Archive for January, 2017


The Devil is in The Chocolate

Sometime when I go to steal away
yet another piece of banana cake,
I find that one precedes me and
leaves behind a healthy half-slab.
I chase each bite with a small palmful
of dark chocolate bits. I feel theobromine
envelop my being. Look out world, I’m in love!

© Chagall 2017

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Snow, an extended heaven-sent sigh
expresses its passion as a function
of the angle of its fall; precipitation
begat and chilled by the wind, a fluttery
jitterbug afoot overhead. My scarf wraps
twice to warm me, beguiled amid words that
form between flakes, they speak you know –
to warn me there just ahead is a hand
reaches out to embrace but the space between,
the chasm divide is too great, still we blow,
still we fall to the ground, a powder, a mist
slowly wisps away in time, nestled deep in the throes,
in our throwaway wraparound world we propel ourselves
deeper each time we fall, backwards off-stage I trust
you’ll catch me never let me fall,
I would break along dotted lines …
snow from afar
each little star
is snow.

© Chagall 2017

Bitches Brew

This past election day
I voted neither red nor blue
but instead prayed for
the rebirth of the cool, for
Nefertiti, and in my own silent way
cast my write-in vote for
Sir Miles Dewey Davis III,
with John Coltrane and Bill Evans
as VP and Sec of State, respectively.

© Chagall 2017

Love you all.  Enjoy.

Chagall

 

Stark Relief

Today while reading Figure and Ground, I highlight
passages that I do not want to remember.

© Chagall 2017

Those Woods

The little horse has passed, still her harness bells summon
snowfalls shared, quiet leas, and the long dark nights of winter.

©  Chagall 2017

For Chloe – ci vediamo

She loved Frost but was less equivocal about the end,
choosing water over fire and ice.

© Chagall 2017

Pleuvoir

For Us all. —Chagall

Alphabet City

The light is perfect here
color soaks the moment
I see small dots of life
everywhere there is lavender
the brush is more patient than I
to render its impression
of God and time
I am immersed in Peace
despite profound disturbance
in the pointillism
the fabric must be mended
that bears the barbarism –
humanity and sane gentle minds
must once again conceive the canvas
we must wake up and smell the carbon
inhale the stars as one people we exhale
a single cry that is our lot
vis-à-vis the vast endless other
rather one another
warm, musky Friday nights
amour all around as it should be amour
lights, everywhere lights
gypsy jazz and a pack of Gitanes
i am jean Paul belmondo I scream from the water
startled bouquinistes and Dominique
et tout le monde est triste et ils me manquent
but my english is pretty good, just…

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Splice

Alphabet City

The light is soft here as if all the world is heather
askance, atilt and askew. I stare at a door ajar
that invites me to slip in now and then, and I do.
I float on a tone, bulbous sound beats against time
measured in gulps, a three-quarter waltz paced regularly
when I least expect it to. I wish you eternal lavender.
Life offers life on the gentlest of palms below the wrists’
hollows so slender and kissable. Cheeks intended for cupping
dimple and provoke the protrusion of lips for tugging, to daub,
pull and pout. The colors around me begin to lose their soft-edge,
sadly. I hear the click of the door lock, not certain which side I am on.
On the down beat I gracefully swoop with torque and suspension,
sinew and skin and blood, at work in miraculous union.

© Chagall 2017

View original post

Splice

The light is soft here as if all the world is heather
askance, atilt and askew. I stare at a door ajar
that invites me to slip in now and then, and I do.
I float on a tone, bulbous sound beats against time
measured in gulps, a three-quarter waltz paced regularly
when I least expect it to. I wish you eternal lavender.
Life offers life on the gentlest of palms below the wrists’
hollows so slender and kissable. Cheeks intended for cupping
dimple and provoke the protrusion of lips for tugging, to daub,
pull and pout. The colors around me begin to lose their soft-edge,
sadly. I hear the click of the door lock, not certain which side I am on.
On the down beat I gracefully swoop with torque and suspension,
sinew and skin and blood, at work in miraculous union.

© Chagall 2017

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