The universe is staging
a trillion-photon march on creation
to show us how solidarity’s done
Anywhere that light is
that’s where you’ll find me
© Chagall 2016
The universe is staging
a trillion-photon march on creation
to show us how solidarity’s done
Anywhere that light is
that’s where you’ll find me
© Chagall 2016
Morning atop a large rock, a stone lily pad
in the middle of the stream a team-span wide
while cold waters lap at the edges, one can ride dry
at the high round rump. I’m here in perfectly old,
tattered blue-wool pullover weighted right against the vigor
of this new day; how wonderful so much morning remains
to while away.
Dense clusters of small gnatty flyers dance in ancient patterns
in the rays of early sun, radiant light, pervasive heat
waves in mirage, they flutter there bursting from vernal pools.
Rainbows used to dance here, leave small wakes, glide on eddies,
do backstrokes, with no one watching; masterful puppeteer of lightweight test,
set dry flies still, perfectly still, with but the slightest tremor, concentric break of the surface, from the rainbow’s vantage, just enough to stir curiosity,
a sniff, a poke, enough to spring the snap.
Nothing sadder than a rainbow in mid-air, regretting prior impulse,
the change is sudden, inevitable, decisive.
Snow on Battenkill falls in crunches, bunches in feet to yards
high, the wisteria that bough low to the banks, shaggy warm under cold,
lilac tongues out panting, with winter body heat home to dead butterfly larvae;
dome holds the sound in, the sound out; you can walk anywhere,
the terrain is level, white and wet.
Though not witnessed by anyone or anything, I left footprints in November
in the carry along the north rise, that held their shape and depth,
through March.
I look forward to final frost, to clear and distinct birthing,
of all that is, there ever was; the future is merely supposition,
isn’t it? The ice, the same as the dew.
I would rather choke on the freezing waters filled with silt from the moving
running bottom, than trapped in the upper layers locked frozen in time.
Chagall 2016
Please see here for the original Battenkill
The world is soothed by soft refrains,
life’s lulling opioids amass to mask
all pain and sorrow
If you existed you’d know the same as I
in footsteps misted, feet of holy water
just barely enough to drown in
Chagall 2016
To those who see
in infra-red
we are all
the same color
Chagall 2016
From what,
for whom,
until when,
do all these
planets spin?
There below
on the dark side,
see them – aren’t those
lights?
We no longer
pay attention
nor pray
for those who
destroy the
blue pearl
Chagall 2016
Keep moving
we must follow
every drop of ray
must fall – alight
make truer yet
the glow of our skins
we are all
beautiful people
in sunset
tomorrows
wax deliciously
like sunrise – all new days
that’s what hope
looks like blind
faith keeps coming
long the day after
angle me so
I can watch
the last fade
of the light
Chagall 2016
If every planet teemed with life,
the multiverse one big beautiful bazaar,
billions of blue orbs everywhere,
star-travel commonplace, fast and cheap,
an interplanetary agora of sorts, would there still be war?
Chagall 2016
I fear we’re becoming
people who have no concern
for those who succeed us
Instead we live for the moment
without an obligating sense
to make Gaia inheritable
Similarly there are those
who have no reverence
for those who precede us
Family, tradition, culture and mores
reduce to biology resembling nothing
more than a gene pool
May they drown in the shallow end
Chagall 2016
I remember now as a child
the sense of falling
Not down on my knees
but plummeting
Earth was falling, hurtling through space
and I was attached to the Earth
My Mother held me tight
while the wind tunneled about us
though stars receded, secure I grew
to ignore the fall
I remember now as a child
that sense of falling
Chagall 2016
I’d rather dance just with you
perhaps even drink alone now that there is
some moon this New Year’s Eve
Your name is Jessica Eve so that makes you
the night before Jessica
(I was once the elf
of Saturday Eve)
I consider us one since we will howl
together in the wetlands tonight
The stars shift subtly look different
with passing time though not quite aligned
to the stroke at midnight
My heart will cascade its tickertape
among the fleeting, their raised flutes intone
ripe crystals, honed glass holds the promise
of the toast to which we all spring
Love & Peace in 2016
Chagall 2015/2016