New Year’s Eve, I will kiss her at midnight
lips in transition – a reckoning
at the passing between two worlds
and so two times I will kiss her
though I’d be happy with any Wednesday
in May just as well.
© Chagall 2014/2015
Tag Archive: a love supreme
When whoever I am shall die,
the need for persistence to be
ceases, without desire to resurrect,
then I can be certain to understand
the love that exists without me.
I am without pain in ceaseless abandon
to the current, regretting when I miss me.
So much joy at the tipping point of sorrow,
my action is my will for us to be timeless.
© Chagall 2014
I read my life
the plot thickens
and pages get dog-eared
How I love the denouement
the prologue, a scan of an index
the year of copyright
Can’t put me down not yet
just another chapter or two
before turning out the light
© Chagall 2014
When Mercury and Venus are devoured
by the wake of collapsed stars
we will emerge again as purest
love
© Chagall 2014
When I’m small I am the speck
looking out at angels
On the other hand it’s Me
peering down
© Chagall 2014
She told me
I break easy
I begged her
Fade away
We vowed
to be one
Breaking
yet to fade
© Chagall 2014
If with each word I fall shorter of you
should I then leave it to silence?
I confess the odds are half against
I’ll connect, yet I pursue the bridge,
the aftermath of breaking words, the masthead
on your brow through cortex of vision,
around and about your cape of good hope.
© Chagall 2014
There is ceremony in stirring your lashes
with soft breath and stealth kiss,
I would just miss your lips and gently nudge
my chin into the soft of your cheek,
then press till I floated away.
© Chagall 2014
I will see you again despite not having eyes,
hold you tight lacking hands; I will always need you.
I hear your song but I miss your sigh,
you among the flowers, the sweetest gentian,
I will always kiss you.
I still feel your drop in the rain.
© Chagall 2014
She comes across grace, the way that she flows
in gowns, down stairs, through life,
utterly in love with fascination of love.
Minor chords fade to dissonant
whispers that barely touch nothing
at the end where time goes silent;
a puff of black.
I would rather she fade
to indigo.
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 