Boppers, then beatniks,
hippies, before we were freaks.
Now we’re just wizards.
© Carlos Chagall, April 25, 2013
Category: Haiku
We are all gathered.
. . . with you. And with your spirit.
Kneading daily bread.
© Carlos Chagall, April 2013
Word choice: choose a word.
Then once it’s chosen, re-choose.
Chew on it a while.
The choice? Yours always.
You get to choose all the ways,
while you while away.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
one, two, three, four, five,
six, seven, eight, nine, ten, e-
. . . .
. . . ?
. . . !
leven, twelve, thirteen!
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Flotsam and jetsam,
I’m going down for the count;
bubble-up, glub-glub.
© Chicheme, 2013
Outside Cafe Wha,
stood four electric ladies,
boss, fly, curled, smokin’.
© Chicheme, April 2013
Says here you have angst,
yet you are so poorly coiffed.
What’s up with that, hmm?
© Carlos Chagall, April 2013
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
Eclipse. “… what they’ve done,”
holy sound; black veil. Alpha,
omega; all time
at one with all: one.
This time, this triduum: now
burst, cry into light.
Baskets filled with food,
sun-soaked altar rail. Sweet breads,
bitters, ascension.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
In dreams I hover lucid at low altitude, just above treetops. © Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 