You would have liked this morning
with the dancing trees amid cool breezes
blowing salty air.
You’d have liked the azure blues
sung by the sky, pink-tinged and vast
under the sunlit dome.
Where you are I want to be
a million times smaller than now,
simple fragrant mist that once was
© Chagall 2015
If words could dance down the steps like Astaire,
gingerly make their way on the balustrade,
slide the curlicue spiral to the bottom,
then these would be those, oh wouldn’t they be lover-ly?
© Chagall 2015
Even when you think you are done
the best and most peas are in plain sight
directly there in front of you.
I selectively choose choice carrots,
I get to say when they’re ripe, if they’re ready.
© Chagall 2015
In the vast empty
that is existence
dark and cold and lonely
without purpose, reason, or rhyme,
somewhere at this very moment
to the cheers of her mom and dad
a young girl rounds third
and is waved on home,
for she is the winning run.
© Chagall 2015
Quiet just listen
you’ll hear it
The stillness you now
rise above is the place
to which you must return
When you’re there
look up, see that face
peering down, it’s you
It’s alright to wave
hale hearty a greeting,
hardly a moment’s gone by
Ponder, go deep, let yourself fall
to arrive at the other side
© Chagall 2015
The sounds of us in the morning:
gurgles and sighs and small machines.
© Chagall 2015
I was rocking a Lower East Side tee
the kind with a map on front
when a pigeon released herself from high
and it landed on the site I was born
© Chagall 2015
I do shots
of sugar dots
shaken
nonpareils
© Chagall 2015
Morning melody
Harmony swells far away
Still near songless birds
© Chagall 2015
Like any muscle,
you work it, it flows
like Ali in Zaire,
boom-ba-yay
Long before rhythm was sound
there was pulse all around,
the red-hot glow of a fresh start,
heart at the bell like flutter-by
everywhere center and everyone here is gone
into the eyes we compel ourselves to peer,
so what if we’d had wanton ways,
troubling how those days still tremble,
the quake more fire than smoke than
torrential rain.
Streaks of landscapes run like tears
bleed colors, mascara runs, wipers keep time
then stop, and all is silent neck-deep in the flood
How hard is it really
to step from the edge, much simpler for sure
to refrain: boom-ba-yay!
© Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 