So many colors in so many words, if rainbows could spell
then paragraphs be rain.
Under parasols, our collars up,
we hug and steam the air.
Please capture in writing all that you feel,
persist so in puddles we’re born.
© Chagall 2014
Tag Archive: a love supreme
You’d take me for a ride,
how I loved when you took me for a ride.
You saved me once,
I’ve savored your being,
when you loved me
it slips away you said –
how I loved when it didn’t slip away.
© Chagall 2014
Twilight breeze considers the young gold flame,
with love proposes she release her heat.
The wind down on bended knee, vows to stay,
excites much sweeter but cold honeyed moons
© Chagall 2014
Sweeten it first
then chill it down
© 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
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
Light #1
I’ve a string of white bulbs that run up-along-down the wide wall of my porch
where I sit sometimes with my back to them wearing my glasses;
their image reflects on my lenses from behind, photons in the metal rims perhaps,
making everything appear as if staged through a proscenium arc of white neon walking beads.
Light #2
I was in my neighbor’s garden last night
right at that time when solar day-charging outdoor lights
kick in. In the middle of the patch was a small
electronic elf on sky-cycle, pedaling gently, emitting ice-blue pinwheel sparks
there among autumn sunflowers.
© Chagall 2014
Ecclesiastically contested.
Unceremoniously censored.
Perilously pared.
Piquant?
Perhaps.
Illuminatingly metro.
Respectfully nuyorican
(not – as the spell checker has suggested – Corsican).
Aggravatingly a salted one.
Flighty, from too many stairs in buildings too tall
to mention in one breath.
Cheesy?
Maybe.
But as I go,
asiago.
© Chagall 2014
In awe to be born,
sans words, symbols
not needed, a world
of touch and hope
till touch no more.
© Chagall 2014
Melissa in the mirror,
small as she appears,
is larger than that
in real life despite
any grandiose scheme
of silver and glass
to reduce her.
I watch her as
I pull away
in the rear-view,
and notice through tears
that she’s crying,
despite the brave wave.
I will miss you
I think then say out loud
then scream till I strain
at the turn when she’s gone,
and I pray she’s not doing
the same.
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 