March 14, 2015, 9:26 and 53 seconds, a.m. and p.m.,
pi will be represented to 10 digits: 3.141592653.
Bah! I say. Why stop at mere seconds? Let’s decompose further
Beyond to deci centi milli micro nano pico femto atto zepto yocto
Sub-divisions of seconds, touch all of pi’s digits: infinity resides in the moment
© Chagall 2015
Murmuring I can’t distinguish
clearly, the words incanted
more than prayers, I think
perhaps ancient formulae.
© Chagall 2014
I’m sure
the oak is
certain
© Chagall 2014
Behind the lullaby
celestial harmonic
breathy reeds beyond
the expanse there
billows life in bubbles
the multiverse born
of placenta from nil
inverts as blown glass
to become life like diamonds
on black velvet and God’s
throaty voice is every tone
and angels are arpeggios
© Chagall 2014
The bells of the new day joyously ring –
correction, triumphantly rang! – while
cold winds swept the whitest clouds
to the threshold of endless azure
and they and I in echelon bank hard
in a yaw and vertical dive till
ceremoniously, in quiet accord we right
to the ringing bells
© Chagall 2014
I think the bus ride made it more deadbeat,
or maybe the air brakes provided downbeat each stop –
each time someone tripped the ripcord and let go the ring
and the driver would pull his lever to release the doors to allow the exit
late in the evenings when day was just about done save for the last strong glow
of orange sun atop rooftops and spires, where the harsher shadows would never dare
to alight, where early dreamers could already be seen floating on air
souls akimbo bathing in aqueducts of cool breeze, brisk wind really
whipping about, inverting – sault-somering freefall
down to the street below to the windshields
of city buses toting us home to the love.
© Chagall 2014
I’m not certain why the garden slants that way
perhaps to accommodate some ancient root
by its steppe it dials in perfect light
follows the curve of the land
from rise to late when whistles blow
fleeting hours when day is long
Though you’re right
it does seem odd now
© Chagall 2014
The sun alights on my body
billions of bouncy bright beads
highlight my bones relative to the star’s azimuth
in a way I do not quite comprehend coax
to the surface delicious light
from somewhere deep within
© Chagall 2014
At the edge lies an energy ribbon,
a curlicue encircles existence
shielding the fray from the outskirts,
creation’s earliest days, mere mortals.
A one-sided curve one travels in vain
to arrive at one’s self – again;
I’m queued up behind me behind me . . .
a thousand-fold, so I take a number
and wait my turn.
At the tip of the girdling swirl is an arrow
that forks and guides the ways home;
I’ve rigged my sails for the solar wind
with provision on-board for forever.
Experienced first-mates are hard to find
they fall overboard more often than not
so I plan to take this trip alone
to double my remaining days.
At the head of the line finally, I turn to face
all that I am recedes behind me,
a shimmer of motion, a cascade of farewell,
adoring throng, we will miss us.
Goodnight, Godspeed
pray all be well
this stark and starry flight.
© Chagall 2014
All of creation falls
blurs on rainy panes
opaque and eternal
these gray days
little beads
at a crawl
descend
slowly
drip
by
drop
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 