Archive for July, 2014

Sans Mots

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I feel that old wedge of wood
between my plexus and my temple
meaning the pressure of time
to get things done, I’ve learned
to feel it without words, it is
merely sensation, like the rose
petal of circling bullet holes
that I’ve deemed my anger there
in a stream of turrets just above
my belt line, mossy scent of water
heady far back behind the eyes coats
the back and top of the inside of my
skull is the melancholy of remembering you

© Chagall 2014

Tightly Drawn And Cozy

In the canvas bag where I stored garden hand-tools,
in a side pocket covered by a blue-black-white

paisley bandana, I kept a small brass pipe and a palm-size
stash of homegrown I’d grown here at home years ago excellent really quite primo

kept moist by rotating wedges of apple newly
I’d partake every now and then

when out in the green house at the potting bench (no pun intended)
the aroma of earth, water, and oxygen processing

in filtered sunlight
and sometimes in moonlight

wondrous dahlias and grapes on grafted rootstock
made tougher to live here, to be able to endure here

propagating boxwood and ficus and fig
helping them to get through the erratic germination of exotic types

in the end just hoping
we’d all find simpler things

© Chagall 2014

The Resiliency Tango

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From above one could see that the wires were old
and her fall would potentially be
quite a serious one, at least we first thought

Until that day she fluttered and fell, simply slipped right out of the sky
rode updrafts for a while before crashing down
when all the world was essentially right

But did you see the way she sprung back? She sprung up!
Her back hit the ground for nary a moment, then she arched, she bounced
up onto the soles of her feet, stomped once and levitated, I swear . . .

Some say just tango on and so she did dancing across the room
her body in tight lithe lines, defiant neckline swept to long driving legs
arms outstretched grasping for fingers to touch to feel opposing pressure

There is a moment at the end of the dance when the dancer transitions from a state of grace
to clearly being after – no longer of – the dance, a place of repose
where she’s able to see the dancers in retrospect, the steps no longer before her

A spin dies, loses momentum till the point upon which the spin depended
gives way and collapses the spinner, now spent but dizzy, happy to feel
the cold ice against her cheek, upon gloved hands she rises quickly before her skin sticks


Tango on

© Chagall 2014

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and so there’s apt to be

an I
who must name the white-hot point

just life
throbs and flows goes up-down the frame

neon really
while no one’s there to watch it

© Chagall 2014

And Let Live

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Can you go organic
and not have comments like
Hey, what’s with the gnats?

© Chagall 2014

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All of my elves
seem to match

© Chagall 2014


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I told her I’d drive her
absolutely no problem
in fact I would be honored

she said you’d have to then drive home alone

I replied that needn’t be true
I could simply stay on

© Chagall 2014

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Brutal honesty
Truth lies outside even that
Spring could do better

© Chagall 2014

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The poem starts a place without word
outside the hourglass

The sound is an outburst (exclamation!)
whether a howl is uncertain, more likely a caw

Brains pretend to know, but they don’t
sadly at perch too high perhaps

It’s the last flight out in search
of reconnaissance stalled on the tarmac

On a high reef
or a low arete

In certain dreams I spiral down
sharp winding roads without guard rail

where perilous switchbacks cause me to dangle
precariously close to then over the edge

perennially in descent but how decent of you
to drop by thank you I would kiss you yet . . .

chances are odds are
merely an end to a means to an end

© Chagall 2014

Soft Gears

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I’m caught in the drone
of the tight machines

Elevated to states
of the art

Not about anything

Except dogged
blessed arabesque

© Chagall 2014

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