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Blessed Slip

English as her second language,
she told me that she heard
the immortality rate was very high

I whispered to myself
that I certainly hoped so

Chagall 2020

Ancient Philadelphia

we the first born of the recently dead
kneel before her

in her eyes are seven stars
beholden to only She

oldest blue sky lost
in lakes of glass

where rainbows crystallize
at the instep of an amber foot

with those there
I take no exception

hear that?
the clarion call

Chagall 2020

Requiescat in Pace

on a line by the rocks
I hang my socks to dry
stomping in puddles of warm rain
has become my latest passion
despite it being out of fashion
for any person my age

between two chairs I drape the shawl
my Mother swaddled me in, to make a fort
to keep me safe, to shield me from the storm;
any port

tiny cereal boxes and a stack of comic books so high
will keep me amused throughout the day
come whatever may or may not

April showers somewhere, and someday June is married
with breathless guests along the aisle
strewn with roses and lavender
but not today

in the loft an elderly paisana sings
as she did from that balcony high over Nola
her song to the fields of lilies below

the cymbals crash,
the leader of the feast bellows
A zo ta zo!
and we lift the Gigli high
on our shoulders

with God on our backs
high atop this obelisk
the world is plain in view

barefoot she runs through
rain-streaked streets near Naples
belly distended, the brio of youth fast behind her

with a blanket drawn about her
nowhere bound

Chagall 2020

The Fisherman

At the apogee, there is no tension, no tug
and the rainbow is weightless, arcing
freefall back to the planet

Hits hard on the water, in that instant
half in and out, to descend buoyantly
finally to rest silent and spent

Immersed in cool rush
on the soft polished stones
at the bottom

The run of the stream is halted

froze Time
still pulses

Caws of large birds startle the silence,
with reedy bleats to mock the passing
of now

The long taper of the fisherman
carves graceful serpents in the air,
undulates overhead, uncoils,
lays his leader down on the eddy,
a ripple, a mar on the tranquil surface

See it?  There!  Just above us…

Chagall ∞


Years ago I wrote of a bird, we would sing duets in the garden,
she of pure song, would sing many more notes between do and re, than I,
semitones, twenty-two pitches per octave she would tweet-out sweetly,
while I respectfully played second-fiddle deferring in wonder

O’ how I miss her song, how it broke the air about us gleefully,
stark crystal clear arpeggios against brilliant sky in cold morning
brought harmonics from treetop canopies, birds as birds of a feather,
the world awash in frenetic wonderful cacophonous music

And I merely human, found my place as a voice in the low bass range,
below the birds but above the Earth, Her resonance deep, surrounding
sub basso, the same note in our brains, flat be, unlike tones from heaven,
together we were a joyful chorus through the seasons of one year

Chagall ∞

she said
To make the bread, you shape the boule
like you’re kneading my breast in your hands

And when should I stop, let go?
I asked.

she replied
Release at the first sign of rise

Spongy, pliable, warm doughy life,
long healthy life for all

Chagall ∞

3 for You

If God were a dance
she would be a sarabande

Lust for life is more than
a ticklish loin

“Carlos, how come you don’t
hashtag me too?”

Stay healthy my blog-world friends

Chagall 2020

Last name?
First name?

Chagall 2020

Who To Follow

This one’s too religious,
this one’s selling stuff,
this one’s in a language
that I don’t parlay enough

That one’s background’s way too dark,
can hardly read the text,
while that one . . .
well, not too sure where the poetry is,
so I move on to the next

Some are just too wordy,
and some are downright trite,
so I continue searching
for the one that feels
more right

At last there’s those so perfect,
the voice of souls who yearn,
who let it out to let you in,
whisperers above the din.

© Chagall 2014

The lost verse – added March 16, 2020:

Some are way too sexy,
there’s nothing wrong with that,
I just can’t spend my evenings
with my lap beneath my hat

Chagall 2020
P.S. Mike McGuire – where are you?

Moon Baby

The worlds you meet
on the way up,
on the way down
will present their dark sides

Find the right ring and orbit

Chagall 2020

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