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Somber Auburn Maria

I’d once written
Why write a sonnet when a scream will do?
and now I am thinking that an opus is unnecessary
if a mere aside can convey ample poignancy.
Such uneven lines but they’re scented. Where is the real?
I remember Mary even through the haze, how steady and rock-solid
she was, I could hug her and nestle deeply there for hours, or days, spent many a lifetime contemplating her most heavenly face and rubbery delicious lips and cheeks and long stretches along the neckline; I need meaning in each moment – I suffocate otherwise. I hesitate to take the time to narrate a deeper story for fear of failing to convey anything and therefore would regret having wasted our mutual time. hers and mine. Shouldn’t we simply abandon our search? Nubile rubbing of the nubs is how angels beget – it’s allowed there within the confines of wingspans, celestial light like champagne ices me pink from head to toe, I’m a garnish to her night on the town, I dance and rock hard like the fourth horn in the section, I am simply sunglasses and quinine water atop bitters and rocks, I jiggle my shoulders in beat sometimes rather than my waist and hips, or sometimes just a nod, a tilt of the head like this – see that! Hear that? Oye! Oye, Marie? The figures are jade, intricately reptilian, self-referencing, Escher-like in their wrap-around. There are older turquoise figures that you would think would be younger. She once made me a hot drink of sweet white maize water and freshly ground cacao, sugar, without chili.  I sipped the thick chocolate while she unbraided her hair and rubbed scented balm on her breast.  I remember the desire to write and to play music, to create in a world so filled with creation, a desire so intense that it overwhelmed me and incapacitated me such that I was unable to respond with anything meaningful.  Ambition birthed and squelched.  In her presence I am inspired to leave behind some remnant, an artifact memorializing my having been here, a monument that captures the light of this day, the song of this hour, the perfume of the tilt of the sky, the spray of life from her lips when she cries out in joy, my joy is her.

© Chagall 2017

Your thoughts?

Alphabet City

chagall backdrop

I think we should require
everyone to kiss everyone hello

Yes it would take a very long time
but I really believe we are worth it

© Chagall 2014

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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

Here Comes The Sun

I was going to say Happy Friday, but then I remembered. —CC

Alphabet City

chagall backdrop

In morning sun I bend down low
to pick the ready berries
spreading through the patch

To reach those in the middle and back
I lie down prone and support myself
hovering over the berries in a modified pushup
one tensed hand planted in a plant-free zone
while I detach the small red fruits with my other

The hairy tendrils of the running vines tickle my belly
exposed there at the hem of my cutoff while cupped soft white flowers
pucker gently at my breasts

In surrender I lower myself onto the patch
and feel the spongy root mounds
mold my pelvic area

The earth holds me aloft in this never-ending free fall
I have never felt more solidly buoyed
or tethered to the Mother

I breathe in the moss
and my heat rises
I ache and reel in the scent of loam,
my own sweat, and a waft of…

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Honor

Any trust, no matter how small,
should ever be betrayed.

© Chagall 2017

 

O’ What a Pair

I have an odd dynamic with my father-in-law:
He is a 90 year old man but a very new soul, whereas
I am merely half his age but my soul has traveled twice
by thrice his. Our interplays are often quite quirky.

© Chagall 2017

Conflicted

Saturday – love & peace. —CC

Alphabet City

chagall-backdrop4.jpg

I am not Carlos
nor am I the person
who pretends to be
Carlos. She is not
me, I tell myself
I’m not like her,
of the haunting grin,
with seeming knowledge
of my delicate whispers,
scribed by her spectral hand.

© Chagall 2015

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Chakra

Infinitesimally minute circles of being
align, vortex along one malleable cortex.
I am distributed, I am a planetary system,
I hum prismatic with colors of sound primordial.

© Chagall 2017

I Could Eat Two Tiers

Remember that Valentine’s Day is just around that bend of time we are calling The Weekend. Love to all. —CC

Alphabet City

Must love be a foregone conclusion
that precedes the need for dark-chocolate cherry cordials
or do those magnificent trifles warrant a daily place in our lives
independent of any lofty notions like love?

Chagall 2016

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I find I
am torn

perforated

ripped along
dotted lines

Someday
I will

reassemble

sans
seams

© Chagall 2017

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