As we pan away from the planet and
the Earth recedes to a bead of turquoise on a black silk matte,
it’s important to note that none of the Earthlings is visible.
© Chagall 2016
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While emptying the dishwasher, I asked him if
he would kindly separate the spoons, tea from table.
That was when he got abusive, around the very same time
he accidentally ran into the waffle pan.
© Chagall 2016
Please know that Carlos Chagall does not endorse violence of any kind, but I do chuckle at Roadrunner cartoons.
Another year and the war would end
but on the day my friend Johnny died
the triangle of his flag hung looking
over the city from his mom’s window.
The summer we were ten he stands in a sprinkler,
in his boxers (not really a swimsuit) with
the biggest grin because it’s vacation and
life is good and the ice man is coming and
we’ve got a dollar to share.
© Chagall 2106
Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.
© Chagall 2016
Stars burned bluer then
Breathless joyful morning songs
God today made man
© Chagall 2016
The situation grows worse though
nothing has changed; she turns
to face the windswept space below
confident it will hold her. In
pointe slippers she tiptoes nearer
the edge and simply falls forward.
The ground recedes, gets smaller
with each new inch of elevation.
She turns midair and allows herself
a moment to revel in ascension. She
has never before dreamed but now seems
the right time.
© Chagall 2016
Christmas Morning on the Lower East Side when I was five
I awoke to find a tiny white baby grand piano alongside
the tree that crowded the front room of our railroad apartment.
Not quite a toy, it was a real instrument crafted to stand
not two feet high. On the beautiful bench sat a card in script
that simply said Love Dad.
This year, for what would be his 100th Christmas, I will place
my hands on the keyboard again to wish him peace in silent night.
© Chagall 2016
She never was able to conceive
how two halves can make a whole.
© Chagall 2016
Near a century ago, cousins
from the old country had written
to her, my grandmother, to tell her of
new life, love, old life, and death,
she’d missed, the chronology of
the beautifully handwritten cursive
on paper unlike any I’ve ever seen
in size and touch, with a scent of
many years contained there in the folds and
the unfolding of many reads, here and there
a letter blurred, the errant pen of
the author or a teardrop.
© Chagall 2016
Alphabet City 