Tag Archive: Home

Home Again, When I Can

Yesterday morning I took down an old dead ash tree
that had presided over the middle of the backyard
for fifty years or so. In the evening, with a tea
in hand, I sat there and eyed the space where the
tree had only just stood, and noticed a bird who kept flying
to and from the stump, alit in sawdust, back to perch
on a carved fence-head nearby. After a while I understood
the bird’s plight of my making. We both nestled
there throughout the night, under thinly-aired twilit skies
awash in constellations, anxious for the birth of new trees.

© 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 ∞


Where do all
the tumbleweeds go
after they’ve blown away?

Where do all
the scorpions hide
during the rain storm?

Watch me now,
James Brown said,
watch me as I bust a move.

even back then
out there in the desert.

© Chagall 2016

Unsung Hero

She’s serving her country
since she’s young she has
shitty maintenance shifts
hours till dawn on the tarmac
guys give her crap all night
makes her long for home plus
she’s trying to finish up on-line
credits just shy of her bachelors
she was smart they all said
lately she’s been feeling
that way again with so much hope
for new starts going around
these days she prays more than wishes
she’ll find home again

Chagall 2016

On The Road To Idlewild

chagall backdrop

It’s dark
early now

low planes overhead
outlined in lights,

like flying crucifixes
with so many people aboard.

I wish them love
on behalf
of all of us.

Who cares about peanuts;
get me home.

© Chagall 2013

In The Panes

chagall backdrop

I sometimes glimpse angels in windows,
not really sure
which side of the glass they’re on.

I jerk around quickly, a dart over shoulders,
to catch them behind me,
if they are reflection.

But sometimes they are simply there
on the other side,
sub-imposed under light from now.

Perhaps they’re not angels,
merely glimpses, or phantoms,
similarly spectral and drapery-like.

Though the haunted sometimes too are gilded,
tines are rarely mistaken for hand harps.

Flashes on the periphery,
a little frenzy of the optic nerve,
alerts me they’re there.

The more I stare,
the less I see,
the more I search,
yearn, panic . . .

Oh god, I thought I’d lost you,
or worse yet,
that you’d lost me.

The worst?
That we never whir at all.

In the winter, angels collapse feathers and halos,
lie perfectly still in cold white powder,
to hollow out shapes of snow-people.

Once in a while, it’s everyday things,
butterflies on lilacs, or passing birds,
glanced there in the panes.

And once it was just me,
looking back at the world.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Perfect Days

I eat roasted peanuts on the porch,
watch you through the door
prepare papaya salsa there,
chiles, cumin, brown sugar, agave,
lime and red onion.

The grill gives off toasting hickory smell,
radiates heat in small waves of mirage;
I sip white liquors and tonics,
beyond ice cold and bracing,
intoxicating quinine.

At this moment, all things are possible,
the frosting of salt on oiled peppers,
fresh clean sprays of water
to raise steam off of the smoking woods,
you in the kitchen humming ancient lullabies.

White smoke rises in fantail wisps,
disappears into the day’s air, as does the day,
commemorates life’s rituals,
protects the perimeter from evil.

As stars appear,
I trace constellations older than man,
and imagine that I am among the first
to gaze upward, and to recognize pattern.

We lie on the night grass,
warm and dry on a frilled blanket
that I keep in the trunk of my car,
cleaned regularly, especially for moments like these,
when a person or two, needs a view
prone face-up to heaven.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

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