Archive for April, 2013


Hedgerow (Song for Amanda)

It’s been said
love’s accents are all that remain,
the patois of paradise.

The bloodrush, quick pulse,
nuance, inflection,
when spirits soar.

But now there are no words.

Every way back
to you is blocked.

Halls that lead to nowhere:
the shady corners
of your maze.

I shout your name
from under the canopy,
ancient fronds.

Cool pools lap,
the sole reply
in chill morning.

Haze about my ankles
swirls and spirals me up,
through the thicket.

Aloft,
I search about the mist,
but find I’m no less lost,
despite this vantage.

I sense
I am
imperishable.

I return to my native seat
when the music stops,
sure to find you there,
but mistaken.

I am alone
on the edge that lies ahead,
eternal as the road behind.

So strange to live forever?

Stranger still
that we were at all.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

 

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Radiation bathes the day
golden. Tiny particles,
outnumbering grains of sand,
accelerate along unseen highways,
across everywhere,
umbilici tethered to forever,
a chorus of Doppler,
coming and going,
come and go.

Singular, din
resolves to dulcet,
harmonics, hold steady,
carve out hollows, joyous peals,
unwavering.

I find her there,
in the overtones,
at perfect multiples of myself,

in the cool shadows,
of the old elms,
our backs to the sun,
inside the heat,

the inferno, the hydrogen ball,
screams at a billion degrees,
spits photons across eternity
like she does the soft white seeds
of pink melon.

Everywhere is center,
and everything recedes from the rest,
two steps forward,
no steps back.

Old pickups collect rust
at small town stations
I’ve passed through;
lavender, denim, loose white tops.

A dull bell claps on exit,
I wave goodbye
through dusty glass.

©  Carlos Chagall, 2013

 

My hand is spectral,
blue in the dashboard

lights, yellow lines recede
to the black.

Behind
red.

Midnight, I’m driving.
Passenger window
partly cracked,

ricochet breezes.

Decades to travel
still.

I keep right,
happy to be
slow.

AM radio,
dead disk jockeys
haunt the airwaves,

station jingles lilt and fade,
echo.

I pray I don’t tire;
straightaways.

I steer at the curve’s apex,
ahead of the headlights,
hyper-vigilant,

I don’t
foresee

you, a child,
in misty high beams,

before
impact.

I open all the windows,
blast the heat; cruise
control.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Haiku for Night Frost

Midnight, sparkled frost.
A full moon presides o’er fields,
where I’ll never lie.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

The Fifth Sunday

Fresh heaven, new earth,
Jerusalem, the betrothed:
Love as he loves you.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Holly Go-Lightly,
ever so slightly being,
the point of it all.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Haiku for Iwo Jima

Mount Suribachi.
Beautiful February.
Face down in red sand.

A zen garden, she
paints delicate strokes, canvas,
calls to final prayer.

Buddha and Truman,
tell us life is illusion,
a A bomb away.

A young, dashed Marine,
chants semper fi, hail mary,
far away Brooklyn.

Right after dead aim,
sunlight on Suribachi,
starlight on Greenpoint.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Friday Frenzy

I just realized it was you all along,
leaving me messages, all those thumbs up,
comments on posts, follows, like ghosts, dead heats
on roundabouts (. . . in and around the lake . . . )

You had to know it was me all that time,
in charge of who there was in charge of me.
I befriend myself almost everyday.
I even go so far as to block me,

if I get out of hand, out of my mind,
under my thumb, under my skin, inside
out, the more I turn me, solo mio,
strepto-cockeyed, hackneyed, misoyakied,

pedigreed, filigreed, I feel the need
to fill the void, it’s best to avoid me
when I get this way, once, twice, every day,
day in, day out, this hoodoo, who’d you do

if it was the last day? bye bye bay-bay,
papa’s gotta brand new bag, her price tag
too steep, run silent, run deep, run amok,
amounts to nothing, nada in the end.

dubya dubya dubya dot dot dubya
dubya dot, come on and do the loco
motion with me, you got to swing your hips
now, forever, hold your piece, know your place

back in line, back in the day, packin’ heat,
canned heat, I’m going up the country babe,
don’t you wanna go? you wanna holler
throw up both your hands, panic is spreading,

blame it on the have nots, blame it on Mame,
wah-wah-wah-tusi, baby it’s the dance,
bailar hermanita, senorita,
escucha me ahora, sil vous plait.

I can’t believe it’s Friday already!
It should be Friday everyday!
Somebody pinch me ’cause I must be dreaming!
If I’m lying, I’m dying!

I hope I don’t die before Saturday
’cause that would really bum me out.

(. . .twenty four before my love and I’ll be there. . .)

 

© Chicheme, 2013

Running away, we outrace the comets,
then rest on our backs, at the southern pole;
stars, concentric orbits, clarions toll:
Life on this planet, as good as it gets.

My love for you hangs in mist, crystalline,
cascades in tickling ripples down your face,
rinses from inside out, the dust, this place.
There is no heaven, nor hell, this serene.

There is no place at all, there’s no bridge back.
I reel, mad dance, awestruck, struck dead, anew,
the last call. We didn’t make it did we?
“No my love, we both died in the attack.”

Cold wild winds blow hard in vain to renew
the calm before the storm, eternally.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

She got her brother his own bag,
of assorted chocolate truffles.
He opened those that Christmas day.

“So you won’t sneak into my room
anymore and take mine.”

“You take dese ones, the boo wappers.”
They both smiled at his largesse.

She left him that following year
for college, while he stayed behind.

And when mom and pop passed away,
they saw each other less and less,
except here and there, now and then.

And when he leaves, she finds small gifts,
tucked in odd corners: nonpareils,
cherries and bittersweet sandies.

 

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

 

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