Alphabet City

and I have nothing to say today,
at least – my friend – nothing old

nothing to calm or sedate you,
no tried nor true bromide to take twice today

a new recurring thought
grinds its gears in my mind

ceaselessly whispers
there beneath the garden’s din

bids me to enter,
its finger to its lips to shush me

furtive glances about
to assure no one is watching

a doorman at a speakeasy,
the guard at the shooting gallery

an open mind is the password
that enables entry

once inside you find yourself
outside, everywhere

in every face,
every flower

oddly, there is a wind that blows even here,
at the speed of gale force, carries us away

erases us, despite any desire on our part
for it not to

Chagall 2020

love is a prime number,
divisible only by itself
and One

…security is implemented
through keys derived
from high order primes…

yet I feel so insecure
about love

that old dilemma
of loving versus being
in love

can one
love being
in love?

can two
be in love
with loving?

can one love
without knowing?

can two
ever know?

sometimes two never know,
fail to discover

love is also
divisible by zero

imagine that

Chagall 2020

Hear that?
The woeful harmony of the cognitively dissonant.

Chagall 2020

one needn’t be brave
to die a death of a thousand kisses

…once there was a heart,
there! I said sharply, jabbing
her breast with my finger
repeatedly, there!
that was where love once was…

is my sorrow for your future
the same as love?

love is in the eyes that lift skyward

the esteem of newfound hope
for those trodden down

the thought of sharing the road
– the sun-bleached endless morning road –
hand-in-hand, with so much day still ahead,
with you

with all the days still ahead,
though the first few in the queue
are all that are ever ours

a whirling eddy
of faces and feeling,
fleet until fled

life without us goes on,
a snow-globe we shake
then observe from afar

like an Escher hand we curve
about ourselves to hold ourselves:
we are nought but paradox

a pair of hearts we call our own
but never quite control
fully

nor understand
wholly

at the moment when your lips last part,
you will tell me if one need be brave

Chagall 2020

I need that the lilacs not die this year,
I need that the lilacs don’t die,
I need them at bloom throughout the year,
I need that the lilacs not die

I need that the full moons don’t fade away,
I need that the full moons not fade,
I them them to light up the sky each night,
I need that the full moons don’t fade

I need that the seasons spin long this year,
I need them to spin ’round and long,
I need to know earth continues to live,
I need that the seasons spin long

I need that our loved ones not die this year,
I need that our loved ones don’t fade,
I need that our loved ones spin long happy years…

I need that our loved ones stay here

Chagall 2020

She had asked about love,
what it was, how’d you know,
and I replied did she know about color,
specifically blue, and also the absence of color,
like black and white – though I never quite understood myself
how things so stark could be absent anything, let alone color,
left alone one feels the gravity of bodies in orbit more acutely,
understands perfectly the missing piece of another alongside, a lover, a duet,
a partner to say …maybe the blue sweater then?
so I said forget about color, that was long ago
when eyes could see out, unlike now peering
only in, once there was a heart,
there! I said sharply, jabbing
her breast with my finger
repeatedly, there!
there was where
love once was

Chagall 2020

I talk to myself of late,
Hey you kids, get out of that yard
I scream

Little do I know that I am the one here to frolic,
to ramble among the emerging marigolds

There are no words to describe this sun
on dewy grass, the sense of timeless morning

Time to idle, to while away, to bask…luxuriate!…
to immerse myself as if breathing underwater,
I swallow passing moments like amniotic droplets,
the sensual tug of the cord coaxes, connects me to knowing

I’m warning you, get out of that garden!

In peace I bring the old man a bouquet,
small trumpets of bougainvillea and tatted breath of babies,
the lace of Queen Anne twined about a sprig of evergreen,
a tad of the flutter of damselfly wing

In peace I come,
soon I shall take my leave

Chagall 2020

Hawks perish mid-air
Eyes wide open, brisk descent
Tracers in blue sky

© Chagall 2014

Conspiracy theories?
Please! Where’s your imagination?
Pretend you are a villainous leader,
let your mind go wild. The diabolical plots
conceived are not fiction – they are real.
Ask Machiavelli – if you can get him to stop laughing in his grave.

Chagall 2020

Act One
I exchange birdcalls with a tiny wren at perch on my fence post,
and I realize that even an approximation of the song in response
is enough to affirm our mutual existence.

Act Two
The perlite, wet from the hose water, shines bright white under the sun,
as I poke holes in the grow mix with the narrow end of an old chopstick,
to receive the roots of seedlings I transplant.

Act Three
The lilac near the porch is at full fragrance and pink-bud-color;
I am transfigured, intoxicated by this world that accommodates such aroma
and visual beauty; sadly this sensuality will dissipate and then disappear
before the week is over.

Chagall 2020