Tag Archive: Art


So Sorry, Seurat

as a pointillist I dabble in implication,
you infer sky and water from dots I render

the eyes' sweet surrender
to that which is not 

I touch the blue by the sky inside you,
provoke the memory of dappled green

whorls of afternoon sun diffract lazily 
off the pond reflecting nearby reindeer lichen

you the viewer 
are yourself 

once again
twice stippled

cc: Carlos 2021




Full Tones

now and then I end up
in this timeless morning
where memory and hope
reconcile to define me

I yearn for that
which I already have

longing for just a moment longer

I am best 
when I am
in stark relief 
against the world

I am the figure 
or the ground

timeless life is art

cc: Chagall 2021

Conflicted

I started to write a poem then shifted
to write a song

Chagall 2017

Ideate

A thin line separates
thought from written word.

© Chagall ∞

(Inspired by a comments exchange with Celestine @  Reading Pleasure)

Or

I did not think I would write today,
living life had more allure until
I reached too far, I felt too
deeply, I fell ever so gently
from such a short height,
that’s all it took
to be here.

© Chagall ∞

The Medium

My drafts hold nothing of interest, some nonsense I scribbled
in a vain attempt to infer Sara from the existence of stars,
some ambiguous mumbo (tiny, not jumbo) plus
a line about life in the canopy over
fields at the apex of gloaming.

Nothing of value to work with here
so I turn to birdsong to quell
my ache for expression.

© Chagall ∞

15 Seconds

With only the ordinary
we shape new lie to the land,
extraordinary contour upon which
to dwell and to set our roots
at odd angles to the rise that marks
the divide no longer,

the apropos
no longer becoming rather been,
is seemingly all the rage these days
or are you missing the drift? The rift is
the riff, like the rose was once.

Look at me I’m streaming!

A
lilt,
a
lull-
a-
bye.

© Chagall ∞

Wholly Holy Black Hole

I will write free verse
of the universe, letters as galaxies,
implied points clear as constellations,
stars appear closer than they seem
when seen from light years away across
the paragraphs. I invert my event horizon
to search within and strew about the detritus
of my being, hence this ramble, these lines,
served up on the tines of synapse.

© Chagall ∞

Calliope for Satie

She is comprised solely
of essential oils, lovely
silken flow, pistons in valve
lubricant, stamens on pistil,
pollen swollen anthers, she wills
the will of the wisp to do
her bidding, she calls sweetly
through the nightbird, coopts
its thin coiled chord to vocalize,
to trill appoggiatura.

I relax limb and tenon about her,
promenade on wrists and knees:
gymnopédie as it was meant to be,
arched, pointed, and flexed.

© Chagall ∞

Dion singing about runaway girls,
makes me want to pull my heart
tighter around the years, they pass.

Kisses fade into scents of lilac
where lavender used to be, where
there will never be roses.

I couldn’t bear apologies from
so tender a spirit, especially
for naught, such was her challenge.

I etch the horizon precisely where neon should be,
pretending there are bridges and stars hanging
in thin city air.

I’ve imagined myself as a silhouette on rooftops
blending with balustrades and fire escapes, in shadow
descending quietly.

To find her alone on Belmont Avenue, under streetlight,
in gentle snowfall, in warm rain, wherever her life
turned inclement.

And time is like an arrow struck from the quiver
of a rosined bow, approaching its acme.

…ask any fool that she ever knew …

© Chagall ∞

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