If I was to paint the scene before me, I would choose a palette of water in various states of decay, to capture the aqueous blur of figure and ground I would need to impart to you the sense of immersion but not of drowning air amniotic shouldn't my hands be in every painting? I lose sense sometimes that the rectangle before me continues beyond the frame they say that the world behind you does not exist something to do with the collapse of things quantum once my back was her front behind a spooning couple the world and its reality are twice rebuked I used my palette to paint her world, now somewhere she's lost in mine cc: Chagall 2021
Tag Archive: Art
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
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
I started to write a poem then shifted
to write a song
Chagall 2017
A thin line separates
thought from written word.
© Chagall ∞
(Inspired by a comments exchange with Celestine @ Reading Pleasure)
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 ∞
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 ∞
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 ∞
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 ∞
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 ∞
Alphabet City 