As many possibilities for me
as there are stars in the sky
Strangely I feel
I can get to them all
© Chagall 2015
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The butterfly landed, I said
Stay with me, there’s nothing out there
but genetically modified milk thistle, what’s left of it
here it’s all good, all pure.
She lifted in a breeze, traced a crazy pattern
as Monarchs do, and for a moment I thought . . .
she got steadily smaller in sunlight and was gone.
© Chagall 2015
The cups we bought that day
so new now chipped away,
tucked aside in cupboards
rarely opened.
© Chagall 2015
The nudge that you feel, that bravado,
is your margin of error. You are mistook,
it’s really not a bad place to be.
© Chagall 2015
They say less is more.
Huh!
© Chagall 2015
All I want to do is merely erupt in so many ways as you’re thinking,
I need more of me to go around to surround her singularly.
No matter how hard I try I cannot conceive nor convey her essence in this space.
She was asked once if she always flew
down or preferred instead to land, to which she replied:
It’s merely the flying, what more could I want,
what more would one wish for?
I’ve broken my mind and my wings, so many times
wondering if she’d rather be elsewhere.
Her ankle and calf traces the cumulus cloudy nimbus that rains on me,
then it pours on us, ending as a cold-blue drizzle.
© Chagall 2015
Innovative sorts
Like Steve Jobs, only haiku
To the crazy ones
© Chagall 2015
Right ’round the time of my birthday in May
I start to trim down, in June wine and dine her,
in July bring her flowers and candy, so that
we can hook up some cool night in August
to loll and to make more May babies.
© Chagall 2015
Spectral howls beckon
High above the timberline
Where she begets stars
© Chagall 2015
Soon will be our turn
Grieving mothers in darkness
Suns die everyday
© Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 