I’ve reshaped the constellations
to reflect what I see
I have no interest in
how others see heaven
Makes it so easy
to now know the sky
Chagall 2015
Tag Archive: Astronomy
She’d shown me how to use the stars and so I found my way back home,
a simple path along the belt really, a dip rather than a rise at Hyades,
you’ll find me a hand-span below the Pleiades, more over your head,
one must marvel still at the intense lights of Rigel, Betelgeuse, and Sirius.
© Chagall 2015
Last night while gazing at the Pleiades
you remarked that at the time of light leaving
the cluster of sister stars, three hundred
light years away, Bach was newly appointed
concertmaster at the Weimar, and you and I
lay still unfolded, lovers of implicate order.
© Chagall 2014
Murmuring I can’t distinguish
clearly, the words incanted
more than prayers, I think
perhaps ancient formulae.
© Chagall 2014
A hollow tube
filled with tones
and stars.
Icy blue
at the edge.
Nothing but
stars.
An expansive dome
shone with star-tone.
Dearest One,
Tonight tender doom?
No question!
Your Dear,
Dominique
© Chagall, 2013
There’s no one for me who quite matches up,
the moons have ceased to align for a while.
There’s no one who can catch me then keep up,
they wax when I wane, they rock when I roll.
I can guess the card almost every time,
didn’t you just pull that from up your sleeve?
Stone with me, share blankets under moonlight,
tell me the stars are not that far away.
Let’s get off the grid, shoot them all the bird,
witness each full moon on the calendar.
Instead I’m surrounded by non dreamers,
those who are deluded by what is real.
Son-of-a-bitching-moronic-buzz-kills,
pissing on my clouds, stinking up heaven.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Slapped, popped, miffed.
Slipped, pooped, missed.
Slept, peeked, mist.
Spent, packed, must.
Spilled, piled, mauled.
Spoilage, pillage, mileage.
Sparrows, pillows, hedgerows.
Persimmons, marshmallow fluff.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
The nougat,
the payload,
essence, Persistor,
sturdy like a solder weld,
planting me,
center of all things.
The outskirts of heaven
halo my awareness
arc the balloon-tie top
of my dome,
a distance I traverse,
easily, boldly,
with a sure,
strident gait,
leaving stars in my wake,
like glitter falling
from my sequined socks,
sparkle and glow.
Archetypal patterns
establish themselves
according to plan,
protons and photons,
“Oh My!.”
That gel,
placenta inside,
me, traces,
the shape,
nebula, I carve,
hover, envelop,
I give to,
draw from.
Soul-mate wanted:
Sanskrit,
chitlins,
Wiccan Chicana,
looking for
Banzai barrio warrior.
Who knows that she would
like to swing on a star,
carry moonbeams home in a jar.
Sitting at a small table,
eating sweet cereal,
watching early morning
cartoons, the man
in the moon,
big smiley face,
above the horizon,
compressed, telephoto,
pre-school
memory.
Th-th-th-th-th-th-that’s all folks!
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
I have special drops
I place in my eyes,
to over-dilate my pupils.
To let in light
from distant stars,
ancient pink,
blue and white.
I trace a line,
from here to there,
with the glow-tip
of a Marlboro red,
from Orion, to Andromeda,
along nebulae and pulsars,
long gone ago,
but still my sky.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Midnight, sparkled frost.
A full moon presides o’er fields,
where I’ll never lie.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 