I retrace the lines of your handwritten letters and imagine you once sitting there I see what you saw as the ink flows cursively from your heart, to your head, to your hand, to the paper, now yellow and cracked where your fingers run the length of the folded seams; it seems only yesterday or a lifetime ago a small water stain outside the margin, perhaps a drip from a teacup that day that missed your lips and fell, to be absorbed or maybe a tear I wish I'd saved the envelope that held the missive close in hand, the flap and stamp that touched your tongue, a return address where no one lives today at least no one I know cc: Chagall 2021
Archive for March, 2021
Her body is a blackout curtain hiding the light within All the glimmer of stars it contains, hidden from hovering crafts in the air Even after the sirens cease, it stays drawn cc: Chagall 2021
When the net goes down there will be no net no way to inform us (yo-ho) why the net's down caught-22 when the tower goes there will be no sound no outreach no waves in the air to express goodbye a hum, an invisible pulse no virtual breath any longer cc: Chagall 2021
on the scale of it all we are nearer the end of the smallest of things cc: Chagall 2021
Behind a mask, anyone can be a ventriloquist cc: Chagall 2021
Where do the young go, do they frolic in a new field warmed by an old sun, or in aged meadows lit by now? Everything dies, sheds skins, to give way to the moment Once swayed by the song, the length of the body in dance presses on, listens for the rhythm, hums along until the tempos change And watch as if outside-in, themselves a third party, a single heart here... From the rise that emerges there in the lowlands, amid the mist and the faces, an outstretched hand, a single smile, a breath, a curl, a lash, a cool smooth cheek The incredible sensation, the surround of loving arms, the perfect nestle of neck in neck, a race to all that is good was once good I know now that blue continues long after the eyes are gone cc: Chagall 2021
Better days will come, my friend, at least that's what they say, and we will rejoice at their dawn. The lost along the way are strewn along the petaled path we spy, spirals into the hidden curve behind us. Before us the road well-hidden still bends there in the undergrowth. Moments turn to hours, goodnight turns to morrow... And way has led to way as has been told, and years and years from now, we - We will tell tales of a time when better days lay ahead. cc: Chagall 2021
as a pointillist I dabble in implication, you infer sky and water from dots I render the eyes' sweet surrender to that which is not I touch the blue by the sky inside you, provoke the memory of dappled green whorls of afternoon sun diffract lazily off the pond reflecting nearby reindeer lichen you the viewer are yourself once again twice stippled cc: Carlos 2021
I dive off the landing from the top of the stairs and frantically grab at the tiny copper beads that are the pull-chain of the bare-bulb light knowing full well they will not hold me Descent is an endless whorl I am found with them still clenched in my hand, the light yet intact, the handrail unbroken No seeping liquids anywhere cc: Chagall 2021
the balloon from your party still holds its helium long after you're gone it bobs there yet in the ceiling corner its long rainbow tassel a curlicue of color in time it will slide down the wall without promise of rising anymore all the best wishes of the day flattened and peeling inert cc: Chagall 2021
Alphabet City 