A pulse
Feel it?
There!
indeed
a pulse
these holy
sparks of light
cackle electric
Chagall 2015
Tag Archive: life
Lingering
never say die
from this flat line
rebirth
Sparks spike
on the graph
upside down vees
mean carbon’s awake
I flutter I shake I
bake back to life
ain’t been this good
since the last time
Chagall 2015
No wind
still arbors
living trees
in repose
Docile shaggy creatures
unwashed but scented
deeply of Mother
breathing
Absorb light
emit air
knee-deep
vernal pools
I am the sound
of the haze that’s risen
each morning heat cast
in winter chill
I am hope
pervasive
Chagall 2015
She fell from the branch
immediately shaping a figure S
then soared on a wing full of air
while I remain here unamused
lacking desire to fly
Chagall 2015
I will kiss your face
while you try not to giggle.
Who’s game?
Chagall 2015
I’ll find peace
in my mind
I seek freedom
outside
May birds forever
fly
Sun for all
upturned faces
Rain
to quench thirst
I’ve my own sliver
of moon
Chagall 2015
I guess we’re somewhere in the smear of things
right between the eyes and ears and legs of things
upside down screaming on the edge of wings
so neatly clipped
in narrow fissure chasms squeeze us tight
but we emerge in full span soaring high
too soon too fast, my love, too late too sad, my heart
breaks that this is less than fleeting love
gliders – everywhere clouds and biplanes
they hang there right above our heads
and do you know, the wild blue balloons do too?
Chagall 2015
Perhaps I come here once too often
I’m sorry if I exceed my welcome
it’s just so wonderful here –
I never cease to be charmed,
woven by the spell, mystique
ceases to be such if everyday . . .
but it is such! I could spend eternity here
and every moment would forever be more lovely.
Chagall 2015
A bedroll at the timberline, thin air shallow breathing
feels like snow, I’m alight, the blue of the moon is brilliant
across the fields brocades of frozen mist
never-ending giving, a place to bury one’s head
when it storms, a shawl over the neck and shoulders
a biscuit dunked in strong hot sweet black tea
I cut so it appears as if nothing’s been removed
odd over time how it doesn’t diminish
though I repeatedly shave a sliver
more often than not, every now and then
sometimes late than sooner
a paring, a sharpener, tiny fanned whorl of paper-thin wood shave
beautifully splintered skirts of pastel colors, pointed graphite
Atop the mountain I thought I’d write more
instead I live more without any need to narrate
to capture – to curate – to memorialize
to relevate
I howl insane and loudly under my blanket
I kick off a muffled echo
I giggle to myself in the dark night
I conspire with no one but the others who disenchant
disassociate in that space we reserve like a headband
Chagall 2015
A small bird flying overhead
determinedly through the wind
high above is tossed she chirps
desperate to be somewhere
Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 