It is better late
for never’s too long a time
my apology
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Archive for August, 2013
So delicately
tentatively propped on top
steady back don’t breathe
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
We all get smaller
as the universe expands
the world fades both ends
Life’s center looms large
dimmed creation’s fire is quenched
where no sighs exist
Long still reckoned pause
deep rumble, ground gears, next shift
gentle momentum
Young girls with flourish
fan pleated flower bouquets
start us up again
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Branca knew it too
the written moment unleashed
his was history
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Found an old roll of film in a worn bag
I used to carry traveling summers:
tight-wound canister, stills undeveloped,
Kodachrome, color, one-twenty, twelve-shot.
Long gone light, maybe the time when we smiled
that August day, wind-streaked, of the ocean
waters that churn yet somewhere, but not here.
Sand grains caught in the uptake spool,
on the bottom of the leather duffel,
brushed perhaps from your hands, your face,
the nape of your neck, at the end of day.
Tanned children trot with kites along the shore
their voices trailing faint but still alive
arabesques of laughter atop the waves
where young swimmers start journeys to Europe,
or Asia, or just to the buoy and back.
Bi-plane pulls a banner
across graying skies, says All you can dream!
Bare bulbs light the boardwalk,
the tick-a-tee spin-down of Fortune’s Wheel
stops here. Does the sand still hold your body?
And when autumn came I left the bag packed,
amazing how things can keep when untouched.
The film? The labs have all closed down,
there’s no place left on earth to develop,
to bring to life the life that was that day –
Kodachrome is now just a curio.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Long
ago
I foresaw
this next moment
clear as day, that night
imagined me older
recalling the younger me,
in time aligned, eclipsed, we weep
the self thinking one thinking of self,
both of us knowing it is meant to be
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
In time You will know
the self you intend to be
they say three’s a crowd
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Midnight
it’s time to leave
the Lama said just jump
shift gravity rings, float away
find peace
weightless
know your own insignificance
that’s the secret of flight
Nagarjuna
taught us
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
–
I refuse to look at the sky tonight –
same old story – planes, dead stars, pitted moons,
motivates me to write those timeworn tunes
to the lovelorn, pines, how the heart takes flight,
metaphysical crap, dark versus light,
or lighthearted fare about babes and June
frolics among flowers, the springtime bloom,
blessed angels on high, lost souls burning bright.
Instead this evening I plan to ascend,
rise from the planet when bells toll midnight,
leave earth behind (I will miss you old friend)
my direction is up, two lefts, then right.
When you ponder the sky this eve you’ll see
the constellation Chagallus – it’s me!
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Yesterday’s post – http://wp.me/p3iWfY-u7 – reminded me of this, my own earlier post here on Alphabet City. Hope you enjoy it. —–Chagall
The melody haunts on the offbeat, my heart's pulse. Sad, but hopeful, maybe. The fuzzy reeds, breath through tenors, piano and bass both upright shake sand castles loose at the turrets. Doubtful brushes swirl on snares, precise in ambiguous beat, more color, than anything electric. A young girl, neon green bikini, samba prone on her lounger under ear buds, to her own muse, or maybe disposable pop. Surf rolls. Hear that oh so soft brush on cymbal? Grab it, now hold it, now fade. Chicheme, March 2013
Alphabet City 