Those who take pride in telling it like it is,
and letting you know that they’re the sort who tell it like it is,
and of whom others refer as those who like to tell it like it is,
rarely – if ever – like to be told what it’s like.
Chagall 2019
Sometimes I forget where you are,
what day it is, but rather than
panic I revel in the freefall
of not knowing.
Chagall 2019
I was surprised to see
when I finally looked up,
how many things are falling.
Chagall 2019
she complains that
I don’t do nothing
I yell back
Who the hell do you think dead-heads the marigolds!
Chagall 2019
The heat and moisture from her hand is
sufficient to poach the wild sorrel,
on seeded salted buttered bread,
we wash it away with sips of cold brook
Chagall 2019
I am sailing now for many days,
perhaps weeks, maybe years,
a slow bob onward to the light,
small there, unchanging in the darkness,
very far away
The calls of nightbirds
close in the surround of
the low sky
A warm breeze though, there is no chill
to thwart my hope
Once upon a calm sea a large moon rose and
filled the black hollow with golden gray
The sound of the waves there
against the rocks, without an ear in sight
to hear, haunts me everyday
Back to the light
turned around
soft spikes of sunspots sparkle
peonies of fireworks
explode without sound
Back to the light
within
Chagall 2019
if we were land-locked on all sides,
with green, red, yellow, brown, tan, and beige folks
bubbling into the pot, each from their respective border,
via all modes of carriage, overrunning our systems, our securities,
and we as natives – those already here, the green, red, yellow, brown,
tan and beige among us – have the inclination to protest and seek greater
controls, would we be racists and any less humanitarian?
CHagall 2019
a damselfly at the feeder
dreams she’s a hummingbird
Chagall 2019
bluejay
windowpane
suicide
Chagall 2019
Arrogantly she asked if I was awoke.
I said no, still sleeping and blissfully dreaming, thank you.
Chagall 2019
