Creatures of the kingdom appear to have homing instinct,
still I feel deep sadness for those who succeed to be lost.
© Chagall ∞
Tag Archive: actuality
Today I planted four new trees, my goal is
to outlive each of them.
© Chagall ∞
The kids outside are playing their version of fear factor,
lying down in lavender amid dozens of lazily fuzzy bees.
© Chagall ∞
No word is as lavender, in scent or color, is in life,
as a film is longer than a poem or a sigh is,
pointillists revel in innuendo, a pout once hidden
behind a shoulder, turns as time turns, twice bitten,
nipped on by lips and a tongue most tender in touch as in life
as a year is longer when newer as younger was a smile
awash in sun that clouds had hidden
away behind serious-nimble strata
upon cheeks
rained down like kisses, a softer sense, what’s ahead within
dappled then mottled, the shadows of waving leaves, offstage: the sun,
adept, persistent, a beacon perhaps, a sentry, a guard on the nod,
a star
There is no creation more possible than this one
she flies laughing-deflating, a wisp of her vanishing self,
a balloon losing air, she is ground around figure once was,
and no one is she, in blood nor marrow, as in life
as a day is longer than a poem or a sigh was.
© Chagall ∞
Lost high atop clouds
Below rich colored soils
Rock, sand, silt, and clay
Angular, blocky
Mother’s rich in organics
Endless horizons
Infiltrate the ground
Seep red from leaching iron
More dense than porous
Root to me firmly
Here in the space of no air
Within the solid
© Chagall ∞
How subtle are these symbols, to clinch or to clench,
both embrace, one the certainty of winning, the other
holds tight to imminent loss, to quench, bring cooling
liquid, healing balm, through tight canals to affliction,
immersion in ice, or steam, infinite horizons of water,
too quiet, to hush someone lovingly with finger upon lips
shushing air.
© Chagall ∞
Here at the center of all creation, light must pass
through me to arrive on the other side
© Chagall ∞
I pour water into the earth to watch it dissipate and percolate,
wondering where does the time go. The backs of my beach shoes
worn flat from my habit of not slipping in all the way,
my bare feet on warmed wood slats tell me I’m more alive now,
the sun underfoot, I am square, balanced atop the regolith,
a planet that spins and falls amid a din that I no longer hear,
the world that I see
as I follow the fan of my hand, implies all that there is
or nothing, depending solely on who I am, or no one.
© Chagall ∞
I cup strawberries in my hand under a stream of freezing water
The sun’s heat, stubborn at first, relents and leaves the fruit
© Chagall ∞
I search for the source, a vantage point
over which I hover to resonate, in order
to speak with alacrity, honored to be
the medium, the clarion voice,
le trompettiste; I flow and so
I’m a flower, a steady stream
of warm words awash in your ear,
the storm before the quell,
not merely a silent hour,
an end to separation,
a prelude to the loss
of the throb.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 