The heathered pink and blue of this dying winter's day, reminds me joy is tinged with sadness, while love and sorrow be a singularity How the trees' wood turns golden in the gloaming! We of the canopy there in the dying light, hereby... Stripped branches like veins reach to the indigo, as much above ground now as rooted below Stars be our blanket, protect us from the wind till dewy 'morrow cc: Chagall 2022
Tag Archive: age
I helped an old lady - planed her stuck-door, enables her to come and go as she pleases To finish the job where the plane does not travel (at the door-bottom) I needed a rat-bastard file she knew what they were - My late husband called them dose rat bastids - and where his were love to las abuelas cc: Chagall 2021
Lavender amulets tattooed on her legs, release their scent, tender zeal,
a vernal pool. Approach me my melancholy rockabye baby, cuddle up,
never turn blue.
© Chagall ∞
I have an odd dynamic with my father-in-law:
He is a 90 year old man but a very new soul, whereas
I am merely half his age but my soul has traveled twice
by thrice his. Our interplays are often quite quirky.
© Chagall 2017
Christmas Morning on the Lower East Side when I was five
I awoke to find a tiny white baby grand piano alongside
the tree that crowded the front room of our railroad apartment.
Not quite a toy, it was a real instrument crafted to stand
not two feet high. On the beautiful bench sat a card in script
that simply said Love Dad.
This year, for what would be his 100th Christmas, I will place
my hands on the keyboard again to wish him peace in silent night.
© Chagall 2016
Dear Sara – I was deeply saddened today to realize it will take less time to attain your parents’ age than has transpired since we first met. Desperately breathing irregularly. Love, Carlos
© Chagall 2016
I am exhilarated by early morning and
the promise of timelessness
to experience life’s wonder.
Till evening song
when hours hang heavily and
I shift to the eternity of sky for bearing.
© Chagall 2016
Ripe things are
getting harder to find
nowadays.
© Chagall 2016
The night is crisp, autumnal.
Bourbon sweeter.
My son and his petite amie
at a friend’s cabin while they’re away.
With them, a bag of sweet potatoes
I grew and cured, for roasting
over the wood fire they’ll make.
Life is good.
Peepers sing earlier
than usual tonight. Harmonics from breezes
to trees to shape the glass arc of our ears
to blow gently in them.
I am yellow aged orange inflamed
dared to go red before withering.
I pray to the last gold ray of sun
there in the tall eastern trees
that refuses to say die to another day.
© Chagall 2016
I retrace the line of
her handwritten note
to make me feel
she’s still here
Chagall 2016
Alphabet City 