Tag Archive: Bohm


Sage

Never ever rethink a post once it’s out there
unless it is actually needed

You second guessing
You is hilarious

Chagall 2017

Befell

What is there
after you’ve flown?

Where are you
once you touched down?

Careful there on the ledge,
perhaps you’ll not fly again.

How sad to have flown
for the last time.

When up is down
to fall is to fly.

How joyous to have
flown at all.

I’d have thought
clouds to be harder.

I invert when I fly
for I am the sky.

So inwardly
I fall.

Alight on soft pockets
of air.

Dust
on air.

I pray while
I fall.

The whole planet
is falling.

We spin and we turn and
we tilt and we yaw.

The earth rushes to us
once befallen.

© Chagall ∞

Recyclable

The stars will guide me home one day,
I’ll follow their path until the edge
where the furtive eyes of seers peer
from beyond the eddies of time that spiral
amid the shallows of predawn, in waters
formed succeeding the impetus, immediately and
forever, I’ll be awash in the brine,
soaking, absorbing, adsorbing, and engorging,
until I burgeon and explode
into nebula-cum-universe.

© Chagall ∞

EVO

From atop the altar, a humming sound,
the sweet scent of imminent grace,
morning light imbues stained glass
with timeless palpitation, what is old
is new once, ancient olive wood
balustrades provide steady ascent.

What’s that hovering o’er the assembled?
My soul resonates with the dissonant voicing
of the towering pipe-organ.

Chant, all you chanters.
Mais oui, absolument, chanté!

The good news is that
good news is
Truth.

From here atop the land-mound
I sing to the sun gods,
I reflect light back
To The Others on the land-mounds
Below Me, and They to Those
Below Them and on

We are One upon rich green rope,
buttery young olives.

© Chagall ∞

Not Bergamot

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 ∞

Neat Little Bows

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 ∞

Dearest Gaia

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 ∞

Wholly Holy Black Hole

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 ∞

Perforation

With moral north poles pointing everywhere
I instead choose to fold inward along the
outline of every petal of my being.

© Chagall ∞

Everywhere Outstretched

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 ∞

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