Poetic rhyme forms force the words, more a jigsaw puzzle than prose I would rather let a rose and songbirds find their own way cc: CC '22
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A chilly morning in Dijon, I walk briskly past the old carousel, quiet now, a few tables in the square, here and there, coffee and daybreak, bread a few steps away a door opens and a bell chimes the factory in Lille is no longer, I remember the match that struck the last Gitanes the night of strong hot smoke, laughter behind the fountains a palmful of drams of whiskey the keeper called baby Jameson up the street I touch the owl on the church where the goers now kneel harder, pray more quietly to atone cc: CC '22
Someday we'll meet where the seam is now torn, along the embossed, the perforation, the stitch of time and place when the sun and sky align just so How wonderful that there is another who holds the memory of the same moment, to affirm that it and we did occur to witness What we hold is dear, the light, sounds, scent, and the touch of the whole, without you I cannot be certain that what is within me is true The mind plays more games than the heart, which bets large sums more rarely, despite good fortune in small wagers along the way Our cobbled stories are alike, they breathe both sides, bellows to kindle flames, dying embers pulse for air, revived, satisfied In the darkness are vivid colors, more muted when seen from afar, up close those grow and glow, unveil themselves in the sweep of the surround We are mosaic, we are stained glass, the prism effect of time shined through life, the sum of fine incomprehensible movement A latticework of delicate gears, balanced chemistry, ancient formulae cc: CC '22
What happened to the beautiful girl on the butter box, adrift in her canoe? How lonely the world is without her cc: CC '22
Faster than Peter, past acacia and carob, I ran to the tomb We sang, we danced, embraced and wept, jumped up and down, cried out Our voices echoed: the chamber there was empty past the low doorway Alone in the damp, except for our friend’s garments; his scent was still there I ran past Mary, leaving the rich man’s garden; Arimathean sweet hawthorn kindled the fires of Golgotha, from the day before Past olive, almond, apricot, pine, turpentine, I ran to tell them © Carlos Chagall, Easter Sunday, 2013
Earlier that week, I filled with hate, the rank odor of Sanhedrin elders, soiled smocks, unwashed feet, telling us to stop the teachings. I was so proud of the others, they stood up finally for him, putting the blood back on their hands, keeping his blood there in our hearts. Last night, the Tiberias Sea, was chilled, but beautiful starpoints hung there high over Galilee. I told them to cast to the right, but as always, they don’t listen. I stopped caring I’m different. I lie on my back in the boat, massaged by the gentle rolling waves, seduced by the briny winds. I knew who it was before they, the glorious sun outlined him, there on the bank in silhouette, waving us in. “How was the catch?” The fire was already on, bread from wild yeasts on flat stones. He told them to cast to the right, and of course, this time they listened, though they did not know it was him; dawn broke, he caught my eye, smiled, as if to say, “Nothing has changed.” One hundred and fifty-three fish, caught in the net cast to the right. I could have said I told you so. The breakfast fish, crisp salted skin, the bread slightly charred, delicious. He asked the son of John three times if he loved him, would he shepherd the lambs. I fell asleep then on the sands riding the surf’s sound to future days, time yet to come. When I awoke, I was alone. © Carlos Chagall, April 2013
The dappled splay of the elms' limbs shadowed, upon ground where millions of creatures live, God's hand everywhere, despite you and me, in the trees by my windows small wrens rest, family members beyond the glass panes, at dawn we sing together, sometimes laugh, sympathetic trills, new melodies lilt, their's seem to float upward, while mine fall down, I have never heard dissonant birdsong, the saddest of calls from the mourning dove... odd, as I write about the mourning doves, two appear atop my roof, their song loud, sorrowful wails, perhaps she is pregnant, beautiful young with potential for flight, able to fly away, to leave it all, yesterday leaves us tomorrow's promise, today is just a figment of the light, once when I had wings, I knew how to soar, how to nest, now alone in echelon, I bank and I yaw in the cold updraft, in the quiet dawn that proceeds me something is astir behind all of us cc: CC '22
Photos of people long gone, locked away in trunks, tucked into corners of closets, beneath eaves in the attic, birthdays, weddings, days at the shore, old sands not washed away, sunlight captured on silver backing, sharply focused, though I cherish even the blurred I grab an old camera, and frame the photo within its lens, as though I am snapping it for the first time I can hear the surf, smell the cake's frosting, feel the dance floor beneath my feet I yell out Smile, or Say cheese, to no one I cannot throw away yesterday's photons cc: CC '22
Sometimes I look deep into the eyes of the Other, expend my energy, the tangible life force in a gaze, until I feel the discomfort of recognition, that brief flash, the bond of knowing, the surprised look on the face across from me, the micro-expressions lit up there, of having been seen, acknowledged, alive cc: CC '22
Drink plenty of water while you weep, to replenish the body's supply cc: CC '22
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