The kids outside are playing their version of fear factor,
lying down in lavender amid dozens of lazily fuzzy bees.
© Chagall ∞
Tag Archive: Gaia
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 ∞
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 ∞
Rain.
My neighbor is playing classic rock, lost in the din
Of rain.
Cardinal calls pierce the sheet of sound, lovingly embrace
The rain.
All of life cascades in a downpour around me, I am lost as preordained
In the rain.
Saturation. Virginal daisies or is that camomile?
I am the rain.
I am every scent of lavender exposed in mist on warm nights
After the rain.
The softest drop of dew about to flee from thirsty petals
Before the rain.
Moonlight, peeking out from dying clouds,
Dreams of rain.
I lie beside you, fall through your gravity, you ask What’s it like inside?
I whisper Rain.
© Chagall ∞
The aroma of oil and salt,
a breeze cooler than the stagnant
air about me, fried potatoes
on ocean winds waving somewhere
on the planet, whitecaps hold foam
while moonbeams reign supreme
in the gravity, the order of things,
as all must be is surely.
© Chagall ∞
Relax deeply, secure in the updraft, ride the scree,
low in the pocket, let flexible tension arc about you,
buoyancy – wind rushing cilia,
spread under light and sky
in full spanned glory,
a journey upward
to thinner
rarefied
air.
© Chagall ∞
Depending on where you are, it’s already
yesterday elsewhere.
Chagall ∞
Yesterday morning I took down an old dead ash tree
that had presided over the middle of the backyard
for fifty years or so. In the evening, with a tea
in hand, I sat there and eyed the space where the
tree had only just stood, and noticed a bird who kept flying
to and from the stump, alit in sawdust, back to perch
on a carved fence-head nearby. After a while I understood
the bird’s plight of my making. We both nestled
there throughout the night, under thinly-aired twilit skies
awash in constellations, anxious for the birth of new trees.
© Chagall ∞
At the core of my existence I am certain
that poets exist on beautiful celestial orbs
other than earth
© Chagall 2017
Alphabet City 