Started my day on the wrong side of email,
ended up in my Sent box, thinking
it was incoming mail. Then I put
two and two together. Feels good
to be back inside the Inbox.
© Chagall 2015
Archive for March, 2015
She said flowers are for making
sweet nothing of the air, she’d wave
her bouquet in sweeping arcs,
to trace comets she saw there,
streaks of scent, slow color to fade
figments, flames in the dark dimmed
to a lilac’s breath, her intentions lingered
longer than she, still remain.
© Chagall 2015
A celestial ring to it,
turbines recede in the croon
of Doppler effect,
up above first clouds, a speck,
But you see it, don’t you?
Basso, pleasingly gargled vibrato,
slow trilled. Perfect blue cold day.
© Chagall 2015
You and I, we are
such partitive people,
our hearts set on some
or any, but never specifically
this one, a bit of or a kissful
of that.
© Chagall 2015
What I thought was silence is
instead sound, figure on ground,
and that’s where the magic is,
underground, hear that? That hum
on which the silence rests? Fine –
we’ll take a moment. Now
focus. The silence rests on
ground. Focus on the ground.
Hear the hum?
© Chagall 2015
My gaze is locked in numb appreciation
for the life that passes my window,
on occasion my eyes flit higher to peer
at the lone eagle or the spiraling dove,
everlasting images from a timeless place
framed beyond the glass, impressed
on the silver that backs the dome,
I feel myself small, a flower between pages
torn from the volume, untethered soft
silken threads to bind me no more,
I elevate up to find it’s not different
than falling down, I let myself go, ascend so
it’s me, I pass by windows, waving to the crowd below
© Chagall 2015
Odd
everyone rhyming tonight
in similar patois and pattern
must be effects
of the local blend
© Chagall 2015
Once as a girl I was saved
shaved in many directions
to the point, rapier wits
poised, ready to please
left me breathlessly awaiting
a pulse, passion and reasons to live,
to fly was all I could do, would want to
lose myself in long walks, warm downpours
would slowly trickle and seep, my heels on the bricks
echoed in alleys and fine halls, sounding better, much rounder
on marble, I’d love how the glasses tinkled while laughter
rang out then simply faded and died so quickly
so easily lost though fingertips touching
forever so lightly, ever longing
fine starlight, these prisms
of stars, I’d wonder, I’d ask myself
why go on irresistible time, place really matters doesn’t
matter so I choose to leave, to stay, to go, to exit flamboyant
when I was a girl once, combed in elusive fashion
© Chagall 2015
We’d make love early
then sit on the floor
in the dark along
the windowed wall
wrote poetry while
sheer curtains blew
warm rainy wind about us
© Chagall 2015
It’s the way Pop started to go, she said,
small things, inconsequential; so I fret
for things I did today: poured the whole well
of ground coffee beans directly into the pot,
rather than measure the right amount
into the brew receptor, and reached for gel
instead of saline, to lubricate my lenses.
© Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 