Simple
and
deep
I
would
rather
be
versus the alternative of then otherwise having to be complex and shallow.
© Chagall 2013
Archive for December, 2013
She always comes and goes
Late at night, then early morning
Stays the shortest time she needs
A gasp, a sharp intake of breath
She holds, though I’ve never heard her release
© Chagall 2013
i knew a new writer
who blogged today
wordpress can’t keep up
with millions
from far and wee
who toggle
the like button fandango
ocherlicious delight
in the upper right
for edward estlin
cummings
i.e.
e.e.
© Chagall 2013
Originally posted on SEPT 29, 2013. —Chagall
It’s a simple story really
about a girl who could fly
and did so well
until that day
she fluttered and fell
too close to the sea
and is trapped ever since
at the crest of its waves
held there by surface tension . . .
© Chagall, 2013
You once danced in perfect dark,
with no eye to discern the grace of form,
nothing shone on passion for Terpsichore,
your body yearned, stark figure on ground, unseen aloft
in space for no one but you, in wait to unveil the inward glow,
before the birth of sight and no one was, there was promenade and cabriole.
© Chagall 2013
Rain sounds massage me
each wet gurgle a bubble
dropped hollow echoes
© Chagall 2013
Forest rains pour down
to wash human scent away
wild life rejoices
© Chagall 2013
We are troubadours, vamps,
poets and scamps,
Shakespeares, Anaïs Nins
Ginsbergs, Plaths, Nerudas
oh my!
Oh my goodness, another idea, quickly
My blog, new post . . .
Let it flow,
convey the sounds, the rhythms
that beat inside
Deliver me;
bring me
the head
of an avatar
© Chagall 2013
We have so much to say,
any attempt will only fall short,
and so we say nothing at all,
but no more.
We are happy now to recite
prayers for your joy,
your health and bounty.
Our wishes for peaceful
starlit skies you can penetrate
with an ardent scan.
Warm fires against your back
to throw your shadows on the wall;
you float above your lover’s.
We close respectfully
with the heartfelt desire
for you to experience nothing.
Nothing but perfect days,
timeless days,
puffed sails,
and slow wet turquoise.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
(Originally posted on June 21, 2013 as A Quick Note Just To Let You Know. Rather than re-blog, I have chosen to revise, re-title, and re-issue as new.)
Originally posted on May 10th, 2013. In memory of the Rajah. —Chagall
Blue workshirts
crusted in salt-rings,
sweat born out,
of foundry heat,
smelters blaze,
soups of molten copper,
where a trip sends lava
flowing down ramps
to melt men’s ankles,
makes castings of souls
who labor
for low wage,
no esteem.
Suiciders atop vats
swan dive into
ore pools,
vanish like vapors.
Here, then
simply gone.
All they were,
now steam.
On the subway home,
I doze to the sports page,
dream of powerful
drives to center,
propelled by torque,
strong hips, action,
sympathetic knees, breaking wrists,
the geometry of grace,
the boys of summer
kiss the cheeks of autumn ladies.
Sweet grass,
new, mown.
City sparrows
on ginkgo trees
in the high branches aside the el,
lilt fossil
melodies,
call to me
through open train doors
to wake me
at some station after mine.
I smell the heavy layer of my own sweat
there on my clothes,
the heat of…
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