Category: Poetry

Impressions #8

I desire a spin on the dance floor,
to fly to where time stalls, to come
ceases to beckon but only you.

Powdery pink in the mist
on the brink amid pale blue horizons
where eagles dally.

Fresh from the start of that other day
when cooler winds prevailing the plains
truly were greatest.

We bring life to the hillside,
broad fields of color, milkweed,
hibiscus and comfrey run wild.

Suns seek this earth to radiate upon,
a garden of solar results, we are orb dancers,
kabuki on a sphere.

Last night I awoke startled, suffocating
though breathing naturally, oxygen
no longer enough.

Lungs within lungs yearned for deeper breath,
for air to sweep to lofty wind more rarefied
than any we have breathed.

Throughout time she dances, a silhouette
scented of patchouli, holy water,
and salted sweet-brine.

Chagall 2017

A Crush On The Tour Guide

Alphabet City

She says it’s way too early,
this time of year for warblers,
kinglets and tanagers too.

Ornithology challenged
(I know little about little birds):
What then is this time good for?
I shouted out from the crowd.

Despite the many faces,
drawn about her in the park,
she is prompt and direct with response:

It’s that season for fine young ladies,
to sight those special and rare
ducks like the Cinnamon Teal,
birds like the Black-Tailed Godwit.

With that she puffed her plumage,
I turned to exhibit my wingbar,
snapped at a mayfly there in the air,
and lifted off in glorious flight.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

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In my yard a bird sings a simple interval hi to lo,
A to G, to rest a measure: repeat, indefinitely I suppose.
I back her on nylon guitar, soulful picking about A Minor, a little bit R&B.
The bird impromptu adds F#, I respond: arpeggios, G Major 7th plus
touching harmonics harplike percussively as I go – startled,
she flies away glissando.

Chagall 2017

Perhaps affluent, rather than effluent?  I suggested she – the poetess –  consider.
Had she thrown her drink then, how much sooner we’d have fallen.

Chagall 2017

In a Puddle

I am rain amidst onslaughts of flower,
daffodil and calla lily blooms by day,
primrose and nymphaea red flare by night.

Chagall 2017


I started to write a poem then shifted
to write a song

Chagall 2017

Mild Mannered Reporter

Sometimes when my wife is not home
I wear her clothes pretending I’m
a once-petite girl who has put on
the pounds and can no longer fit
in her wardrobe, the only consolation
being inordinate amounts of mint
chocolate chip ice cream. I remove all
evidence of this practice before her return.

Chagall 2017

Sez Oo?

OK, drop your hands if you don’t love Flintstones!
Ah, Jacques non a dit pas. Bye-bye. À la prochaine.

Chagall 2017


I hear music in wind and machines, voices in the trees,
harmony amid the sleek hum of gears finely-tuned,
who vibrate on cilia to haunt me, to trace intervals,
motifs of being, a soundscape to mark me aware,
you are the rest between motion, a buoy in time both
solid and bulbous, a weight against storms,
a body of reckoning to counter the onslaught
of melody.

Chagall 2017

Tuesday Morning Warm-Up

Artichokes aren’t breathing freely and
the melons can’t elope, may ICU in the garden?

(rotate neck, get the kinks out

going to make
French-roast coffee
with my favorite
Hawaiian beans

Loose lips sink tall ships
three times oh so quickly


Chagall 2017

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