Sound is the second coming of color, situates itself in the same place
as optical residue, once eyes close and lights go dim.
We vibrate to live throughout our body,
shaken experiential.
© Chagall 2014
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Old friends, sad hearts,
new ways and fresh starts,
seems the elements we lack
are starless nights and indigo,
blinking lights way up there,
people come then they go on-time,
reclined in seats, half-moon-bound flights,
wane gentle, then more, until no more.
I drink pekoe at night in the back;
in my cup I watch planets swirl.
© Chagall 2014
It wasn’t so much the wind
as it was the touch of the wind;
you might think they’re the same
but they’re not.
Perfectly tuned to my skin,
just warm enough – no more,
pushing and pulling
like the turn of a wheel.
I could lie-out and stay aloft,
trust like a back-float,
but instead I choose to lean.
© Chagall 2014
When she smiles
I see the young girl.
Light from her cheeks
spans my world.
She is a soft meld
into the air around her.
How she causes
my soul to sigh.
Sometimes
it’s simple.
© Chagall 2014
I wrote a song just for her
about the sand and sea
I played it
and she swam away
© Chagall 2014
He told her that he designed with intent
to look disingenuous – after all, Machiavellian.
She nodded, let her gaze linger a moment,
licked her lips; he sighed.
Acrobatic swirls of fancy, intertwined
in the lattice between them; arabesque.
A couplet and a wine, vintage Elizabeth,
portrayed grander, yet conceived modestly.
I am still convinced by the heave of her bosom,
compelled by the breath of her air.
© Chagall 2014
Without each loved one who passes
I’m forced to face the eternal,
to ponder again that stretch of days.
Endless seems uncertain,
something must intervene.
Within, I assure me
that forever never comes.
© Chagall 2014
The clouds inside of me
rain on the outside.
© Chagall 2014
When you realize you’re style
the rest comes easy.
Then it’s just you
being you.
How not to upset
the apricot.
Or burn one bridge
before she’s been crossed.
I smile, blow kisses from twilight
whenever there’s love.
© Chagall 2014
Peepers are still out this time of year
though their song comes earlier in the eve these days,
fragile, almost not there; easy to listen beyond and miss them.
The foreground caw of a big bird, the bark of a dog
on my backstage, panned far left, a flashing beep
of some truck backing up, overhead gaggles honk and recede.
In echelon wildly, we ride the updraft, dip and soar,
aerialists cum acrobats, spun but poised nonpareil, sans apparatus,
relying solely on wingspan and pin-sharp charisma.
The V is impressed with its own formation, looks down and spies itself
in the placid face of the water; a solemn unified beat of blood-pumped wings
cuts swaths in mid-air, affirms partisans aloft in the primeval current.
So many songs harmonize around me, twelve-tone hymns and patterns,
colors in sound, or maybe more like touch – the voices about and within,
caress me more than paint me; ephemeral sounds, timeless embossing of our hearts.
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 