From tiny clinging tendrils of truth
we are leafs like nodes of illusion.
I feel the veining that buoys me,
a sail in the wind that I keep
on course to a true line.
© Chagall 2014
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When whoever I am shall die,
the need for persistence to be
ceases, without desire to resurrect,
then I can be certain to understand
the love that exists without me.
I am without pain in ceaseless abandon
to the current, regretting when I miss me.
So much joy at the tipping point of sorrow,
my action is my will for us to be timeless.
© Chagall 2014
The scent outside’s all mine
cold, wet, nighttime pine
I pour two-fingers
shoot it and howl
Into the wetlands I go
hi ho!
© Chagall 2014
I read my life
the plot thickens
and pages get dog-eared
How I love the denouement
the prologue, a scan of an index
the year of copyright
Can’t put me down not yet
just another chapter or two
before turning out the light
© Chagall 2014
On a scale
from one to ten
just how good
was that chow fen?
© Chagall 2014
Saltwater frozen
floes dark violet
watch crystals
Aquinas on lust
Venus globally warm
Arctic arrows hunt
stones cut stars on top
en cabochon
© Chagall 2014
That last night Chloe said
I’d rather die in your arms
than not die at all
© Chagall 2014
I imagine woods where snow falls still
in dark along a fieldstone wall that separates the fires
Hickory smoke like old gray wool, natty dressed in starlight,
the steam of living creatures is crystal in the air, tears
crunch underfoot, whose tears they are
I think I know
© Chagall 2014
On the boat ride here
we were young, unwashed,
and filled with hope
of soaring graceful years
to come built on freedom
hard work and undying
unconditional love
for one another, never once
anticipating the sociopathy
of the current age
© Chagall 2014
Like a toe into water
the word pushes onto the page
testing . . . no, that’s not quite right
Paris morning, chill of the starry night
warmed by copper . . . nix
I inhale deeply and shape my mouth to her’s
at right angles, I gently exhale
her cheeks bellow, her eyes open
and our heart begins to beat . . . maybe
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 