chagall backdrop

Hear the whisperer?
Ambient prayer in shadows, the dead hush too still
to christen the eve the big night before the day
when hard rains will fall.

Soak once parched sere ground,
fault lines that begin to show true and harsh intent,
exposed molten core bubbles up to shape islands
that cool and then sway.

On waters not named
still steaming in afterbirth biological,
delicate creatures emerge, rear their souls, awed by
wondrous beginnings.

Sulfur smells like sex
atop the fuzz of new earth, mossy, wet, and green;
the world is yawning, awake, kinetic, pensive –
contemplates its fate.

Allies band, foes die,
even in these early days survival reigns hard;
intelligence lurks, sentience searches for theme
to grasp the moment.

To give life meaning
words must capture the meaning, but there is no meaning,
there’s only intent, longing, desire for the light
absent the darkness.

The finger gives form,
shapes the world in seven days, give or take eons;
maybe just a whim or an essential craving:
innate creation

The remnants revolve,
grooved in concentric motions astrological,
suns rise over stones placed so to mark the passing.
Long live the solstice.

This too comes to pass.
All things fade away in time, hail hale whisperer!

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Other poems in this form include:


For Morgana Le Fay