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Haiku For Still On The Ground

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I pray she is safe
Hearts on metal flying birds
Long lone caws in woods

© Chagall 2014

Chagall:

Originally posted on Easter Sunday, 2013. Peace to all. —Chagall

Originally posted on Alphabet City:

Faster than Peter,
past acacia and carob,
I ran to the tomb.

We sang, then we danced,
we sang, we embraced, we wept,
jumped up, down, cried out.

Our voices echoed:
the chamber there was empty
past the low doorway.

Alone in the damp,
except for our friend’s garments;
his scent was still there.

I ran past Mary,
leaving the rich man’s garden;
Arimathean

sweet hawthorn kindled
the fires of Golgotha,
from the day before.

Past olive, almond,
apricot, pine, turpentine,
I ran to tell them.

© Carlos Chagall, Easter Sunday, 2013

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Just Two

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Mother and kid hawk in quiet soar
in tight and tightening circles, just morning,
don’t ever concede or succumb to those without passion,
would rather die.

© Chagall 2014

After You

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Lately I talk
more and more
to myself
finding I
enjoy my
own company
immensely
- been
beside myself
essentially

© Chagall 2014

Testament

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A bird tonight in the garden broke pattern
and let wail with a phrase much like bebop – or maybe Philly soul,
to the mutual delight and chagrin of red-breasted, blue-feathered kin
stark naked and tucked away in the greenest canopy,
who attribute it all to seduction of starlight

© Chagall 2014

Now

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The moment you cease to dream
is.

© Chagall 2014

Freezes Right Prior To Burning

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The night fills with different patterns,
strange constellations – certainly not mine.

Whose sky is this?

Breezes, sharp zephyrs in trees
and sprites on-hand blow hardest,
then fade, then die.

Too many times,
but once is too many
maybe.

And lights
go out.

In the firmament
and across the way,
chariots where once there were cradles.

Such a strange sky.

© Chagall 2014

Enfin

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And in that single exhale
eternal release

© Chagall 2014

Prisms

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In my dream it’s before the loss,
he’s that little boy in the flowers
running about me with a garden hose
soaking my blouse, he laughs crazily
happy, his short hair beaded
with sweat and water, and each of those
reflects the sun of a gone again
perfect day.

© Chagall 2014

Scape

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I’m not certain why the garden slants that way
perhaps to accommodate some ancient root
by its steppe it dials in perfect light
follows the curve of the land
from rise to late when whistles blow
fleeting hours when day is long

Though you’re right
it does seem odd now

© Chagall 2014

 

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