Just jiggle your eyes up and down
like you swing when you sway when you dance
Bilingual so cunning we lip-sync till vibration booms flows
like monsoons in a trance
butterflies flutter by
hmm . . . wonder why?
rub-a-dub scrub in the tub small circular backstrokes in front
more nimble then able my horses they fly, saddle one babe bubble-up.
Chagall 2015
Instinctively she knew
the dholavira symbols
were incorrectly ordered,
she goddess of the Indus Valley.
Chagall 2015
With certainty I sense what’s timeless
so therefore I am, aren’t I?
It’s a light that shines forever,
a tone with no break for interval.
It’s the moment of you, the thought of you,
the underbelly of you upon my shoulders.
Within that light play fine shadows, disturbed
branches windblown in time.
The doppler of the carousel horses rise then fall
round and rise then fall again.
It is this mere one lifetime with you,
the incessant farewell of moments.
At any time you’ll be here.
At any time you’ll be gone.
Uncertainty senses this timeless
alone, aloft with no tether.
Chagall 2015
Happy reblog Friday. I like this one, though no one else did when originally posted in June, 2013. I consoled myself then by telling myself that everyone was on vacation. Love & Peace. —Carlos
Somebody’s cut the line –
damn it, I dozed!
I’m rising way too fast,
this is not good.
I have no rudder to steer,
no weight to hold me to earth.
Wild careen across cloudscape,
sideways then up then sideways and up.
A monstrous downdraft deals a concussive blow,
stops the ascent dead in its rise,
propels me for a moment into the envelope of the balloon,
barely missing the flames.
My crown-lines appear staked to nearby clouds,
but I know that can’t be.
I stabilize with open jets of whisper burners,
aglow in night-blue sky.
I have no way back down,
except to plummet, finally fall.
But instead, I simply dangle,
cautious not to breathe.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
When she was a child we played a game
we pretended to be high on a cliff at the edge
losing grip on our footing we’d plummet
down off the bed as if from Everest
at the last minute grabbing hands in mid-air
in outstretched rescue every sinewy muscle
straining to hold onto life. She writes
that it’s readied her well for the fight,
she loves me, it’s time to let go.
Chagall 2015
Sound as light
upon blond lashes,
breath in a whisper
punctuates consonants
softly on eardrum cilia.
Such ticklish fancies.
Chagall 2015
I miss the suspense – that delicious hour, sometimes a week –
of waiting for my photos.
Chagall 2015
Fatigue slows
the inner voice
till there’s nothing
but stone
cold
focus
Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 