Twenty-one reports
crack in unison
amount to one
big bang
a salute
to the passing
of the worthy
makes the living jump
and startles the dead
leaves behind
the smell of burnt powder
little puffs of smoke
hang there
in a blue dust
shaped by stainless barrels
blackened and burnished
© Chagall, 2013
I found your painted sweatshirt
in a box of your belongings
in the attic by the stairs
that fold on down.
And it smelled like Sunday morning
over coffee in the kitchen
before hope and our sweet life
began to drown.
I remember gentle kisses
up and down the ragged neckline
and the yellow on the sleeve
when it was new.
And the blue was like the starlight
coming through our bedroom window
on those crazy rainy nights
just me and you.
I fold it all away,
the shirt, the stairs,
the papers,
and tuck it in my mind
for another day.
So many colors,
a rainbow, a medley
of the laughter and the heartbreak
of our rooms.
© Chagall, 2013
No poem is as good as a melody,
no memory sweet like a kiss,
no wind so swept as a night-breeze blowing,
no eyes are cleared for this dream.
© Chagall, 2013
It’s late and so it’s time
to be plain
Pulse steady and eyes trained
on the target
I feel so long and lithe
and alive
While it’s fun to be obtuse
I think you should know
That before morning comes
I will die for you.
© Chagall, 2013
Newborns are certain
though you’ll never hear them say
heaven imparts love
Life’s best without words
mere symbols get in the way
poets be forewarned
Name it to lose it
stepped aside by one degree
objects lose their shape
Conform to design
preconceived notions thwart us
maya at the turn
Like distant cousins
what once was plain as the day
lost in the shuffle
© Chagall, 2013
I’m wholly depressed
under half-moon
and totally enthralled
when it’s full
I cast shadows
over fields
with the beams
at my back
as I gallop
along the ridge
on the steed
with intelligent eyes
warm, a tall seat
short, this cold night
© Chagall, 2013
A trace of night mist
settles on the white birch boughs
Autumn calls you home
© Chagall, 2013
In three-quarter time
we dance about shuttered rooms
spiral lost dark waltz
© Chagall, 2013
Can you smell the pine?
Needles all about the ground
Earth is so loamy
© Chagall, 2013
Wind through the trees,
Autumn –
or is that surf,
July?
I am northeast
and southbound
baby.
I need a jukebox,
an American Legion.
I prefer a good tap beer,
or a pinot noir from Beaune.
You can’t beat 3PM
for afternoon
delight.
although
noon, one
two, four, five
all have special meaning
Okay,
anytime
is right.
I adore
the produce aisle.
I do so love
losing my ticklish mind
undercover with you.
Keep a bottle on chill,
keep us moving forward.
© Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 