Together we are I am the rain, you are wind Come now and blow me Chagall 2020
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I nurse a big wad of green tea through three steeps from noon until midday with the first brew I surmise the fate of the wind and the rain the second brings me joy while I stretch luxuriantly and here am I with the third shall we read our leaves? Chagall 2020
I have the same wonder for stars as my Mother, knowing there's one for each of us of the stars we are She said with each navel God proclaimed You're done! with a celebratory twist of her finger to coil the cord tight I asked her how did she know it was me, knowing at the time I was somehow destined to be her baby, less knowing of the biology of how such could be so, imagining myself lost in a sea of babies in bassinets, her face pressed against a glass trying to find me And my Mother simply said You smiled in my head are many stars Chagall 2020
In late Summer, an Eastern Bluebird crashed into my window, knocking herself unconscious. Hearing the loud thud of her small head hitting glass, I ran outside to see her there on the ground, curled and still. Picking up a spray bottle filled with water that I keep near the grill to fight flare-ups, switching the nozzle from diffuse spray to a hard stream, I proceeded to inundate the bird's body with strong invigorating pulses of water, while shouting out prayers and encouragement, attempting to resurrect the life left within. Suddenly the bluebird jumped to its feet, and stood there a moment, dazed and confused, a miniature feathered Lazarus, shook itself as if after a bath, water splaying off her body, she whistled a quick song in my direction and flew off, albeit a bit shakily. Weeks pass and I am outside enjoying the last remnants of warm weather that Autumn offers, playing acoustic guitar in the backyard, sheets of Cole Porter and Gershwin tunes flapping, paper-clipped to my music stand. As I work my way through the intricacies of Someone to Watch Over Me, I am startled by a sudden flurry of wings about me. Two Eastern Bluebirds alight, one on the music stand, and one on a nearby watering can, while a third hovers like a hummingbird at eye-level, trilling a lovely song directly to me. She is unafraid and wholly engaged in her task there before me. Looking closely, I can see the slightest flattening of the bird's crown, where she made contact with the window weeks before. I feel my breath catch hard in my throat, and I begin to cry, knowing that this is a small party come to thank me. As they fly away, I send a cascade of arpeggios to follow them, filled with love, you're welcome, and thank you, from this humbled human. Chagall 2020
I am standing here over the ramparts, watching, and I am happy to announce... Chagall 2020
Hey - whispers are ALWAYS faint. Chagall 2020
I'd been digging for hours through the avalanche atop me, desperate to reach surface. When I broke into a large warm pocket of air inside the snow, I started to cry from joy, anticipating I was near, until I realized my tears floating upward Chagall 2020
lack of words does not imply nothingness as no one would be able to infer the symbols omitted no intonation of internal sounds would ever arise, no cloudy shapes to morph and billow like sails in gray fog froth dissolves leaves fine residue oh what paths we weave Chagall 2020
The small tawny dog trots through the empty rooms to the closed bedroom door, circles and eventually falls into the arc of its tracing to alight on the tattered carpet that lies at the transom there. Awaiting... Chagall 2020
I have no Drafts awaiting revision so I must think anew, fresh out of the grey box The space behind my eyes settles into the space before my eyes, contentedly I hear a bird, perhaps one-hundred yards away, that sounds like a French police horn, all treble, no punch like the real thing Sitting forward in my chair at the edge, I pop the back of the seat cushion into the air, but it settles down when I plant my feet squarely The tiniest of gnats, perhaps birthed of the late-season green tomatoes, navigates the menu bar of my blog Good name for a band - Ladies and gentlemen, The Late Green Tomatoes! Fucking gnat wants to enter one of the orifices on my face Returning to center, to a silent calm that hadn't been there ...witness this moment's slip to the next, I glance back then ahead - look both ways before not crossing at the green, not in-between the time that falls like rain My father once told me he could weave through raindrops and not get touched - stay dry even in a downpour They say that there are laws of conservation at work in the universe. Where do the good energies go when they die? Chagall 2020
Alphabet City 