About the other day,
I know now that it’s gone
There was then
the slightest possibility
But you, of course
after all, were right
They come and they go
today more than ever
Despite
tenacious grip
© Chagall 2014
Archive for September, 2014
capture it
this time
as it flees, capture
time feeling, time
slipping, once
it’s felt and fled
then
are the young French girls
now?
© Chagall 2014
What I’m writhing upon,
and even writing about,
is the stuff in the box.
Neatly penned by perimeter,
bold straight strokes,
bulbous and plain.
How about what’s outside?
You may and should inquire
in due time.
I’d say I’d never trade
any moment where you were, and when.
I lived and continue to be entangled simply
and merely for you.
© Chagall 2014
But oh, my God, yes –
of course there should be wonder!
And that
is that.
© Chagall 2014
She’s lightest when wet
Buoyant, snow-blown and windswept
Streams through steady breeze
© Chagall 2014
I’m past that point of convenient landmark
someplace to tether and one day to mourn,
where the whistles of birds are the strange ones
that you don’t always hear though they call.
Once a freckle, captured, amazed me for hours
as it danced on the tip of your nose.
Obliged to convey the lightness of hours,
she is behind the pale curtain, diaphanous sun.
The shutters slam shut as the wind blows,
kicks in gear with the upcoming storm,
brings the darkest grays while white scented pillows,
when the rain comes, lie softer still.
© Chagall 2014
I remember upstairs
pack the bags
quickly
Let’s fly –
Out the window
and over
the sash
To the rooftop
right ‘cross
the street
Oh we’ll tarry!
And we’ll nary
miss on the crash
Happy Friday
to all,
Love –
Mad Dash
© aka Chagall – 2014
I wink at the blind to catch their eye,
proposition the deaf for an ear, my lips move
to articulate tongues, arcane and garbled
chicanery, while fools wisely ignore the signs
to take heed.
In a tunnel that escapes me
thoughts meander, drifts blown ash
from fires once hot, close enough to burn
now cold, cinders reassemble not so easily these days,
but I try.
On the outside off the inside
under overcast tops ‘neath the shade,
is where I fail to succeed to be
what I’m not. And I find that I’m lost,
but I really don’t care, concernedly.
You are the essential wholeness of nothing,
everything wrapped into one and one,
she to others, just shy of a crowd.
As today marks the end
yesterday clears its promise
and I’m face-flat against the white wall
once again.
© Chagall 2014
After work I rush home,
my nose spews blood
to relieve the pressure
built-up there behind my eyes,
from the constant clench
of mind and body
throughout the day;
a safety valve that keeps me from going
native.
© Chagall 2014
My pen is filled with streets, not ink,
jagged black marker paves avenues
to arcs of triumph where synapse parade
in goose step lock these blue afternoons.
Perfect heat and only the scents
of flowers and her and sugar dough.
I could burst from so much promise,
eternity of mornings, preamble to days,
long, lustrous days, immersed in time,
absorbed by years; exhaled panting lovers.
Allow me to will you to will me back
to perfect heart and sharpened quill,
from that moment before the edge,
yet ere the step into open space,
where it’s clear save to ponder the last dash.
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 