I will write free verse
of the universe, letters as galaxies,
implied points clear as constellations,
stars appear closer than they seem
when seen from light years away across
the paragraphs. I invert my event horizon
to search within and strew about the detritus
of my being, hence this ramble, these lines,
served up on the tines of synapse.
© Chagall ∞
What do you most need to hear right now,
and what do I ache to tell you?
Your very existence suffices, it’s all Is.
Our options: there is no God; there is no You;
You are God; there’s Nothing but God.
Choose one or the other,
all or not; it’s one in the end.
I yearn to
return to the Ordinary immersed in colors, deeply absorbed
in light extraordinaire, the water not the wave.
I shed the boundaries, address what is there beyond me –
the other – as You inclusive of me. I switch the wires,
so to speak. I co-opt all of existence, call it my own.
Creation is a figure cast like a rainbow upon my ground,
just a stone’s throw from joy.
© Chagall ∞
Water bead grass bayonets cut tongues,
steely dew, fondant of morning rain.
How I love to lie eye-level to ground
to look up at tall blades against the sky.
I have an itch on my cheek that only closely
coiffed tightly tufted turf can scratch.
I mistake her smile for mist or soft rain,
so similar they are in drizzle pattern.
There’s a run of slatted fence traces hillsides,
hugs the rise and the run of the land as a tribute to time.
Eyes beguile but only if you let them, don’t you let them, don’t they say?
Sometimes the wax can be saved to create brand new candles to burn.
Eye-level to ground the flames from above
cast my outline as an amber cold hollow.
That which is me which does not pass light
rests immortalized sunk into shadow.
With morning comes water nourishing.
The eye adjusts to blue. Rain sugars dew.
© Chagall ∞
Light will guide me back
To ascension, a view from above,
Lofty gray weightlessness,
Ethereal suspension among birds
Of distinction, marked no longer
By petty ways, now only grand schemes
To return one again to a state of grace,
To engulf my self, to imbibe as well
The liquid of life, thus to hang in the balance,
Neither here nor there as it should be, to be
Either actually is a penchant unchained still linked
To time, once blinded I sensed the fence surrounding
Me so I blinked and clicked my heels, an attempt to awaken,
To rise, to ascend, score a view from above in the lofty gray.
Weightless.
© Chagall ∞
We would meet up and lose our minds together.
You could say we had a cata-platonic relationship.
© Chagall ∞
The tapping whisper of rain,
Gulls soar, serifs against the long stretch
Of sky and land, the mosaic face of water,
Morning air, thin and cold, early day
Mist envelops always, hope is desire
To release, to touch the atmosphere,
To mean the words yet to find tongues,
Tone recedes into tones receding, the far edge
Where filaments unravel into the empty, void
Unless stamped otherwise, a puddle to stomp,
A bright yellow-slicker, the tapping whisper
of rain.
© Chagall ∞
Is poetry the poignancy
of thought or is it the
syncopation, the flowing
water of sound from page
to ear? Rivulets of tone
wash over you, leave you
untethered; to slip away,
stealthily glide to the
ether, is all I ever wanted.
© Chagall ∞
With moral north poles pointing everywhere
I instead choose to fold inward along the
outline of every petal of my being.
© Chagall ∞
In the space there between slipped fingertips
whorls of sound explode into bursts of light
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 