Tag Archive: axes bold as 2 loves

Dear Ma

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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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They were the first people
to leave the first child
on the moon.

© Chagall 2014


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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

I Am So Sorry, What?

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But oh, my God, yes –
of course there should be wonder!

And that
is that.

© Chagall 2014

Pallor Aglow

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I wink at the blind to catch their eye,
proposition the deaf for an ear, my lips move
to articulate tongues, arcane and garbled
chicanery, while fools wisely ignore the signs
to take heed.

In a tunnel that escapes me
thoughts meander, drifts blown ash
from fires once hot, close enough to burn
now cold, cinders reassemble not so easily these days,
but I try.

On the outside off the inside
under overcast tops ‘neath the shade,
is where I fail to succeed to be
what I’m not. And I find that I’m lost,
but I really don’t care, concernedly.

You are the essential wholeness of nothing,
everything wrapped into one and one,
she to others, just shy of a crowd.

As today marks the end
yesterday clears its promise
and I’m face-flat against the white wall
once again.

© Chagall 2014

Seems There Once Were Embers

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We’ve come far
on slender and hollow terms

only members
doesn’t always apply

but sometimes . . .

and I think as a rule there has to be rain, don’t you?
or warm drizzle at least and not too much shining darkly

under street light in slow rising snow
I’ve never touched ground

while she only drops
so softly so

I shall not break
her fall

not once before

and perhaps
even now

so solid
she rules

on the ground

© Chagall 2014



The promise of anything surpasses, fantasy
is seemingly better than real

Until you bathe electric;
potential across even a shallow pool
will simply shock the shit out of you

Make your hair stand on end –
scare the wits out of you as the old lady used to say

I thought she was saying
scare the witch out of you
by the way

How we’d won her over
with nonpareils and parasols
to balance her in the rain

She rather relished being
the lightening rod now and then

“Not until you beat and bathe yourself
in the real.”

Clean zest zig-zagged fragrant rind
droplets of cold citrus oil sprays
mist gently delicious sweet orange-lime and lemon-cacao

Her breath came less, in tiny breathlettes
until she was all but breathless

© Chagall 2014

I Thought It Was Me

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At each turn
nothing but unearthed arrowheads
point the way.

It lurks –
simply put.

Does one not breathe?

Or maybe all too well,

I stare down,
I’ve seen these feet before.


Sometimes I click,
flitter and sputter.

Just so long
that you saw
is enough.

© Chagall 2014


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Her self-awareness makes her human,
in art, it’s her flaw.

A short wave I’ll ride
till a time when I can’t.

A fingertip at the waist
twirls us in.

My shoulder-blades touch the floor.

Momentum can take you
where air can’t.

She says that moments like these
are rarer.

Than what?

I will always kiss
you when you shrug.

When you stretch out
lean, en pointe or flex

I live to trace
your arcs.

© Chagall 2014

I Looked Up Love And . . .

It took me time to understand
I’d mistaken the flute as her voice

My awareness highlights her colors
to tingle emphatic – what we feel

All my memory is in her scent
clove-scented smoke from sacred temples

In glints of sunlight trapped in surface tension
atop the shimmer of  water

Hot sand sculpts our contour
ablaze we burn

Huddled under soft down under colder stars
under one another under no pressure

Pondering only the oldest questions
I have nothing but the newest wonder

She breathes, while I catch my breath
and exhale sharply, she gasps

And then we wholly surrender
to a sigh and the rush

To a

© Chagall 2014

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