The tapping whisper of rain,
Gulls soar, serifs against the long stretch
Of sky and land, the mosaic face of water,
Morning air, thin and cold, early day
Mist envelops always, hope is desire
To release, to touch the atmosphere,
To mean the words yet to find tongues,
Tone recedes into tones receding, the far edge
Where filaments unravel into the empty, void
Unless stamped otherwise, a puddle to stomp,
A bright yellow-slicker, the tapping whisper
of rain.
© Chagall ∞
Rebirth. —CC
Barnabas and Paul have been on the road,
Iconium, Perga to Antioch,
where they ran into strong opposition,
from the Jewish elders and the Elite.
I make joyful noises throughout the day,
the Gentiles appear to understand us.
I dab my own tears with wool from the lamb,
my soul bleached white from the blood of the blessed.
John’s time’s spent at the Tiberias Sea,
after I told him about my dream there:
the surf rolling in, my mind drifting out,
to future days, to ages not yet come.
He has visions there, stronger than before.
Thousands of people, all races and tongues,
beyond the tribulation, the end days,
before the throne, humbled and united.
I miss my friend; it’s difficult for me.
Nothing will ever be the same again.
There’s deeper meaning now to everything.
How lonely it must be to not believe.
© Carlos Chagall, April 2013
The joy of Easter. ===CC
Earlier that week, I filled with hate,
the rank odor of Sanhedrin
elders, soiled smocks, unwashed feet,
telling us to stop the teachings.
I was so proud of the others,
they stood up finally for him,
putting the blood back on their hands,
keeping his blood there in our hearts.
Last night, the Tiberias Sea,
was chilled, but beautiful starpoints
hung there high over Galilee.
I told them to cast to the right,
but as always, they don’t listen.
I stopped caring I’m different.
I lie on my back in the boat,
massaged by the gentle rolling
waves, seduced by the briny winds.
I knew who it was before them,
the glorious sun outlined him,
there on the bank in silhouette,
waving us in. “How was the catch?”
The fire was already on,
bread from wild yeasts on flat stones.
He told them to cast to the right,
and of…
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Faster than Peter,
past acacia and carob,
I ran to the tomb.
We sang, we danced,
embraced and wept,
jumped up and down, cried out.
Our voices echoed:
the chamber there was empty
past the low doorway.
Alone in the damp,
except for our friend’s garments;
his scent was still there.
I ran past Mary,
leaving the rich man’s garden;
Arimathean
sweet hawthorn kindled
the fires of Golgotha,
from the day before.
Past olive, almond,
apricot, pine, turpentine,
I ran to tell them.
© Carlos Chagall, Easter Sunday, 2013
I never wanted anything more
than nothing less.
© Chagall ∞
Imagine silence
Barren fields glow red neon
Now torrential rain
© Chagall ∞
Is poetry the poignancy
of thought or is it the
syncopation, the flowing
water of sound from page
to ear? Rivulets of tone
wash over you, leave you
untethered; to slip away,
stealthily glide to the
ether, is all I ever wanted.
© Chagall ∞
In my tub there is a dish
tied to the rim with a rope
and in that dish there is a bar,
a bar of raspberry soap. One day
I scrubbed and lathered clean with
my bar of purple delight, I went to
work where people asked if of me could
they please take a bite. I fought them off
the whole day long, quitting time rolled near.
Soon I would be alone with that soap I held so dear.
The office cleared, an echoing hush, everyone left the grounds.
I ran to the john, lathered my soap, and made little raspberry sounds.
© Chagall ∞
Everyday I find myself
with less incentive,
diminished energy;
subdued, I stoke
my flame for
the long
haul.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 