On a carpet of flower petals
I lie eyeing the sun. Tap
those receptors there,
prod me to yearn for forever
or another vast place where I sense
my being is once removed.
My sunlit face not a fleeting echo.
Her smile across the handlebars
with my heart there in the basket.
I watch her pedal away. Somewhere
there are sambas playing.
© Chagall 2016
As a samba goes
so does the summer’s
last dance in sand
while surf rolls
muted offshore
in whispers
she hushes you
to quiet small steps
fragrant embraces
and softer kisses
still she waves
a silhouette
in starlight
© Chagall 2014
Summer samba
drifting to the
hotel window
where curtains blow
so softly
Standing here in
salted air on
barefoot toes
I stretch and reach
for stars not there
And yet so real
so real, so real
© Chagall 2014
I’m rum-numb lively
on cool-night sand.
Autumn-summer samba,
hot-wine clover.
Heated, I’d pull
the sweater down.
You sweat,
right?
© Chagall, 2013
Summer
sunny samba
toes besiege sand castles
wet steps, frothy, salt water sprays
lovers’
ankles
up her calves, too cool, sun-tanned thighs
coconut-pineapple
oils soothe smooth
the burn
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Sands are cooler this time of day,
evening shore’s spongy underfoot,
refreshes the soles on up.
My towel skirts me,
hula at the waist, a tuck-knot,
long, cool cotton sways,
massages me, naked thighs.
I buy a coco-rum-nut at the hut,
torches burn, leave a larger than usual tip,
fly chica behind the bar
rewards me with a double-floater-shot in return.
Salt air leaves me heady, nostalgic,
for some primal scene,
saline roots, when hot springs sprang,
before speech found its way to our tongues.
Duet up the beach plays Jobim,
he, nylon acoustic
she, silky throat and lovely neck.
Samba for lovers,
smell of herb
from under umbrellas.
The rum is good,
arouses my caramel,
makes me thicker,
I glide, boogie board on bare feet.
After the verse, at the coro,
I step toe to heel, to toe to heel,
dancing like no one’s watching,
’cause no one is.
My ears pop suddenly,
the rush of knee-high waves
swooshes crisp, tens of decibels louder,
foam about me touches my towel hem.
I am doubly alive, in overdrive,
oxygen never smelled so good,
clean, sweet, perfect pleasure,
just breathing in, keep breathing in . . .
Back at the hut, I double-up rum-nuts,
bum a cigarette from the fly chica,
who lights me up and smiles.
I do a paso dobla,
in a rum numb,
up and down the beach,
dancing, someone’s watching.
Queres dançar comigo?
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 