This morning I hug
your hips from behind
nothing freaky, just lovin’
contoured there
in a perfect spoon
a seat of leather
custom-made
perhaps a new Ferrari?
no, more
like I’m driving
a sleek Ski-Doo
fly over hills
and windblown
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
She said let’s be stoic together
endure one another without complaint
I’ll not tell you my pain is you
not expressing the same about me
that would be true,
and I think we should strive
to lie if only
for this short time
open our hearts to the possibilities
of narrow-mindedness
be clueless on knowing
the cruelty of caring
bite your tongue
forgo this kiss
stand at-ease
rather than hug
I consider you with disregard
and disdain for your ardor
our silence is but the interlude
that parses, pulses our scream,
and so we howl
twice, thrice
the allure is turning away,
the abstinence is the sex,
for every front, there’s a back
for every me, there’s a you
upright, but still not being able
to stand
the small things, the everything
about you
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
So I figured,
say that I live till 90,
and round-up to four hundred days a year,
that’s 360,000 days to live –
which really isn’t bad at all,
until I realized I did the math wrong
and it’s only 36,000.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Now it’s all sewn up
but it doesn’t say a word
poems like cadavers
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Never differing random patterns,
sometimes forever twice.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
In my dreams of her
we walk
through patches
of dense green
under sun so gold
that oddly casts
no shadow
she squats near
a stream
waves her hand
through the shallow
water
back and forth . . .
while I stare down at her
from too high above
I can hear
the quiet lapping
as a private darkness
closes around us
and I ask
Is there a heaven?
At that she stops
her paddling
abruptly
rises
taller than she was
in life
her face
just inches from mine
soft dimples
near her eyes
I’d forgotten
and she says
Yes, my dear
though everyone here
is starving
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
When I visit blogs
that use my Theme
I enter a parallel world
The room is the same,
but the lighting’s all wrong
Before long
I alight in bizarre
I am Carol Chagall
with a lilting voice
I write limericks and shout
Namaste!
I employ bigger words
the obscurer the better
I re-blog to blog
four to one
I use keywords
like punk
Sappho
and java
I collaborate with
a fly photonista
My partner occasionally
guest-pens a post
I seem happy
and so I lament
Back here, this side
on the shadowy sphere
Uptown from
Alphabet City
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
My mind falls short
of the wide berth
my heart cuts
over the gap
in my soul
simply put
my brain is no match
for my being
words, frozen ropes
tighten and snap
try to wrap around
what love is
the desire I have
for making
the yearning
plain
stanzas are not sighs
couplets not kisses
meter ain’t dance
rhyme is not two wrists
pulsing as one
in synchronized
blood-letting
what I want to say is best
said through only sound
before the formation
of words obscured
visceral expulsions
explode from the larynx
bang their head on the soft palette
carried by breath
the wind of the soul
whorls and tornadoes
exhale in a landscape of self-dilation
deflate
and die
just a little
without enunciation
no interference
from tongue and lips
open sounds
we’d hear
from the primal canopies
the coos of the ancients’ gardens
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
At present I wait
long for arcing shots of fire
life’s arrows’ quiver
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Now I cry
over small things,
just little matters
irreplaceable,
breakable you
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 