I’m not sure
to trust in
my ear or my heart,
impatient
to convey, to commune, to go with
the rhythm already,
shunning sidestep,
when I breathe
the wax is eloquent,
each pause
brings new delight
in asides,
innuendo
more than any tryst
captured
a lover’s imagination,
a wink in due time,
and I am merely a waif
combed in elusive fashion.
© Chagall ∞
She said Waitress! Excuse me! There are tiny teeth marks on my strawberry
I said I’m the owner, and welcome baby to the world of organic.
© Chagall ∞
If it wasn’t for make-up sex
I’d have a lot of free time on my hands.
© Chagall (aka Chicheme) ∞
The gape, tongue off hard palette, the gape again,
teeth into bottom lip, expulsion of air, say I Love You
© Chagall ∞
I am from the sun, unable to find my way
back home in the dark.
© Chagall ∞
Let there be light:
plea or command?
© Chagall ∞
I’m exploring why this one particular
poem of my own makes me cry.
© Chagall ∞
52 weeks in a year, 26 letters in the alphabet
… merely coincidence?
Time is money and money is naught and so
thought is time. I keep looking for a word
to rhyme.
She just didn’t happen upon circumstance
or the circumference of the happenstance.
Far from it.
Far be it for me to opine from afar. I’m
fairly sure that that of which I speak is uncertain.
Hold your tongue, I’ll hold mine
or yours if you prefer.
Oh,
how I’d
hold it
Right up front, before I begin, a preface to what
I’m about to say, a few opening remarks. But first …
I need to know,
how easy is it
to maintain that glow,
that wonderful charm,
that sense of the moon
while dancing
© Chagall ∞
Can a couplet convey an altering jolt similar to an epic?
How many gods does it take to screw-in a tree?
© Chagall ∞
Depending on where you are, it’s already
yesterday elsewhere.
Chagall ∞
