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)
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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
When I was much younger
I could find affinity
in the eyes of people I’d meet,
some sense of kinship we shared,
but that has long since gone away.
Chagall 2018
Jet-black hummingbirds stark against the
white fence-slats, hovering madly over the
tiny yellow-wiffle-balls nestled into the
bright-red trumpets of the nectar dripper,
extracting the rich sweet water, then
flying away at mach 3
Chagall 2018
Way up high
a walk-up, some windowsill,
rests an elbow nearby a clay saucer,
within it apricot seeds to dry so that
someday a tree might be born,
though she’s certain
not here
Chagall 2018
…and the bees so loud,
they are stereophonic,
more real than any buzzing
I’ve ever heard – so beautiful
bouncing in sunlight searching
among young petals sopped in morning dew
this hazy morning – the line of the
stone on the ground so familiar
traces arbitrary curves
meant for now
the warmth in the air
is a room I enter
when I breathe and
throw windows open
you are the
blue echo, the day before,
a glimpse through a picket,
once enchanted
… long before any dawn
Chagall 2018
I believe the birds themselves enjoy
a human trill if well-sung
Chagall 2018
She kept a small clay pitcher of
pot on the porch, beautifully
ground gold buds, home grown
right there behind the house
in her humble garden where
the sun traversed
perfectly
Chagall 2018
Odd that to provide her closure I had
to open a can of worms.
Chagall 2018
