It’s an old photo
from a cheap camera:
you and me on the run
in dense forest, blurred
for too long a shutter,
extraordinary light washes
away, evanescent at edges where time
bleeds to the back, recedes like a wave
from the child within moving on.
Interspersed palpitations, sun on silver backing
would capture the moment no more.
© Chagall 2014
Instead of all
the wizardry and gadgets,
I take a plain old printed copy
of you and scribble in the white space.
Vertical usually, but horizontal too –
in different colors and boldness of stroke.
Sometimes I have trouble reading
what I wrote in the first place,
unlike lost things, which are always in
the last place.
I will leave no spot unattended,
everywhere spirals shall trace rainbow inks
absorbed in durable ivory-toned bond,
more cotton than paper, in indelible pen.
The story shan’t be a mad one about two birds angling,
nor aerial peril, in shallow dawn light, in rarefied air,
more song still than thrust, atop eddies on pockets of twice-risen heat.
You know you’d
welcome marginalia.
© 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
We sang a hymn
to cardinal points,
unique refrains
from sky to ear
to mind after,
from the north front
back to south and colder.
Siblings
in tight-part-harmony,
exotic ninths – east to west,
any chorus of true hallelujah
obliges fine.
A cool breeze
in a large hall
with open windows: echoes.
Outside,
the rev of an engine
in the distance;
far and wide,
an expanse to play upon.
Leads me back right here –
upfront, stark and narrow.
To a kneeling spot
by the rail, tickled and hidden
beside a sea of white kerchiefs.
© Chagall 2014
About the other day,
I know now that it’s gone
There was then
the slightest possibility
But you, of course
after all, were right
They come and they go
today more than ever
Despite
tenacious grip
© Chagall 2014
capture it
this time
as it flees, capture
time feeling, time
slipping, once
it’s felt and fled
then
are the young French girls
now?
© Chagall 2014
What I’m writhing upon,
and even writing about,
is the stuff in the box.
Neatly penned by perimeter,
bold straight strokes,
bulbous and plain.
How about what’s outside?
You may and should inquire
in due time.
I’d say I’d never trade
any moment where you were, and when.
I lived and continue to be entangled simply
and merely for you.
© Chagall 2014
But oh, my God, yes –
of course there should be wonder!
And that
is that.
© Chagall 2014
She’s lightest when wet
Buoyant, snow-blown and windswept
Streams through steady breeze
© Chagall 2014
I remember upstairs
pack the bags
quickly
Let’s fly –
Out the window
and over
the sash
To the rooftop
right ‘cross
the street
Oh we’ll tarry!
And we’ll nary
miss on the crash
Happy Friday
to all,
Love –
Mad Dash
© aka Chagall – 2014
Alphabet City 