Alphabet City

A little bit of Afghan
atop the Blue and Durban,
helps me to cope with my day

Chagall 2020

Gaia herself is a spinning Jenny,
a celestial whirlamajig
upon which new-born hummingbirds
ride shotgun atop butterflies 
together tracing erratic patterns 
while doily-skinned polynoses
copter to the ground from maple canopies

each of these 
is a samara

everywhere
life is a twirl

Chagall 2020

I searched every tonal koan and cranny,
every nook and canary-yellow,
but still I did not find you

Traversed eons, then ions,
kept my eye on the prize,
when crossing looked left first

I saw you'd left
no note, nor song, 
nor rhyme scheme, 
though the author,
songstress, and poet,
were there 

until she wasn't

Looking back to the way we looked forward,
it is hard to contemplate how easy it was
to detour so widely

So wildly the winds once blew your sails,
hale gale force gulping big riptides
in its froth the surface found calm
spent by its constant churning
to mind the heart

for to mine love once must sometimes dig deep, 
rarely does it simply lie there 

on the ground unattended
perhaps I lie to myself

underground, I was once fully attentive,
with each new birth I earn, I learn 
to continue to be so

to distill the most from each breath
of each life

vigilant consciousness
on the alert for 
any impending
rapture

Chagall 2020

tiny polynoses
sink in the sky
spin little jenny
atop the not seen
seek joy in loss

Chagall 2020

I watched my neighbor's dog one summer,
we quickly bonded over treats and runs,
and she'd lie on the porch in the sun all day,
while I played solo jazz on guitar
to serenade her

I know in September she missed me deeply,
or so I'd like to think

I wouldn't blame her
if maybe she missed more the Cole Porter

Chagall 2020

• Sadistic yetis yet to come
• The Ethereal Theatre
• Promise me more posies
• Elephants shan’t leap
• Second-hand chandelier relics
• Candelabra brassiere clasp
• An inch of nipple pinch

• The illegitimate subterfuge of starlight
• Mediterranean terroir
• Pages of grapes
• Cast-iron iconoclasts
• Spherical laughing cones
• Celebrate tribal barnacles
• Iron-on illustrations of ions
• One final fling long ago

Chagall 2020

This is the summer of the indigo butterfly,
so purple-blue almost black, 
her wings trimmed in subtle buttery-yellow piping,
in flight she is less erratic than others 
yet the path is more uncertain, 
unpredictable in her acquiescence to the whim of the wind

Chagall 2020

 

Inside out, stout ideas
and robust blustering,
through this well-lit box,
extraordinary measures

here's to your mind where these words now flow,
once removed from mine

no more oceanic
for the tongue wants to name all
and so we sink rather than swim

forgive me
there was no way 
for you to know...except for words

let's make beautiful language together,
forego the words

Chagall 2020

Angels atop 
the pin's head

No one
dancing

Chagall 2020