Alphabet City

I ask her to come over to my side,
we’ll hug, I say, she does, the porch swing creaking
from her weight on my lap, our necks intertwined like swans

without saying a word
we watch the candles burn
in the close surround of night

Chagall 2019

Out on the porch,
I lace up the old green sneakers,
fit like a foot-glove, I’d wear them inside if I could
but they’re muddy, perfect for garden-traipsing
and short strolls

My gloves, similarly fit my hands like a glove, as they should,
for that’s what they’ve been made for

I trample and pull weeds, respectively, that’s what gardeners do,
I enable the rest to breathe, encourage, resuscitate

To the beat of staying alive I pump the world
to assure pulmonary palpitation not precluding anyone

I save one-fifth of all reaped
to seed the coming year

Chagall 2019

In all these years
I could have crafted an opus
or a child, or both, or at least lived
persistently in what is actual

Chagall 2019

Damselflies amass on the weathered log,
electric blue with lacy wing, shadowy lattice
thrown by stark sunlight upon grey wood in open field,
cool within the maze of lines, the structure
of flying things, the ultimate lift of small bodies
into pre-orbit sky, and I in the capsule await the countdown
as God calls out, “Attention all hands, stand by…”

Chagall 2019

no one
sounds like you
so be you;
the voice
you censor is
the sublime

Chagall 2019

She said
I view people as landscapes,
vistas – lands to peruse and traverse,
expanses of flesh and emotion spread wide

I paint them with horizon lines converged on infinity,
a palette of trillions of colors

My technique – my goal – is to render each
with a single continuous stroke

Chagall 2019

In the wink of an eye,
she blinked, for that
is how things are done.

At the drop of a hat,
her beret flew away,
and that’s how things
are done.

At a moment’s notice,
she arrived at Now,
it’s done that way.

In the nick of time,
her heart skipped a second,
along the way.

The spirit of the times,
she’s been whisked to a new life,
another day.

Chagall 2019

How many times must I tell you,
you cannot lick the blender’s blade!

Chagall 2019

spider web hangs like a static wisp of smoke
in the corner up high, left of the screen door

bi-plane buzzes overhead, pulls a sign says
welcome to the new day

everywhere bells
greet suns

freshly birthed

Chagall 2019

Want to be a good gardener?
Listen to the plant:
it will scream and point,
…please cut me here.

Chagall 2019