Archive for November, 2018

Hey Paul

Your avatar lives on
randomly appears
at the bottom
of posts to
link to
you are

this one
4 plus

a summer
poem you

so sad
that sun
is no
the sky

we’ve revolved
yet another day

Chagall 2018


Who knew
making love in the snow
could be like that

The igloo-ish dome
is a brilliant idea!

And point taken –
I totally understand
why that thing you did
requires the freshest only of snows

© Chagall 2013

Some say if only I knew then what I know now,
while others spin it if only I knew now as then.

I prefer never having known.

Chagall 2018

Dear Aldo:

Please do not misinterpret my earlier missive.  I still despise you.

The sentence reading, “Also ducks,” is in error due to the s and d keys being adjacent.

Instead it should read, “Aldo sucks.”

Ms. Lita Chagall

The offspring of houseplants travel,
door to door, time to time, from
flowerpots emerge bearers, new sprung life,
bringers, propagators.

Dumb canes, cactus, wandering ivy,
dwarf umbrella, ponytail palm and jade,
willingly give up offshoots, their young,
so sons and daughters, nieces, nephews,
aunts and uncles alike, can share a piece
of the peace they seek, a petal of the home
once loved.

Small leaves wedged in dirt grow tall
in time, the clippings keep on
across years, life erupts, environs away;
an african violet on a trek to china, to boston,
to the stars as need be.

Some fail hard, too drastic the change,
the love once known not found,
the giver unsure of how
ties sever.

I have many plants, o’ loved ones,
laceleaf, bromeliads, dark green philodendron.

Tell me which you wish to have,
I’ll pinch and clip till their yours.

Love, Chagall – 2018

Coming Down

Alphabet City

My neighbor is playing classic rock, lost in the din
Of rain.
Cardinal calls pierce the sheet of sound, lovingly embrace
The rain.
All of life cascades in a downpour around me, I am lost as preordained
In the rain.
Saturation. Virginal daisies or is that camomile?
I am the rain.
I am every scent of lavender exposed in mist on warm nights
After the rain.
The softest drop of dew about to flee from thirsty petals
Before the rain.
Moonlight, peeking out from dying clouds,
Dreams of rain.
I lie beside you, fall through your gravity, you ask What’s it like inside?
I whisper Rain.

© Chagall ∞

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I tell her I would.
“I would,” she echoes.

“All too many.”

She says,
“…it’s a crime to rhyme.”

“Maybe,” I ponder.
“Maybe next time?” she lilts
quizzing, lyrical.

“I’m thirsty. You thirsty?” she asks
and pours cool water from a blue clay ewer.

“You knew all along!”
“Wrong. Not all along.”

“Just recently.”

Chagall 2018

I call numbers I know have been long disconnected,
transported a moment in time to earlier days of anticipation,
awaiting Hello on the other end of the phone,
hoping – perhaps praying – that this time the call goes through.

I am willing to concede all grips on reality, to assume my rightful place
in past days that by all rights should be gone. Such is the price I would pay
to cut to the back of the queue.  No space-time-continuum snob am I.

I am confident I could handle the division of flows, the bifurcation of my fate;
it would be fun to watch fortune tellers wreck their minds
on the lifelines of my palms.

Chagall 2018

Grab Bag

I reach into my mind for something to wear,
it’s okay if it’s worn, even if it smells,
though a fresh crisp tee would do me well
should I find one while I rummage blindly, touching
items of texture and shape I fail to discern,
until finally from the gray emerges a conclusion
not foregone
till now.

I think I am
missing a sock.

Chagall 2018

Walk in Newly Fallen

In the muffled surround of the snow
my senses are heightened, smell and sight
and color explore newfound depth against silent white,
rubbery-rouged cheeks, the taste of warm salinity, my own mouth,
I ice over where my breath escapes, feet below me burrowing steps,
mine but too far away for control, I amble mind-freely, windily gusted
along low on the ground, I’m a spiral of small tornadoes, the parts greater than any sum I can tally, merely me – a witness to an epic, snow as it has always been, new-fallen, chaste, a canvas for dreams, a springboard for joy, an unblemished blanket where sky meets earth, capturing the early sun underneath for posterity, growth, a day in the future, a moment in time yet spent,
to erupt new life, a tendril of green from awakened dicotyledons,
embraced by our local star at its vernal angle.

I stay out long, way beyond late,
to better enjoy the warmth of our home awaiting.

Chagall 2018

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