I did not think I would write today,
living life had more allure until
I reached too far, I felt too
deeply, I fell ever so gently
from such a short height,
that’s all it took
to be here.
© Chagall ∞
Tag Archive: sentience
Lately I’ve insight into the timeless,
so subtle, perception of beauty of light,
of truth, of love, needing not yesterday
nor tomorrow to be, the clearest field
of space for mind to dwell, to frolic –
indeed to play and touch, weightless.
Light engenders objects with the characteristics
of the timeless, yet I’m certain the blind
sense forever, they can stop their day
as you and I can.
I shall not believe that those with five senses
are nearer to God than those of us with just one.
I believe sight is possible without eyes,
as music is sans ears, a sigh without a heart.
We are immersion-in-sensuality regardless
of the state of our senses.
It is night, only she by the ocean
where moonlight bathes in her hair,
the luster of shadow along sand
invites her to lie and rest.
In morning sunlight she arises
refreshed and timeless.
© Chagall ∞
My drafts hold nothing of interest, some nonsense I scribbled
in a vain attempt to infer Sara from the existence of stars,
some ambiguous mumbo (tiny, not jumbo) plus
a line about life in the canopy over
fields at the apex of gloaming.
Nothing of value to work with here
so I turn to birdsong to quell
my ache for expression.
© Chagall ∞
The kids outside are playing their version of fear factor,
lying down in lavender amid dozens of lazily fuzzy bees.
© Chagall ∞
No word is as lavender, in scent or color, is in life,
as a film is longer than a poem or a sigh is,
pointillists revel in innuendo, a pout once hidden
behind a shoulder, turns as time turns, twice bitten,
nipped on by lips and a tongue most tender in touch as in life
as a year is longer when newer as younger was a smile
awash in sun that clouds had hidden
away behind serious-nimble strata
upon cheeks
rained down like kisses, a softer sense, what’s ahead within
dappled then mottled, the shadows of waving leaves, offstage: the sun,
adept, persistent, a beacon perhaps, a sentry, a guard on the nod,
a star
There is no creation more possible than this one
she flies laughing-deflating, a wisp of her vanishing self,
a balloon losing air, she is ground around figure once was,
and no one is she, in blood nor marrow, as in life
as a day is longer than a poem or a sigh was.
© Chagall ∞
How subtle are these symbols, to clinch or to clench,
both embrace, one the certainty of winning, the other
holds tight to imminent loss, to quench, bring cooling
liquid, healing balm, through tight canals to affliction,
immersion in ice, or steam, infinite horizons of water,
too quiet, to hush someone lovingly with finger upon lips
shushing air.
© Chagall ∞
Depending on where you are, it’s already
yesterday elsewhere.
Chagall ∞
Moonlight holds
dark milligrams,
pentagrams of photons
dispossessed, lost;
I witness the diaspora
of light. Darkness veils
as deafness, no evil
nor good when there is no need,
when eyes become superfluous.
© 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 ∞
In an instant the sound of the ocean ceased
and in that vacuum nothing remained
save the din of human voices.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 