Archive for July, 2017


To A Page

blank page – i don’t know
whether to load it or stroke it

or smoke it
down to the wick
(be flip
for an idea)
must be cartesian
product they’re
selling ’round
here

cheaply, on chagall’s time
not mine, I speak through
him, it’s rare to meet such
a medium…Well done! When
the steaks are – scratch that –
the stakes are high, way above
our heads – scratch that –
my head, an aftermath befitting,
a prequel to an epilogue, a rattle
of prose chugs along, not waylaid and
cannonballed. Sometimes you just got to
get up hill a bit and start to tilt down crest
allow yourself to roll to the finish, pick up steam
as the contour of the line permits, it’s a coaster
works on gravity, life’s a carnival.

blank page – i don’t know
whether to eat it or eye it
so i sing it
lullaby

© Chagall ∞

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Preamble

One more morning
I’ll write. Gray,
sure. Air with the
same scent and feel
as that day, you bet.

The need – the ache –
to hold onto anything
that doesn’t slip away.

Perhaps the living is
easy and the writing
tougher.

Sound attests
to the existence of time
as sure as motion does
yet so much timelessness
in the rustle, the whisper
of leaves on canopy branches
high among the zephyrs. I
grow dizzy to imagine myself
there at the top looking down.

Maybe I’ll feel more today and
write less about it, pull in
the shutters, the sash.
Still, here on the inside
I fashion small chips
of graphite into pencil
an essential element
to build strong bones.

With enough sun and love
a stand of kindred spirits
can endure forever.

© Chagall ∞

Haiku For Specious Present

Alphabet City

Heartbeats slow the pulse
till the hummingbird wings still
to float timelessly

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

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hummingbird teasing nectar
zips to the lowest pine-bough
and back, can’t keep a secret
there’s two now, one on the perch
the other flapping, fearful to alight
emitting signals that attract
even butterflies

hummingbird versus a cicada-killer wasp
mid-flight, left it bent at the ankles
exponentially faster, oh how it giggled
poof! gone in a puff, already in the canopy
a quick celebration, that nectar rush

hummingbird back, but first a diversion
for those who might be watching too closely
atop the green post in the garden where the asparagus ferns have lengthened,
one mississippi, two missi…

back to the feeder
blessed sugar water

I’m a Blackhawk baby, I’m a whirlybird,
I’m a space invader, I am elevator Wonka
next-stop, the Pines

© Chagall ∞

Caroline, was that the bell?
Time to unfold it all away.

I’ll grab your bag, just give
me a moment, light is coming
into the window now like then
and again.

A room full of petals to welcome
the morning wind, shutters wide open
to ocean air.

I waltz with myself in a salty room
broom-swept but no worse for wear,
still smelling of summer, now I samba
on sand from beaches I conquered
barefoot, on bleached plank floors
carefully o’er and around broken glass

Caroline, you’ll call when you land?

After you’ve had the time to
grab your bag from
the carousel
before red-green
lights whisk by
and carry you away

I mist the room of petals
to keep them opened wide
alert to the sound of dark oceans
dancing waves, froth sexy
whitecaps warm in bare moonlight
rush about our ankles

I am breathless
running full-speed
maniacally at the threshold
of something about to burst

Caroline says she’s coming again
to pay a visit, without any bag this time

sans parcel, save a pair of dancing beach sandals
and a bucket of merely shells.

dark rum, slow rumba, undulating sand,
I wear clothes to capture the breeze

she shines light
luminescent – she is cyan in color
a cyanodite
she reflects moonlight

Caroline says I should
talk a lot
less

© Chagall ∞

Communal Living

Every year around this time witnesses the return of
the cicada killer wasps: their sole purpose in life is
to fight, even to die, in the war against cicada.

They land their bodies on my hot pavers, the straight-away
between the porches is a landing field for sassy doughboys,
chewing gum, sun in their eyes, alive another day.

I get out the hose and assist them in training, parrying
with sprinkler and jet and soaker settings, preparing them for
aerial bug-fight, cicadas are fierce opponents
with an innate understanding of prime numbers.

I had a huge party this weekend and I gathered the cicada killer wasps
around and I told them it was the front of the house for the rest of the day
and they listened. That night while packing up the tent and the chairs
they came back and settled into their usual spot. The leader,
oddly one of the youngest, came over and said, “You miss everybody,
i can tell,” hovered a moment and then flew off to the shade of the boxwoods.

© Chagall ∞

bye, passing thru

black-cherry-black: outlines objects
for those with night vision

I am cozy in its dark warmth

powder-blue-moonlight: stark relief
cooler gray shadows

night in the arbor lost-in-pink:
awake at first light
these are the deepest hues

breathe in
the petrichor
salty brine
lavender

© chagall ∞

Hataali

Atop the sand painting
it is hot enough
to open the blessingway

to reverse
the radials of color

mosaics of first people
blessing, angering

I fear
the surface dead

coyotes and amorphous creatures
scare away the horses

in the hearth is bread
of corn and coarse black pepper
sweeter by summer squash flowers

© Chagall ∞

I leap for the net with big holes
hoping I’ll miss and fall through

to be a mastermind I dress the part,
strip down

the cement is just for weight dear
look who’s back in town!

once I fell
and bounced
only to fall again

and one time
I soared

rooflines ascending
the light on the bridge

a star and
a sky carpet
race

only
to lose
to time

somewhere
it’s rain

rivulets
lap over dappled gray rock
pondering whether
to ripple

this life is
a crazy puddle

I say thank you
in primary colors

each rung
I reach to

awash
eternal

somewhere
it’s storm

© Chagall ∞

Only Final Drafts

I hate my Moleskin tablet
just way too much pressure
to get getting it right
the first
time

© Chagall ∞

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