This morning a butterfly sleeps
on the screen of my porch with antennae
lightly cupping the mesh
I stare deep into her round compound eye
and blow gently along her abdomen
She stirs, lifts off in flight then vanishes
Chagall 2017
I started to write a poem then shifted
to write a song
Chagall 2017
if you and i were hummingbirds
you would never alight at the feeder
but instead would draw nectar pulsing midair wildly
frenetic and i would simply perch, sip, occasionally peek
over our shoulders
to the jet stream, my dear?
© Chagall ∞
You remind me of someone you were, how you do that
so perfectly effortless
Evoke the we that we were
cue the salty sea air
Everything about then is beach-washed
designs, that’s how I remember
How could it be otherwise, the
other times we would soar
Just a little
bit more
We remind us
of then
Join me. Inhale – long –
and hold it gently.
© Chagall ∞
Everything is television so be certain to retain an outlet,
a way to get off the air.
© Chagall ∞
One more morning
I’ll write. Gray,
sure. Air with the
same scent and feel
as that day, you bet.
The need – the ache –
to hold onto anything
that doesn’t slip away.
Perhaps the living is
easy and the writing
tougher.
Sound attests
to the existence of time
as sure as motion does
yet so much timelessness
in the rustle, the whisper
of leaves on canopy branches
high among the zephyrs. I
grow dizzy to imagine myself
there at the top looking down.
Maybe I’ll feel more today and
write less about it, pull in
the shutters, the sash.
Still, here on the inside
I fashion small chips
of graphite into pencil
an essential element
to build strong bones.
With enough sun and love
a stand of kindred spirits
can endure forever.
© Chagall ∞
Every year around this time witnesses the return of
the cicada killer wasps: their sole purpose in life is
to fight, even to die, in the war against cicada.
They land their bodies on my hot pavers, the straight-away
between the porches is a landing field for sassy doughboys,
chewing gum, sun in their eyes, alive another day.
I get out the hose and assist them in training, parrying
with sprinkler and jet and soaker settings, preparing them for
aerial bug-fight, cicadas are fierce opponents
with an innate understanding of prime numbers.
I had a huge party this weekend and I gathered the cicada killer wasps
around and I told them it was the front of the house for the rest of the day
and they listened. That night while packing up the tent and the chairs
they came back and settled into their usual spot. The leader,
oddly one of the youngest, came over and said, “You miss everybody,
i can tell,” hovered a moment and then flew off to the shade of the boxwoods.
© Chagall ∞
I leap for the net with big holes
hoping I’ll miss and fall through
to be a mastermind I dress the part,
strip down
the cement is just for weight dear
look who’s back in town!
once I fell
and bounced
only to fall again
and one time
I soared
rooflines ascending
the light on the bridge
a star and
a sky carpet
race
only
to lose
to time
somewhere
it’s rain
rivulets
lap over dappled gray rock
pondering whether
to ripple
this life is
a crazy puddle
I say thank you
in primary colors
each rung
I reach to
awash
eternal
somewhere
it’s storm
© Chagall ∞
Once in a landslide
I came to the edge
two steps away
from the fall
Carefully balanced
as if on trapeze
I prayed for
the crumble
To fall steady down
wind from anywhere
Anyone who cared could tell
I’d been asleep for a while
One final fingertip
scratches the ground
catching my breath
precedes free fall
then gravity
sinking, no water fills in the space
between me and the sky I float
down parting ways
Astride this time
unlike any I’ve ever ridden
must be the final wave
In crisp articulation
impressed on bottom sand
Running wild water angels
Awake in their trace
I lie down
© Chagall ∞
I expected to wake to cold and sorrow, but instead I rise to nothing but desire
to perform spectacular acts of radical kindness.
© Chagall ∞
