Alphabet City

Don’t write a sonnet
if a scream will do.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

A universe runs parallel to ours
Birthed at That time, yes – the Towers still stand
Grandma’s picture frames show us at Disney
Paddy came home late last night but who cares
She still jogs everyday beside him

Chagall 2018, 2015 revised

Upon seeing my Mom upside-down, I said
woW.

Chagall 2018

Less off, moron.

Chagall 2018

I cannot feel
the rain.

Chagall 2018

I prompt the dancers
to let go of keepsakes,
become moppets, droplets,
the rhythm of rain.

Chagall 2018

What hasn’t been said, which words
left unpaired, what insight has poetry
impaired, has thought impaled, imperial
designs, impeccable mosaics, mossy memory,
pervasive prevention of forward-motion,
emotion precedes reputation, nowadays
nods knowingly to the past, pastoral
settings, idyllic leas, doughnuts of glaze,
who said there’s no time for snacking?
Forsaken. No thyme or tarragon to
carry on. Carrion. Clarion epitaphs,
cursive epithets, bold strokes sans-serif,
sands adrift in foam, loam aroma rises,
nostrils flutter, epileptic rabbits
breed, breathe, breathe, breathe…

Chagall 2018

I tried. I stared at the photo,
70 years old, felt the sunlight,
the breeze on the roof, you in dress
uniform, just back from the war,
love, relief, and new beginnings
sailed out over the sky. But
I failed to go there fully, could
not leave this time and place, though
I ached to do so. I’m sorry.

Chagall 2018

The poem lacks rhythm,
the song a lilt, each heart
its beat, your life me.

Entwined trails of fireworks
consummate in peonies, bursts
of rainbow erupt from hollow black
sky, reverberate under the dome.

Moonlight, oblivious to the cover
of clouds below, is all we have
left once the hot lights spark
then fade, millions of colors
in the wake that moves the darkness.

Nothing holds me. Fortunes slip
overnight. The better days I’ve
contemplated no longer hold promise.

Poems for no one. Songs for no voice.
Hearts without blood. Pumping. Exsangue.

Chagall 2018