A shadow of a bird flutters
about shadows of limbs
on the ground
Circles of light
where her eyes are
Our sun would cast shadow
if under and dwarfed
by another sun from above
Chagall 2019
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A prayer of tears for
heroes become angels.
Chagall 2019
Night lights form shadows around drawer pulls,
finely sanded, soft gray on black, the slats of
the stool-backs appear as midnight staffs of music
on the tile floor, cold and white, talcum grout lines
travel to infinity down the hall, without promise
to converge, run parallel to my mind in flight,
low to the ground, lucid rarely awake, but
in dreams I slide underfoot, slip away, somewhere
inside the static
Chagall 2019
Eyes appear to blink
At a glance from a distance
Furtive transgression
Chagall 2019
no mere puerto ricans they, no sir,
I could tell these were ancient mayans
Chagall 2019
This poem is unlike the others.
It tells no tale of twin souls,
makes no attempt to pinpoint
the space between here and there,
the real and not. This poem flies
at a level that can be deemed neither
high nor low. Arrhythmic at best,
to say the least, sans discernible
‘ameter. The point is all ways shifting
in time, like the bouncing ball of olde,
prompts us to sing-along, for past times’
sake, for those who’ve gone before us,
and wait. If I hold this poem up to the sky
once printed on thick opaque bond,
it can serve to shield the eyes
on days eclipsed by celestial objects
aligning their orbital sine-waves. Folded
as a fan, this poem can cool, or can serve
proxy for one’s hand to wave goodbye,
to a stranger or soul-mate or exiting goddess.
Yes, this poem is not like the rest.
© Chagall September 21, 2014
In my dream I awake
to find the large white dog
wrapped around my ankles,
tired, nodding, on-guard,
she turns and smiles, then
drops her head down; content
we return to sleep, while I –
the real sleeper, the dreamer of the dreamt –
fight through to the real haze, to rise.
Chagall 2019
As I kid I misunderstood words and phrases,
cole rather than cold cuts for luncheon meat
(like cole slaw I thought), and Mary Heppakrishuns
one big run-on word – ignorant of her help of Christians, and
I thought it was moving one’s bottles when sitting
down on the bowl.
Today I am much more crudités, an aesthetic who knows better.
Chagall 2019
The air caresses, as it did that day,
my body and mind sing in equipoise,
temperate and temporal, all in one,
memory massages, messages me,
says the past can be yours for the asking,
venture deeper, all time exists in now
Chagall 2019
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
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