I stopped wearing white stockings.
It makes me look more intelligent.
© Chagall ∞
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There on the snow, the shadows of ancient flyers
perched atop rooflines, barring the sun.
© Chagall ∞
Please know that I will always click through
to your original post and will not feign having read it.
Thank you to those who do the same. I consider these folks
to be true readers. I don’t see how you can like a reblog
if you haven’t yet read the remaining half of the post that lies
there beyond the link that says “View Original Post – 300 more words.”
Thoughts?
© Chagall ∞
Do not aspire to sustain your compulsion.
© Chagall ∞
Hope is in sight, inverted
there on the optic nerve.
© Chagall ∞
I surf the voices in my head;
god let me land on one today
that I can live with, through
whom I can experience joy.
Instead, I fall through the
perforation that maps me topologic.
I am beneath the ice that I see cracked
everywhere, so … onward to the light!
I have left frozen lakes behind before.
The plush forest before me fills green with oxygen.
The errant calls, caws of life, pop from the canopy.
Arid sunlight, warm air, fills my face, my lungs, respectively.
We are moist and saline creatures with our own special scent of talc,
with eyes accustomed to deep focal points, we scan horizons.
Sadly, we discard all that we are so to be who we might,
astride upon waves with legs getting stronger everyday.
© Chagall ∞
Morning atop a large rock, a stone lily pad
in the middle of the stream a team-span wide
while cold waters lap at the edges, one can ride dry
at the high round rump. I’m here in perfectly old,
tattered blue-wool pullover weighted right against the vigor
of this new day; how wonderful so much morning remains
to while away.
Dense clusters of small gnatty flyers dance in ancient patterns
in the rays of early sun, radiant light, pervasive heat
waves in mirage, they flutter there bursting from vernal pools.
Rainbows used to dance here, leave small wakes, glide on eddies,
do backstrokes, with no one watching; masterful puppeteer of lightweight test,
set dry flies still, perfectly still, with but the slightest tremor, concentric break of the surface, from the rainbow’s vantage, just enough to stir curiosity,
a sniff, a poke, enough to spring the snap.
Nothing sadder than a…
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Fountains in the monsoon retain their poise,
the shape of their intended spume, the refraction
of light on water rainbows while a misted plume
seeks the space to assert itself.
© Chagall ∞
I enjoyed your poetry more when it was free.
© Chagall ∞
Peculiar droplets
Promise me that you’ll grow strong
The pour of spring rain
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 