They remark about the devil
in more intricate pattern
and then lose the train
of thought
© Chagall 2014
Archive for April, 2014
A day so beautiful
I find even the squirrels
delightful.
© Chagall 2014
Alone at night I sip tea spiced with bergamot
under crisp cold stars and watch small planes overhead
strobe tail-lights and wings, on to steady red then off
to the past that comes readily as an echo
soars octaves in free-form under the dome
of souls in free flight under streetlight like soft snow
it’s the last hurrah: it’s the first hush.
So many little planes.
© Chagall 2014
Today, this cold crisp April day
there’s the smell of smoke and soil.
The attitude of sunlight just so
illuminates zephyrs in treetops
and gargoyles rutted in the shadow of rough bark.
They’re all smiling, so that’s a good sign –
right?
And the wind is actually whistling,
oval lips over an empty bottle
while now and then more menacing tones
much more gasp than whistle or song, hang there high in the field.
The hawk is anxious I know, that I not mistake it as soft.
And I travel back too easily and swiftly
to another place and day so much like this one,
to a time more deeply hued though equally sun-dappled.
Soft curls of white smoke hide me from my knees down;
I’m sure it’s my altitude.
© Chagall 2014
The hottest summer on record,
go-kart fuel and peppermint lip-gloss.
© Chagall 2014
Her self-awareness makes her human,
in art, it’s her flaw.
A short wave I’ll ride
till a time when I can’t.
A fingertip at the waist
twirls us in.
My shoulder-blades touch the floor.
Momentum can take you
where air can’t.
She says that moments like these
are rarer.
Than what?
I will always kiss
you when you shrug.
When you stretch out
lean, en pointe or flex
I live to trace
your arcs.
© Chagall 2014
I pray she is safe
Hearts on metal flying birds
Long lone caws in woods
© Chagall 2014
Originally posted on Easter Sunday, 2013. Peace to all. —Chagall
Faster than Peter,
past acacia and carob,
I ran to the tomb.
We sang, then we danced,
we sang, we embraced, we wept,
jumped up, down, cried out.
Our voices echoed:
the chamber there was empty
past the low doorway.
Alone in the damp,
except for our friend’s garments;
his scent was still there.
I ran past Mary,
leaving the rich man’s garden;
Arimathean
sweet hawthorn kindled
the fires of Golgotha,
from the day before.
Past olive, almond,
apricot, pine, turpentine,
I ran to tell them.
© Carlos Chagall, Easter Sunday, 2013
Mother and kid hawk in quiet soar
in tight and tightening circles, just morning,
don’t ever concede or succumb to those without passion,
would rather die.
© Chagall 2014
Lately I talk
more and more
to myself
finding I
enjoy my
own company
immensely
– been
beside myself
essentially
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 