Fountains in the monsoon retain their poise,
the shape of their intended spume, the refraction
of light on water rainbows while a misted plume
seeks the space to assert itself.
© Chagall ∞
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I enjoyed your poetry more when it was free.
© Chagall ∞
Peculiar droplets
Promise me that you’ll grow strong
The pour of spring rain
© Chagall ∞
As the beat goes it says
so much to do so instead
do nothing – lose myself
in any direction – when
I was a girl once combed
in elusive fashion – was
more than I’d ever do –
take myself in any direction
– laughter rings and never
fades, simply dies away though
fingertips touched so lightly.
© Chagall ∞
In this room of southerly light
are objects more precisely defined
than abstraction – concepts
topographically smoothened by
the erosion of ground around figure,
bulbous impressions upon my tactile cortex
is touch.
© Chagall ∞
My love poem to you has been translated
by one from your land and language. It says:
My major organs leap from their confines to enable
coexisting in the same ethereal space as your exultations.
Clearly the word was intended to be “exhalations.”
© Chagall ∞
I refuse to look at the sky tonight –
same old story – planes, dead stars, pitted moons,
motivates me to write those timeworn tunes
to the lovelorn, pines, how the heart takes flight,
metaphysical crap, dark versus light,
or lighthearted fare about babes and June
frolics among flowers, the springtime bloom,
blessed angels on high, lost souls burning bright.
Instead this evening I plan to ascend,
rise from the planet when bells toll midnight,
leave earth behind (I will miss you old friend)
my direction is up, two lefts, then right.
When you ponder the sky this eve you’ll see
the constellation Chagallus – it’s me!
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
This poem is a bridge, you’ve just missed
the last exit before the toll. Perhaps
it’s a bell, for bells toll too, I’m told.
Poem me? Poem you! The nerve
is what needs
touching. Meaning?
EZ Pass – right this way; Always in
the wrong lane behind the guy with no cash
who cannot get the mechanical arm to lift
no matter what, and then just misses running over
the service technician crossing slowly in front of
our earth-bound vehicles.
You’ll note that there is no toll going in
the other direction. Try to make me pay.
I dare you.
© Chagall ∞
She searches for sea shells, slowly combs sands,
then wades out waist-high; the surf erases
yesterdays’ traces, and less is no more.
She (it’s just she) is shucking shells by the shore.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 