Today I planted four new trees, my goal is
to outlive each of them.
© Chagall ∞
Tag Archive: inspiration
I’m not sure
to trust in
my ear or my heart,
impatient
to convey, to commune, to go with
the rhythm already,
shunning sidestep,
when I breathe
the wax is eloquent,
each pause
brings new delight
in asides,
innuendo
more than any tryst
captured
a lover’s imagination,
a wink in due time,
and I am merely a waif
combed in elusive fashion.
© Chagall ∞
Can a couplet convey an altering jolt similar to an epic?
How many gods does it take to screw-in a tree?
© Chagall ∞
As a child I could project myself to the tops of tall trees
I would search out the highest point of the canopy and imagine
The world from that vantage
My wings would ache
To fly down to me
Looking up
Instead I’d turn
My sideways glance
To the sky
As a bird I would project myself to the lowest clouds
I would search out the thinnest white line and imagine
The heavens from that vantage
My wings still ache
From ascension
Chagall ∞
Same bug’s been on the screen for hours now
basking in sun luxuriant as I. I no longer
desire to swat You with my towel
for we are one.
© Chagall ∞
With only the ordinary
we shape new lie to the land,
extraordinary contour upon which
to dwell and to set our roots
at odd angles to the rise that marks
the divide no longer,
the apropos
no longer becoming rather been,
is seemingly all the rage these days
or are you missing the drift? The rift is
the riff, like the rose was once.
Look at me I’m streaming!
A
lilt,
a
lull-
a-
bye.
© Chagall ∞
In an instant the sound of the ocean ceased
and in that vacuum nothing remained
save the din of human voices.
© Chagall ∞
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 ∞
She is comprised solely
of essential oils, lovely
silken flow, pistons in valve
lubricant, stamens on pistil,
pollen swollen anthers, she wills
the will of the wisp to do
her bidding, she calls sweetly
through the nightbird, coopts
its thin coiled chord to vocalize,
to trill appoggiatura.
I relax limb and tenon about her,
promenade on wrists and knees:
gymnopédie as it was meant to be,
arched, pointed, and flexed.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 