Tag Archive: Arts

When She Was In Bloom

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I found her shears in the garden today
though it’s years since she’s passed away;
I imagine she left them one morning
then nature took its course, consumed the pair.

Time unveiled them just now at this moment
in the mound of rocks we’d hill together,
tiny stone quarries nestled by the beds.

Strung Bougainvillea, tatted Queen Anne’s lace
grow through the handle loops about the blade,
whetted once, now too dull to pare the rose.

So petals and thorns need not be afraid
of falling prey to the anvil motions;
how I miss her steady hands, my twin soul.

© Chagall 2014


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Just as song the words flow
in time, gating the sense.

To know is
in the making.

The interval is not known
until the second tone.

© Chagall 2014

Twin Souls

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In a dream, she calls to me from outside.
It’s just before the darkness settles in,
the final rays of sunlight still the trees,
the day retains its heat, promising night.

I open the window and wave to her,
this Juliet fair at my balcony,
gently nudge my body forward then down
floating slowly to the ground beside her.

Her face, beautifully lit, supernatural
in bold relief against the black empty.
She is so close, she eclipses the world;
as we meld we do not pass but are one.

I am her for the moment so I feel
the love for me I as she has for him,
turns us still deeper inward till again
there is no separation; there’s no need.

© Chagall 2014

The Recipe

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Sweeten it first
then chill it down

© Chagall 2014

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When I was small you took my hand, led me to distant places
around the corner and up the block

You carried me so I grew to know
the spiral of your ear and the curls about it

Your smelled of taffy, salt, and wind,
as a newborn I’d mistake that for the contour of your cheek

Senses ran together then
before words but after sound

once upon a time

© Chagall 2014


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I think the bus ride made it more deadbeat,
or maybe the air brakes provided downbeat each stop –
each time someone tripped the ripcord and let go the ring
and the driver would pull his lever to release the doors to allow the exit
late in the evenings when day was just about done save for the last strong glow
of orange sun atop rooftops and spires, where the harsher shadows would never dare
to alight, where early dreamers could already be seen floating on air
souls akimbo bathing in aqueducts of cool breeze, brisk wind really
whipping about, inverting – sault-somering freefall
down to the street below to the windshields
of city buses toting us home to the love.

© Chagall 2014

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I hold and adore this day
as if it was the final rendering
of the thing we call “day” –
a perfect example of a perfect example
of the divine concepts we conjure
as humans here on the ground, under sun,
sky, planets, and low-flying slow-flying planes.

© Chagall 2014

Near Mid-Air Collision

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I remember upstairs
pack the bags
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

Haiku For Low Temps

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November yawns wide
expels expanses of cold
billowed crisp surround

© Chagall 2013


7th Avenue, 1930

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The brave captains
of Saturday night
are dead.

Sunday rains
wash the street
bright, alive and sun-gray.

Such beautiful light
on the barber pole.

A whisper-promise,
soft nibbles
to the lobe.

Long drags
and draws,

and pulls
and strokes.

So much yearning,

Part the curtain,
would you

I watch
Ed Hopper
prep his palette,

Sunday morning.

© Chagall, 2013

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