Archive for May, 2017


Sara is Her Summer Love

I utter the unspeakable in order
to definitively convey that aspect of it
yet I do not suffer consequences. We are
bewildered – what to do, where to go from here.

I am nothing but eyes amid the sensation of a swing aloft
in a ceaselessly sunny sky, my shoelaces are green
but I am otherwise awash in primary color, yellow
and red are my glow amid her cooler blue.

Sky as thick or thin as I like it, in doughy gulps
or wispy cold streams.  She could float upon oceans for hours
never to sink through salt water.

She’d swim away out beyond
where I’d imagined
the breakers would be.

© Chagall ∞

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Cushiony Beach Feet

I am the samba that remains unwritten
For the space between sand and sea
The dance upon rocks polished by time
Made smooth by deep-water indigo
Bluer than wet waves, sails settle thusly at dusk
On horizons beneath sunlight ceased to fall
To fail to bring light, a blow to grace
A jab to faith, a tinker’s blow to pierce
The armored scowl, the incalculable wonder of eyes
The ponderous pout, beget and be gone
Forgotten, nay a fadeaway dappled in corduroy
Supplicants or another vicarious agenda, indigenous
More than formulaic, naturalized to exist right there
As it must in a flow of energy besieging my optic nerve
I exist to impart everything, I defy thrombosis for I bore
Deeper than the vein of inflammation, the zone of wizened trespass
Thank you for the bodies receptors, for warm city nights
For carousels and the songs that they play, the march of grand horses
Somewhere glasses touch, each a soft mallet upon the other to rub gently
Searching for the warm tone, the sensual rub of globes
I am that samba that snaps you back to the beach
In cool day, in bright coveted morning
Amid constant pressure despite inclination toward shade
Over-anxious more than unctuous or ingratiating
A tip of the hat coincident with the wink is elementary sparkle
The samba that returns like the surf does
Though sometimes it stops
It’s true, so samba through
To the space between sand and sea
Samba, there is where I want to be
Samba, gesticulate, a cuba libre
Leaning out over the rail of the balcony overlooking sand and surf
A small fox at dusk darts furtively through the rough sandy brush
The backs of houses along the dunes along the beach along the ocean
Darkness settles on salted breezes aromatic with land crabs
Less fearful to exit their holes this time of day just before night
When the number of stars and wan atmosphere rival the majesty, the ocean’s roar
In pitch blackness, the world of the blind
The roar of sound dominates the ear
And so goes the body, I am the waves you hear
Of this there’s no denying
I am the song of the samba receding

© Chagall ∞

The Harbor

Alphabet City

On my back barely beneath water,
the soft sand molds me to form,
I’m dense, settled in with full gravity,
heavy human-molten, I dare myself to breathe
in the liquid as at birth my lungs
accustom to the wet, I relax accepting
this will end soon, I smile
at diffracted rays of sun, the final light
I will see this time around; this drowning
is not so hard, it’s more a state of mind.

Chagall 2015

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Yesterday morning I took down an old dead ash tree
that had presided over the middle of the backyard
for fifty years or so. In the evening, with a tea
in hand, I sat there and eyed the space where the
tree had only just stood, and noticed a bird who kept flying
to and from the stump, alit in sawdust, back to perch
on a carved fence-head nearby. After a while I understood
the bird’s plight of my making. We both nestled
there throughout the night, under thinly-aired twilit skies
awash in constellations, anxious for the birth of new trees.

© Chagall ∞

The ground is too far below for me
to discern my own face in the puddle
of rain immortalized. Once I was
a downpour, a constant gurgle
in the drain spout, warm and blue
water flows, banks steeply in foam
before the fall. I plead a cascade
of long dawnings where nightbirds recede
into the day’s cry, a jaunt once again
in sunlight that’s always warmer than early rays,
before the first frost when only a few turn sweeter
for the cold crystal tears that break on cheeks
as tiny pellets of snow on glass wiped clean
on dark roads, by butterflies – that’s where I’ll live,
atop canopies not in them, a soar above the crowd
a cut below, in startling light, not in shadow,
stark, evanescent, constantly re-birthed while birthing
incrementally ascending higher through skies unattained
upon velvet breaths that scour my lungs alive despite
the gasping intake of free fall. Vertigo does not blind me
nor deter me, my bead on you. You are Life, and We as One
are None.

© Chagall ∞

Bumper Crop

I am awash in
incidental oregano.

© Chagall ∞

Eternal bright light
Her soliloquy honey
Evergreen deep rain

© Chagall ∞

 

Sandy Stars

The crisp scent of the mint keeps the pinks at bay
For want of a softer light I pray for rain
In vain since time in memorial less a mountain
Than a collage of sleepily filtered photos
The sand polishes both our bodies I have
Never felt more alive than now
Tickled in ocean spray
Under this moonlight
A splice in the dark
Your breathing takes me
Vague sculpted feet
In the wet beach
Silken sexy surf
Rolls on silica
Diamonds on black
As stars go so suns
Whether night or day
To where you are
Light years so far
Yet so finely lit constellate away
Bodies alive of so many colors
The delicious warmth of white foamy water washes over my feet
In the pitch darkness your breath cooler on my neck
Suddenly reminds my that sky is boundless
Much bluer by day hotter in need of rain
Pepper or spearmint oil
To keep the pinks at bay

© Chagall ∞

Bigger than Bubbles

I was confused by her leaving, thought it instead
the roar of the ocean or the fall of the sky

She made the waves rise for she is the water
upon You I played splashingly wonderful, once when young

Earth ends, sky reigns, there on the thin line
where I’ve tiptoed appearing nimbly soon after sunset

She in my arms, her hair a cascade over low-flying clouds
some nimbus of sorts bringing aqua-aqua to the world

In calm repose we align constellate, symbolic of who we are
on the grander scale, she so poised to take a single step

Into deeper heavens I gaze awaiting the faintest sound of a thunderous clap
signifying everything coincident with her return, aromatic escorts

With her gone comes impenetrable ground where once she was figure,
her form as empty in its definition as once it was a blossom

I bounce, a balloon on a ceiling in celestial updraft, peering,
waiting, bobbing

© Chagall ∞

The Sefirot

Same bug’s been on the screen for hours now
basking in sun luxuriant as I.  I no longer
desire to swat You with my towel
for we are one.

© Chagall ∞

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