I am as young as this moment allows but no less.
Someday I’ll have been here again.
© Chagall ∞
Tag Archive: actuality
I will write free verse
of the universe, letters as galaxies,
implied points clear as constellations,
stars appear closer than they seem
when seen from light years away across
the paragraphs. I invert my event horizon
to search within and strew about the detritus
of my being, hence this ramble, these lines,
served up on the tines of synapse.
© Chagall ∞
What do you most need to hear right now,
and what do I ache to tell you?
Your very existence suffices, it’s all Is.
Our options: there is no God; there is no You;
You are God; there’s Nothing but God.
Choose one or the other,
all or not; it’s one in the end.
I yearn to
return to the Ordinary immersed in colors, deeply absorbed
in light extraordinaire, the water not the wave.
I shed the boundaries, address what is there beyond me –
the other – as You inclusive of me. I switch the wires,
so to speak. I co-opt all of existence, call it my own.
Creation is a figure cast like a rainbow upon my ground,
just a stone’s throw from joy.
© Chagall ∞
Light will guide me back
To ascension, a view from above,
Lofty gray weightlessness,
Ethereal suspension among birds
Of distinction, marked no longer
By petty ways, now only grand schemes
To return one again to a state of grace,
To engulf my self, to imbibe as well
The liquid of life, thus to hang in the balance,
Neither here nor there as it should be, to be
Either actually is a penchant unchained still linked
To time, once blinded I sensed the fence surrounding
Me so I blinked and clicked my heels, an attempt to awaken,
To rise, to ascend, score a view from above in the lofty gray.
Weightless.
© Chagall ∞
Down the hill, Sara and I tumble gently
heels-over-head, beginning and ending
as the other for somersaults will do that,
grass stains smell greener than they look
smeared across the lips of a grazing young
doe, sun on the neck has never been warmer,
near hot on the back of calves stretched taut
en pointe, mycorrhizae underfoot soothes our soul
for we are not alone in this ancient crazy place
susceptible to life, prone to being alive,
an altar upon which we recite our ode to living,
exalt dark heavens where wisdom is surely actual;
We are always Nature she says as we roll to a stop
at the gate of a beautiful garden.
© The Other ∞
The note of the birdsong lies solidly
suspended in the hollow of blue space.
The temperature of my body is precisely
the degree of the world enveloping me.
A simple brushstroke, tapered glyphs
weighty enough to have gravity, flutters.
About you I watch dusty particles dance
in light that is more than merely a halo.
Illumination.
© Chagall ∞
I’ve nowhere to turn except
to the expression of the timeless.
Though I am tired I forge ahead
convinced that the road leads direct
to the fount of some wisdom yet
undiscovered. Sadly, I am mistaken.
© Chagall ∞
With moral north poles pointing everywhere
I instead choose to fold inward along the
outline of every petal of my being.
© Chagall ∞
Everyday I write
a novel backwards.
© Chagall ∞
I distinguish clearly
my addictions from my compulsions.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 