Geese vee overhead
atonement in echelon
cold blue communion
© Chagall 2013
Archive for December, 2013
Take small steps
I’ll guide you
At first
the path is rocky,
soles are not inured
to withstand the jagged edge
of freshly shattered razor shale
or to grip the slippery slopes that drop off all about.
At times I’ll lead and others I’ll follow,
to brace or bolster, to have or to hold,
depends on the slope, on the season,
the state of hope, the reason.
To leap from the edge, I’ve found
provides the smoothest sail,
without guaranteed soft land,
but was that ever on your mind?
Hold my wrists, my ankles,
I’ll billow, a chute to break your fall
from lofty aerie, along the way we’ll invert
and I expect that you’ll break mine.
Alighted, we tumble and roll
head over heels in meadows warm
dry of dew and scented, your heart’s potpourri
and sea; despite the sun we embrace to cease shivers
that swell from waking too fast, overload over joy,
the assertion we are at last!
Take long strides
I’ll guide you
The way from here is clear
and we are well shod to withstand
the bramble, crags, and frozen streams,
wild things that scream in the dark, they scratch
too close about us, all that’s a mere bag of shells;
we’ve million-mile tread, whetted blades, provisions for two,
skilled in what-comes-first-aid, knowledge of the trail,
but let’s not let that stop us
to exit the path
now and then.
© Chagall 2013
Today they awarded a prize to the happiest girl in the room.
I lost.
She had auburn hair,
scented of coca
cola and cloves,
and a face
to die-for in profile.
Well,
she
just
might.
I offered the room
the top of my head,
while she made ceremonial rounds.
Happiness is relative,
I told myself,
misery could be better,
depending on the scale,
and if they grade on a curve.
Nothing’s absolute
the man to my right says
Of that I’m absolutely certain
My shoes need shining,
my hose is torn,
my Latina skin showing through
like polka dots, since the Nude
color had in mind
fairer, happier girls.
I feel faint so I fan
my face with the program,
suddenly I need air.
I need space
I need time
I need love
Soft kisses
rain on my face
to wash
life away
You OK?
he asks
I’m fine.
A little too much
excitement for a day.
On the subway home
the gentleman to my left says
May I say, you are very beautiful
I cross my legs
raise my head
and turn to face him.
Absolutely.
© Chagall 2013
The ground
for form superlative,
the ought-to-be
for all what-is.
She, the unmoved mover,
wills potential to shift
to the real.
Her hair pale white as twilight snow,
and tendril long like nebulae,
tied up to protect
from the grab of the bang.
She’s ready,
so tips the domino,
propels the chain.
Sprockets spin,
belts engage,
the engine whirs,
sputters,
then rights itself
to steady state.
Burns core-hot for eons . . .
Nothing here
is now everywhere,
and nowhere is quite center.
Then everything’s cool.
Planets form:
it’s the dawn
of implicate order.
She hovers breathless
at the edge
of Creation.
Awed by her own
reflection, she rests
but just for a moment.
Essentially love,
she lets her hair down
and leaves us.
She’s the shadow last seen
on the waters.
© Chagall 2013
Our universe
(I’ve seen all)
outshines few
pales to most
So much color
still to be found
inside our rainbows
© Chagall 2013
Never met girls on trains, just across platforms, skirting so many fares.
© Chagall 2013
Yesterdays’ regrets,
I let go
Tomorrows’ worries,
I let go
Now what?
Should I have done this?
To those questions,
the speaker replies
Who cares
and who cares.
Now . . .
where was I?
© Chagall 2013
Inside the snow globe
dogs don bows, carolers sing
angels eye angels
© Chagall 2013
Snowflakes large as hope
jazz brushwork lazy on snares
cold slow motion life
© Chagall 2013
Though I have more than I had
as a kid growing up,
I am poorer
now than ever.
It appears
the world
disappears
to leave
harsh seams.
I wonder:
How many lives ago?
My future builds
affixed to itself
sans blueprint
but the past collects
by design.
Despair to look back
to revel in excitement
one once had to look forward.
I sense
a mosaic of sound and color
forms at the edge.
Behind me or ahead
I’m uncertain,
purely as a matter
of principle.
© Chagall 2013
Alphabet City 