Alphabet City

Morning atop a large rock, a stone lily pad
in the middle of the stream a team-span wide
while cold waters lap at the edges, one can ride dry
at the high round rump. I’m here in perfectly old,
tattered blue-wool pullover weighted right against the vigor
of this new day; how wonderful so much morning remains
to while away.

Dense clusters of small gnatty flyers dance in ancient patterns
in the rays of early sun, radiant light, pervasive heat
waves in mirage, they flutter there bursting from vernal pools.

Rainbows used to dance here, leave small wakes, glide on eddies,
do backstrokes, with no one watching; masterful puppeteer of lightweight test,
set dry flies still, perfectly still, with but the slightest tremor, concentric break of the surface, from the rainbow’s vantage, just enough to stir curiosity,
a sniff, a poke, enough to spring the snap.

Nothing sadder than a…

I refuse to look at the sky tonight –
same old story – planes, dead stars, pitted moons,
motivates me to write those timeworn tunes
to the lovelorn, pines, how the heart takes flight,

metaphysical crap, dark versus light,
or lighthearted fare about babes and June
frolics among flowers, the springtime bloom,
blessed angels on high, lost souls burning bright.

Instead this evening I plan to ascend,
rise from the planet when bells toll midnight,
leave earth behind (I will miss you old friend)
my direction is up, two lefts, then right.

When you ponder the sky this eve you’ll see
the constellation Chagallus – it’s me!

© Carlos Chagall, 2013