To say that Mia’s face reflects joy
misses the difference between essence
and something else indicative of being,
more reality than actual figure on ground
posing as people pretend to be shadow.
© Chagall 2015
Tag Archive: a love supreme
Hold me and tell me sounds, what I need to hear,
shake words to make me rattle, I’ll see foregone conclusions anew,
you used to once. Brave hearts go deep, so low in chorus, concordant
and oh so sonorous, young voices blend in pure bass tone,
hallow and echo, till the bell of the voice of the belles fades
into night around corners turned yellow in gaslight,
an ancient night quite like this one, I swear I hear
waves lapping somewhere down where couples go
to kiss standing on the rocks, eternity beckons like warm night,
with nary a star or a candle from windows along the bow, I cherish
how we move like this, persistence in each iamb
to draw one last breath, I feel it so I let it expel
to realize one next breath, the trick it is to keep breathing,
the idea simply to just let go, somersault lively, high-step now
flare a bit and be reckoned with like a child’s limerick
where you puff out your chest and exclaim
it’s certainly my special day!
or so I hope it is, I wish the best for you
© Chagall 2015
You’re either
at the outskirts,
really not important, or
you’re the there is
at the center. Pick one
or both but not
neither. You can’t
have neither.
© Chagall 2015
Irrepressible
This urge to keep on breathing
Yet another day
© Chagall 2015
As many possibilities for me
as there are stars in the sky
Strangely I feel
I can get to them all
© Chagall 2015
Soon will be our turn
Grieving mothers in darkness
Suns die everyday
© Chagall 2015
they say they play jazz – or so they say; more kenny g, not Bird who’s soaring,
’cause that’s what they heard; in pink silks, in morning mist, at daybreak, all splendor,
at twilight, in indigo, round and round, I go so deep in a dizzy, and now She’s saying
with Her back turned, all this and heaven; primally perfect – all this Jazz.
© Chagall 2015
No physical pain, we take for granted
but it’s such a blessed gift; our contented silence
is our cry of joy.
© Chagall 2015
I’ve always been a sucker for a good lead pencil
mechanical or otherwise, with exotic size like
double o’seven, o’eight, or o’nine – the promise
of scribe on paper, the spilling of thought
like blood though black on brilliant white fibers, pressed
so many linens to emboss with the outpour of my mind
but the scratch – listen . . . do you hear that? that’s quill on papyrus
the sound of it, the sight of it, so much like sex in so many ways
the north-south-west-east of it, a counting of blessings
© Chagall 2015
She’d shown me how to use the stars and so I found my way back home,
a simple path along the belt really, a dip rather than a rise at Hyades,
you’ll find me a hand-span below the Pleiades, more over your head,
one must marvel still at the intense lights of Rigel, Betelgeuse, and Sirius.
© Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 