Winter is busy, transitions the year. Odd though, the night is warm
enough to stir loamy aroma, sings to summer gone, woeful melody.
In harmony twice, in song with the wind I’m chimes, a tubular bell,
a partner in gleeful percussion, emitting nothing but round humble tones.
© Chagall 2014
The ages have witnessed beautiful people
whose eyes well with love and feeling,
in their presence we sense all that life can be,
the heights to which human spirit can soar
without feet ever leaving ground.
I’ve basked in the glow of at least one,
unconditional acceptance enabled me to live
to the fullest, to explore the edges to find
the frilly nuance and tatted lace of being
at the fringe, forestalling the unravel just long enough
to allow the heart to emerge.
They pass like the rest, go without so much
as a fanfare or salute, dissolved in a void
that is the better for our loss, though we shall never recover,
they reappear as constellations, hot suns against cold night sky
to guide us on our journeys.
© Chagall 2014
Haiku, constrained words
Arrhythmic rigor profound
Words unveil haiku
© Chagall 2014
All is said and done,
time has run down,
slow dancers, soft steps
trespass in style without smiles,
guileful pliés leave me unamused.
© Chagall 2014
We are silent,
not because we’ve nothing to say,
simply we’d said too much.
© Chagall 2014
Thank you for the stars and moon,
love and joy, time and space,
and sentience.
Bless us with long, happy, healthy,
joyful and abundant life.
Guide us in our interactions,
help us to grow, to reach out
to heal one another and ourselves.
Show us how to grow younger
with each breath that we take.
© Chagall 2014
The red hawk appears
whenever I grasp meaning,
together minds soar.
© Chagall 2014
So many colors in so many words, if rainbows could spell
then paragraphs be rain.
Under parasols, our collars up,
we hug and steam the air.
Please capture in writing all that you feel,
persist so in puddles we’re born.
© Chagall 2014
I don’t believe in the oven light
Things should bake in the dark
© Chagall 2014
In the rosy hue of the candlelight
her blues appear more profound,
figure on ground in stark relief
all tied up with her sex and aroma,
sepia, bursts of pink, auburn patina
So many percussive manic beats per minute
in the gyrations of her hips, in the fold,
before fall and after the dash, madly, encore,
in echelon, the graceful swoons of grateful ones
and the silver songs of starlit diaphanous beings
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 