Wind through the trees,
Autumn –
or is that surf,
July?
I am northeast
and southbound
baby.
I need a jukebox,
an American Legion.
I prefer a good tap beer,
or a pinot noir from Beaune.
You can’t beat 3PM
for afternoon
delight.
although
noon, one
two, four, five
all have special meaning
Okay,
anytime
is right.
I adore
the produce aisle.
I do so love
losing my ticklish mind
undercover with you.
Keep a bottle on chill,
keep us moving forward.
© Chagall, 2013
The Paleolithics had neither plaid nor paisley
and as far as I know they didn’t plant parsley or
parsnips either – perhaps persimmons? Their art
amazingly exceeds their tools, stone goddesses more
majestic than the pebble axes that beget them
lovingly, beautifully incised designs to lift spirits,
to raise hopes, and to imbue faith in the goodness of creation.
We, the ancient people.
© Chagall ∞
I am precisely like a beacon she breathed
yet the time still faded quickly away, syrup
stopped in its pour, a cascade surreal atop
lithe and limber aplomb. Inside I am a rush
of water banking smoothly along high sides
of perilous plummeting flume, before I dive
so help me God … to ascend and emerge again,
the scent of lavender adrift on warm woven mist,
I am blinded by light calling me from the shore.
© Chagall ∞
She is waxing prosaic as she elbows her way
through the crowded agora, how she loves the bustle!
Throwing fingers up to signal the meter, opening bids
under kerchiefed hands where a shake resembles a seductive
sleight of fingers traced in palms’ undersides;
I continue to traipse my way up her wrists until
I cup her shoulders and press the tension
from her neck and temple. I will smooth her
into massaged rapture before agreeing that
her prose is genuine.
© Chagall ∞
I stopped wearing white stockings.
It makes me look more intelligent.
© Chagall ∞
There on the snow, the shadows of ancient flyers
perched atop rooflines, barring the sun.
© Chagall ∞
Please know that I will always click through
to your original post and will not feign having read it.
Thank you to those who do the same. I consider these folks
to be true readers. I don’t see how you can like a reblog
if you haven’t yet read the remaining half of the post that lies
there beyond the link that says “View Original Post – 300 more words.”
Thoughts?
© Chagall ∞
Do not aspire to sustain your compulsion.
© Chagall ∞
Hope is in sight, inverted
there on the optic nerve.
© Chagall ∞
I surf the voices in my head;
god let me land on one today
that I can live with, through
whom I can experience joy.
Instead, I fall through the
perforation that maps me topologic.
I am beneath the ice that I see cracked
everywhere, so … onward to the light!
I have left frozen lakes behind before.
The plush forest before me fills green with oxygen.
The errant calls, caws of life, pop from the canopy.
Arid sunlight, warm air, fills my face, my lungs, respectively.
We are moist and saline creatures with our own special scent of talc,
with eyes accustomed to deep focal points, we scan horizons.
Sadly, we discard all that we are so to be who we might,
astride upon waves with legs getting stronger everyday.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 