There’s an artist in France
collects heartbeats
Tens upon tens of
thousands of
pulses
Moments in lives of
those who will
in time be gone
Survived
only by these
I wonder does
the data show
if broken hearts
beat softer
Chagall 2016
Latest Entries »
Death is not absolute for those who stand above, outside
where spirit begets body – the wonder, not where body begets spirit,
for that would be a wonder of wonders.
© Chagall ∞
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
The erotic aroma of fenugreek, caramel, and chocolate,
rose from her reclined body as she reached for the drawstring.
© Chagall ∞
Melting pots aren’t all the same.
Go find your own.
© Chagall ∞
The tapping whisper of rain,
Gulls soar, serifs against the long stretch
Of sky and land, the mosaic face of water,
Morning air, thin and cold, early day
Mist envelops always, hope is desire
To release, to touch the atmosphere,
To mean the words yet to find tongues,
Tone recedes into tones receding, the far edge
Where filaments unravel into the empty, void
Unless stamped otherwise, a puddle to stomp,
A bright yellow-slicker, the tapping whisper
of rain.
© Chagall ∞
Rebirth. —CC
Barnabas and Paul have been on the road,
Iconium, Perga to Antioch,
where they ran into strong opposition,
from the Jewish elders and the Elite.
I make joyful noises throughout the day,
the Gentiles appear to understand us.
I dab my own tears with wool from the lamb,
my soul bleached white from the blood of the blessed.
John’s time’s spent at the Tiberias Sea,
after I told him about my dream there:
the surf rolling in, my mind drifting out,
to future days, to ages not yet come.
He has visions there, stronger than before.
Thousands of people, all races and tongues,
beyond the tribulation, the end days,
before the throne, humbled and united.
I miss my friend; it’s difficult for me.
Nothing will ever be the same again.
There’s deeper meaning now to everything.
How lonely it must be to not believe.
© Carlos Chagall, April 2013
The joy of Easter. ===CC
Earlier that week, I filled with hate,
the rank odor of Sanhedrin
elders, soiled smocks, unwashed feet,
telling us to stop the teachings.
I was so proud of the others,
they stood up finally for him,
putting the blood back on their hands,
keeping his blood there in our hearts.
Last night, the Tiberias Sea,
was chilled, but beautiful starpoints
hung there high over Galilee.
I told them to cast to the right,
but as always, they don’t listen.
I stopped caring I’m different.
I lie on my back in the boat,
massaged by the gentle rolling
waves, seduced by the briny winds.
I knew who it was before them,
the glorious sun outlined him,
there on the bank in silhouette,
waving us in. “How was the catch?”
The fire was already on,
bread from wild yeasts on flat stones.
He told them to cast to the right,
and of…
View original post 105 more words
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
Alphabet City 