The skin 'round my eyes, red and raw, infused with salt, itches fiery, alive, shifts focus from my heart to a deeper center, the kulaks are nearly all gone, along with the wheat, and the church bells aren't ringing, instead they moan collectively Nomads must settle down, once settled then amassed, to till the land for the Others who build factories, where Workers arise to steal said land, which bears the fruit to sustain the people But which people? Such is the plan Final dawns: summarily, merrily... She stands beside the field of grain, grips the ancient trident while her father kills all of the livestock rather than give them up, the skin around his eyes red and raw cc: Chagall, Bachor, Sokach, 1913, 2022
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If you can make a positive difference in a life, don't hesitate to do so. Start near, work your way out, then move outside in. To do otherwise is ill-advised. cc: Chagall, B.F. Mickey
Nobody I know knows I am cc: Chagall '22
I lie to the children. I tell them that the white light of tracers is angels running across the sky, and the booms of the shells are the triumphant sounds of the onset of parades. As my parents lied to me, and my grandparents them. cc: Chagall 2022
My mom saved pennies in coffee cans, copper, zinc, sometimes nickel, and those from the war-years of steel; Martinson, Yuban, Chock-Full-O'-Nuts, Savarin, Sanka, and Nescafe she kept them in the kitchen closet, beside a stack of coin wrappers tied with a rubber band, fifty pennies to a roll, tight half-dollar cylinders 58 rolls was the rent she would rather a home, a garden, a proper bath, than the railroad rooms we lived in, I'm certain slums are slums, and dreams are dreams, and years go by so quickly when she died we found boxes, new clothes still with tags on, for events not occasioned, small knick-knacks for shelves unadorned, doilies not placed atop any dresser in her eyes I see love, unconditional, never longing call me when you get home cc: Chagall 2022
I am the headline pushed from the page,
below the middle-fold I go, I slink away,
today's news is tomorrows gone
the culture's amnesia settles in; now settle down
whilst we settle and saddle up
Where did all the blue skies go,
poison is the wind that blows
from the north, south, and east...
More famine than feast of late,
and hate runs rampant o'er the ramparts,
I hear the ram's horn, a reveille,
a first call to true wake-up
Make me wanna holler
the way they do my life...
You and I are no longer
self-evident
Justice -
her eyes wide-open
her blindness cured
discerns shapes
dark and mercurial
polygons
"All the unseen news that's fit we don't print."
Are things really getting better, like the newspaper said,
what else is new my friend, besides what I read...
cc: Chagall, Marvin
Words, metaphors for knowing, less rapid than thought, brought on by a need to convey the inside, out enters as a lion, preys, succumbs to lams and exits, what's been and what will be, a present rapt in bows, under the tree when the bough breaks, I will catch baby or I will catch hell from those who art forbidden in heaven, from whence the kingdom came, undone will here, this time, this earth, hidden within the good word cc: Chagall 2022
Greetings to you, our family, from Ukraine. The roses growing in the garden sway with the wind. Do you recall who is writing to you? I write this while I sit on the Oak Bench. When you were small, many, many years ago, we sat there. My letter comes to you, now as a guest to you, our Family. I pray one day we see each other again. cc: Chagall 2022
Passed writers, the detritus of dead avatars puffs without link to any works, their site is no longer, a short path to the point on carbon tip, the electrocution of ideas leaves behind the smell of burnt hair, a single wisp of smoke, a cowlick God's spit and thumb smooths down, poets, though messiahs at heart, remain inert long beyond the third day cc: Chagall 2022
snow heavy atop branches of leyland cypress, until the mass collapses, falls in slow motion, reveals deep green, fresh, renewed, vibrant with crisp hope, all the canopy's a stage, snowflakes - mere actors - enter the world in cold, nourished by the colder, affinity with the coldest up to the thaw, spring is a dream we dream from under the tundra, trapped in an avalanche, who knows which way is up cc: Chagall 2020
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