that soap I held so dear.
The office cleared, an echoing hush, everyone left the grounds.
I ran to the john, lathered my soap, and made little raspberry sounds.
© Chagall ∞
Everyday I find myself
with less incentive,
diminished energy;
subdued, I stoke
my flame for
the long
haul.
© Chagall ∞
I’ve nowhere to turn except
to the expression of the timeless.
Though I am tired I forge ahead
convinced that the road leads direct
to the fount of some wisdom yet
undiscovered. Sadly, I am mistaken.
© Chagall ∞
I had merely pointed out that one could actually
wash the pot out while waiting for the oatmeal to cool.
© Chagall ∞
With moral north poles pointing everywhere
I instead choose to fold inward along the
outline of every petal of my being.
© Chagall ∞
Exhaustion is a rollup shade,
comes down over inner light
to cast shadows that run too
deep, bluer than cold black.
Oddly, since I can see that
I am invigorated, renewed. I
am outside of the physical
debris; I am beyond the miasma.
© Chagall ∞
She said
It’s just up ahead
keep coming!
then
she was gone
around the turn
a chorus of voices
faint but not
far away
more like color
than sound
paints a mist
I cannot gather
how quiet
her exit
all form
is shattered
how delicate
the ties that bind
how quickly before
we can say
the kiss
lingered
© Chagall 2013
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