Inside I listen
to sounds of actual rain while
outside a real storm rages
Chagall 2018
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Stars are formed in clouds
Of gas and dust, nebulae
Nuclear at core
The eddies mist cold
Lavender melts under snow
Bleeds purple on white
Stars provide enough
Energy brightly for years
The exact lifetime
Silence glistens here
Chilled pools beckon promising
Reflection under
We are born of stars
So proud until we pulsar
When fusion ceases
Among all two find
A sense of having been there
Empathetic eyes
Eons erase hope
What once would light forever
Turns to gamma ray
Shall never lose me
Shouts beyond the din recede
To vast empty stretch
Pridefully suns sear
Hot too fast, too self-consumed
No cheeks yet to burn
Circular water
Too near the edge of the falls
The promise to drown
Godspeed is lightspeed
We see until we are blind
Not invisible
Holding fast they plunge
In momentary freefall
Defying the crush
We are dark matter
More of us than meets the eye
Feel our gravity
Two plummet headfirst
Upturned soles to God’s heaven
The tickle of love
Ripped seams in space-time
Blessed beings emerge headfirst
The dead prefer breach
Plumes of graceful froth
Envelop twin beating hearts
Up until the sere
Nothing left to burn
Suns die everyday out here
To leave voids of love
Suddenly without
Love’s denouement sings sadly
Still ache crescendos
Massive cores collapse
Passages to yesterday
Bridges to Other
Melody solo
Lost, searching harmonically
Hearts rapt atonal
When stars burn cooler
Life has opportunity
Everywhere blue worlds
Shall never find me
Resounds off wet chamber walls
Where echos loiter
The scent of Goddess
Permeates all creation
Sweet salinity
A flickering flame
Somewhere a flue, air to breathe
Pinpoint light quite dim
Life is atmosphere
Creatures born to see the light
Watercolorists
Ascension too fast
Lungs explode before tongues meld
Alive once again
Fine pointillism
Clarity from a distance
Planets at the edge
Shout hallelujah
Frenzied oxygenation
Salt water on lips
Accelerating
Behind us time looms ahead
Wrapped implicitly
Love again refrains
Adrift on sunny sandbars
Palm fruits, dates, acai
We are young again
Stellate beings thrice reborn
Twice kissed we are alone
Two swimmers azure
Water beaded sky blues hope
Refracted visions
Before words we were
Nothing, pointed subtlety
Essentially stars
Will never lose me
Mouthed indistinguishably
There underwater
Chagall – for wordcoaster
Accidentally sprinkled my Japanese maple
with vodka rather than water and now
she’s sino-russo.
Chagall 2018
She said
the hardest part about love
is the waiting
to be asked or kissed
near the phone, by your side
up all night
or around
the bend, on the news
hand and foot
like a fool
for the other
shoe
to fall
Chagall 2013
If one truly believes we’re a fascist state and
indeed the brown-shirts are coming, why then
advocate for the repeal of the 2nd Amendment?
Wouldn’t this be the textbook context to justify
exercising that right to its fullest to assure
the continuation of freedoms?
Ponder that on both sides of your brain while
you speak from both sides of your mouth.
Love CC
Sometimes I sit on the porch, play guitar
in odd rhythms to inspire the birdsong in
the woods that surround me.
They are really good at the high parts.
Chagall 2018 – remember: not B sharp
and not B flat, just B natural
Even incognito
I could tell
’twas Rita
Chagall 2018 – just for the fun and the sound of it
Finally I had to blurt out: Seriously!
You take that much time to choose an emoji?
WTF!?!?!
Chagall 2018 – pretty much have had it up to here (gestures
to throat with the inside edge of the right hand)
She’d prop up on elbows and lazily say
Did you know you’re my favorite people?
Chagall 2018
Lazy birds sing what sound to be questions,
small inquisitions, diminuendo, trills in five-eighths time,
while hurrahs of wind rush the dense canopy of their home,
like waves on sand.
Erase traces of what used to be.
Beyond, I hear loggers, large machines, mechanical chorales spun,
in odd reverberant Om, mantras for flat-felled forests.
I rush the treeline, run insanely,
unable to draw enough air to support the bellow I envision,
the weight of the howl I want to import, the reply I want to scream,
to the wood pigeon, the grand thrush,
the paradise parrot, the heath hen,
to the parakeet, the laughing owl,
the island rail, the piopio,
to the Kaua’i ‘O’o,
the grebe, and the oystercatcher . . .
My chest heaves, uncontrollable gasps,
like a mourner in the front row,
my eyelids gummy, thick strands of hot tears,
sun-waves diffracted, rainbows sheared on my optic nerve.
I purse my lips and find the bird call within me,
I sing a soulful lament, run arpeggios clean
without glissando, a call to flee,
to fly away, to find places that we cannot find.
But my song is lost to the world of sound around me,
to the crescendo that approaches rapidly, the steady march, a goose step to
erasure.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 