Category: Poetry

Another Day

In a warm hall, tucked away in a quiet corner of the snowy campus, her name is announced, one of many graduates. She has chosen not to attend the event, and so does not hear the calling.

Chagall 2017


La Cloche

I could tell by the way that she handled her boules
that bread-making was not her forte.

Chagall 2017


To be
beneath most,
above all.

Chagall 2017


There’s the drop – listen

Her heart opens to pour out
in minor intervals

The time after promised accord,
her hopes dressed-up like so many peacocks
leave behind embroidered whispers and pale-color feathers

Alone on a bridge

Her gaze more rapid than
the current

To submerge is to invert
ascension slowly in rivulets
without steam in cold reprise

Chagall 2017

atop deep


music for
down some

losing love
more than sleep

other time

Chagall 2017

At the end of the day – the last day – it doesn’t matter who you’re screwing
or whether or not you keep the baby.

Chagall 2017


Snowflakes are similar to people: no two are alike and we fall when it’s cold.
But when alit upon ledges, we tend to jump; that’s how we differ.

Chagall 2017

I Will Hold You Now Till The Next Time

Alphabet City

Our time here is always brief
a spark between two endings

the poem within the tome
on an empty shelf

a darkened room

the basement of a large mansion
tucked away among the hills
that begin to show the age

of the bedrock below
from which they spring

incessant droplets
of water
erode Everest
over eons

I will find you again
though it might not be
this next round

or the one after that
nor the next

Know that

the sadness you’ll feel
at night looking up
at planets and dreams undone

is the hole
of us

the gap between

I will hold you here
until then

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

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If I could stay awake, I would
drive throughout the night to take you to dreams you hold,
to leave you at their step.

But here I am with heavy head, a crushing fear of veering,
and of leaving you more lost than found, where dreams are drawn
to eddies to drown, and I was never a swimmer.

Chagall 2017

It is snowing inside, a barren patch of roof bares entry
to interiors once warm with ambient glow, the golden splendor
of those who touch and those who go, those who have come and gone,
to leave imprints behind, traced outlines, a message etched in haste
upon frosty panes in condensation, I Love You aside stick figures,
streaked serif flairs over time mar the meaning, seemingly melting
letters despite the cold.

It is snowing inside.

Chagall 2017

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