At one time
everywhere,
now nowhere.
They’re somewhere, wherever
your heart has left you.
Remember forever
to rein it in,
the day needn’t
escape you.
© Chagall, 2013
Archive for October, 2013
A canopy of shade
just off the shore
under the cool
of large palms
to adorn the breastplate
where once we wore armor
copper and pewter
ewers pour
honey
dripped
embroidery
burnt-sugar
stencils
interwoven
about the neck
a lacy tat
décolleté
© Chagall, 2013
The lime-pink houses
along the beach
stand in wait
for the dreamscape,
the laughter of days before storms
took the island
by gale, and nowhere
was alee.
Kites ripped and ditched
on rock, strung out
on waves so close
to shore.
Lonely gulls
bear the cry
of their own.
Though they glide
graceful, silent arcs,
atop salted winds
in updraft.
I miss the barefoot sound
of running on water
when the weary
were rested,
fresh
in steadfast color,
not faded,
heathered,
or torn,
fit to
taut bodies
loathe
to relinquish
the day.
© Chagall, 2013
Long pulls and strokes
of her hard brush,
smoothed the way
for curls
and throaty incantations.
Her aromas cleave
me at center,
I am tinged at my fringes
by her scents.
These remain
the strongest trigger,
the fastest way back
to a time. So it was
a chance to be sexy,
poetic and smart.
All good things
rolled into one.
A black
tie-dye
event.
A time
for dahlias, pepper silks,
and arced backs,
for running lights
and rubbing curves
the wrong way.
© Chagall, 2013
The avalanche rolls uphill,
creates a mount.
The waves unfurl to show
a flat and placid face.
Storm clouds disperse
to unveil the sun’s hold-sway.
Our each lie’s a domino
in the topple of truth.
© Chagall, 2013
Observe the signs
to proceed with caution
it’s very easy
to break here
get broken,
up or down
brake,
go slow
always be
hyper-vigilant
anticipate
the fork in the tongue
the dip
in the mind
bumps in the crowd
that can send you flying
they’re slippery most
when cornered
know the rights
of Way
© Chagall, 2013
It’s just beyond here
a stark vision of the form
the haiku must take
© Chagall, 2013
Cold numb
rubbing
thumbs running
along the nub
tumble longingly
nimble tongues
rumble
in hollow alleys
mouths
tones emanate
our little voices
small moaners
mambo
the tips
of the tops
of marionettes
my index finger
to their crown
to center the pirouette
graceful curtseys
on lower lips
unveil themselves
biting seems right
nipping really
nibbling the ripe
warm, pliant
extending
things
dangling
from
our
bodies.
© Chagall, 2013
She places her palms
on the flush of my cheeks,
rubs ice-cold
small tight circles.
I warm her
faster than she cools,
she freezes
before I burn.
Her fever pitch
is a little flat,
her grace note
sounds too sharp.
She’s minor keys,
exotic
open tunings,
but I hardly think
she’s a mystic.
© Chagall, 2013
The brave captains
of Saturday night
are dead.
Sunday rains
wash the street
bright, alive and sun-gray.
Such beautiful light
on the barber pole.
A whisper-promise,
soft nibbles
to the lobe.
Long drags
and draws,
and pulls
and strokes.
So much yearning,
first-floor
windows.
Part the curtain,
would you
wave?
I watch
Ed Hopper
prep his palette,
early
Sunday morning.
© Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 