Miracles are merely potential
miracles until they occur.
We’ve ennui lately with need
to live more divinely,
find light where there’s none
beyond all suns.
Blessed are we
all. We
are.
© Chagall ∞
Tag Archive: actuality
I am precisely like a beacon she breathed
yet the time still faded quickly away, syrup
stopped in its pour, a cascade surreal atop
lithe and limber aplomb. Inside I am a rush
of water banking smoothly along high sides
of perilous plummeting flume, before I dive
so help me God … to ascend and emerge again,
the scent of lavender adrift on warm woven mist,
I am blinded by light calling me from the shore.
© Chagall ∞
Hope is in sight, inverted
there on the optic nerve.
© Chagall ∞
I surf the voices in my head;
god let me land on one today
that I can live with, through
whom I can experience joy.
Instead, I fall through the
perforation that maps me topologic.
I am beneath the ice that I see cracked
everywhere, so … onward to the light!
I have left frozen lakes behind before.
The plush forest before me fills green with oxygen.
The errant calls, caws of life, pop from the canopy.
Arid sunlight, warm air, fills my face, my lungs, respectively.
We are moist and saline creatures with our own special scent of talc,
with eyes accustomed to deep focal points, we scan horizons.
Sadly, we discard all that we are so to be who we might,
astride upon waves with legs getting stronger everyday.
© Chagall ∞
In this room of southerly light
are objects more precisely defined
than abstraction – concepts
topographically smoothened by
the erosion of ground around figure,
bulbous impressions upon my tactile cortex
is touch.
© Chagall ∞
Each sense has a cache of
residual reality
– attention! –
not memory at-work at all,
just dimming glows, we filter
the actual,
we choreograph the quintet,
low-capacity volatility,
mosaic,
iconic,
saccadic.
© Chagall ∞
If death be not a parenthesis,
must life then be an ellipsis?
© Chagall ∞
A game of inches, halftones someday maybe
just a fingertip away from grasp, the thinnest
side of a prism edge, a place where souls slip
but not slide, inter-inter for one inter does not
suffice to suggest the slight of gap, the sleight
of the blue that is nearly blue, monochrome
intervals are what we are, variations in theme,
grande motif, leitmotif, light years away from any
home.
© Chagall ∞
To fulfill the destiny of the other
without consideration for ever having to fulfill one’s own
made for a far more spectacular life and so we chose it
without any regrets left unconsumed by actuality.
Sometimes it rained darkly in the seams of horizons stretched
like tired eyes across cityscapes, she blinks away drops.
A puddle is a place to dance – we pas de deux, slosh …
slow feet drag through heavy water.
Might I kiss you here? This place on this spot. See how words
convey no meaning at all! Lips, before the fountain, respectively.
Years from now the others will correctly say it’s Dijon
for look closely – see it, do you – the carousel?
© Chagall 2017
Alphabet City 