I've been practicing a lot of bebop lately playing heads and I'm running riffs and I notice the birds in the trees 'round my way are trilling and stretching out more on their chorus cc: Chagall 2021
Tag Archive: sentience
reflect the imperceptible flutter of butterfly shadow the slow fade of the lash backlight the winged convocation of eagle way above the canopy at the base of the blade of scented grass linger the day's closing rays cc: Chagall 2021
on my way inside I pass a furry bee busy by the screen door she is beautiful in sunlight I say Take care of things out here while I'm gone!
cc: Chagall 2021
to be post-modern when the modern age hasn't yet ended behind in these times so gratefully, gracefully a gull over water arcs in a breeze deep deafened hurtle to drown head-first in life one foot in front of some other one-at-a-time once upon a time, this silent oath: I am cc: Chagall 2021
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 ∞
