Tag Archive: timelessness


Poem 1

In the presence of the timeless
I weep openly

Chagall 2017

The birds around my home are slower than norm
There is less urgency because of the love and abundance of riches here

Chagall 2017

Butterfly 2.0

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 ∞

The Ledge

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 ∞

From This Time

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 ∞

Not Bergamot

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 ∞

For Marilyn

I am from the sun, unable to find my way
back home in the dark.

© Chagall ∞

De-reflecting

The ground is too far below for me
to discern my own face in the puddle
of rain immortalized. Once I was
a downpour, a constant gurgle
in the drain spout, warm and blue
water flows, banks steeply in foam
before the fall. I plead a cascade
of long dawnings where nightbirds recede
into the day’s cry, a jaunt once again
in sunlight that’s always warmer than early rays,
before the first frost when only a few turn sweeter
for the cold crystal tears that break on cheeks
as tiny pellets of snow on glass wiped clean
on dark roads, by butterflies – that’s where I’ll live,
atop canopies not in them, a soar above the crowd
a cut below, in startling light, not in shadow,
stark, evanescent, constantly re-birthed while birthing
incrementally ascending higher through skies unattained
upon velvet breaths that scour my lungs alive despite
the gasping intake of free fall. Vertigo does not blind me
nor deter me, my bead on you. You are Life, and We as One
are None.

© Chagall ∞

You Would Have

To fulfill the destiny of the other
without consideration for ever having to fulfill one’s own
made for a far more spectacular life and so we chose it
without any regrets left unconsumed by actuality.

Sometimes it rained darkly in the seams of horizons stretched
like tired eyes across cityscapes, she blinks away drops.
A puddle is a place to dance – we pas de deux, slosh …
slow feet drag through heavy water.

Might I kiss you here? This place on this spot. See how words
convey no meaning at all! Lips, before the fountain, respectively.
Years from now the others will correctly say it’s Dijon
for look closely – see it, do you – the carousel?

© Chagall 2017

Carved In A Tree

We scream at each other
we are art – some say

Whisperers
I hear you

Beat me purple baby
till I’m plumb

Just a kiss away
we’re whisked away
some cabaret

I stand
corrected

I lie
in and on and about
green meadows

Till we fall
softest of all
about them

Chagall 2016

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