I smell so good after turning beds
of arugula by hand.
Chagall 2017
Tag Archive: sun
In my backyard, the sunlight that shines there
is mine.
© Chagall ∞
The crescendo of cicadas
Morning is hotter
than yesterday’s noon
A nonchalant wind imbued with the scent
of a distant ocean I’ll never see
blows by
(inspired by Celestine’s work at https://readinpleasure.wordpress.com/ )
© Chagall ∞
From atop the altar, a humming sound,
the sweet scent of imminent grace,
morning light imbues stained glass
with timeless palpitation, what is old
is new once, ancient olive wood
balustrades provide steady ascent.
What’s that hovering o’er the assembled?
My soul resonates with the dissonant voicing
of the towering pipe-organ.
Chant, all you chanters.
Mais oui, absolument, chanté!
The good news is that
good news is
Truth.
From here atop the land-mound
I sing to the sun gods,
I reflect light back
To The Others on the land-mounds
Below Me, and They to Those
Below Them and on
We are One upon rich green rope,
buttery young olives.
© 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 ∞
Here at the center of all creation, light must pass
through me to arrive on the other side
© Chagall ∞
I pour water into the earth to watch it dissipate and percolate,
wondering where does the time go. The backs of my beach shoes
worn flat from my habit of not slipping in all the way,
my bare feet on warmed wood slats tell me I’m more alive now,
the sun underfoot, I am square, balanced atop the regolith,
a planet that spins and falls amid a din that I no longer hear,
the world that I see
as I follow the fan of my hand, implies all that there is
or nothing, depending solely on who I am, or no one.
© Chagall ∞
I cup strawberries in my hand under a stream of freezing water
The sun’s heat, stubborn at first, relents and leaves the fruit
© Chagall ∞
I am awash in
incidental oregano.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 