Tag Archive: language

Mouthing the Words

The gape, tongue off hard palette, the gape again,
teeth into bottom lip, expulsion of air, say I Love You

© Chagall ∞

A Poet By Any Other Tongue

My love poem to you has been translated
by one from your land and language. It says:
My major organs leap from their confines to enable
coexisting in the same ethereal space as your exultations.
Clearly the word was intended to be “exhalations.”

© Chagall ∞

To A Tee, Baby!

I have certainly been less legato of late,
still I’m not quite yet pizzicato.

© Chagall 2017

Watching the Running Spot

I stared at the symbols for years until
they were no longer alien and I was no longer illiterate.

© Chagall 2017


Felt not right, so I left.

© Chagall 2017

Clogged Filter

I apologized though even I
didn’t understand what I’d meant
when I said his gene pool lacked
a diving board.

© Chagall 2017

Friday Warmup

Verbally conjugating verbs
during conjugal visits

Possible draconian measures
by the benevolent order of Sisters

The jiggling of the cord was
no cause for ellipsis

Precisely varicose veins
judge not the eclipse

Druids draw fluids nervously
surmising bang for the buck

(hard stop)

(big finish)
And that’s what it’s all about!

© Chagall 2016

To Be Titled

There are no words
to express
the world within
where no words exist

© Chagall 2016

Sara of Beautiful Rain

Small letters alight on her lashes, tiny poetry about her eyes
Kisses of ancient rhythm, a pucker for a flame stoked
Each blink the turn of a page reveals whole worlds
Every breath has meaning, those lighter than air defy gravity
Limericks line her brow when she laughs
When she sighs I trace my lips along the long volta of her neckline
Where her sonnets turn around
Down her arms flow three-letter words, we are kids again
Awash in primary colors, hands waving wildly at tickles
Dancing about in a spray, we drink water from a hose
There are symbols dangling from her ears that I do not recognize
Baubles of mystery; I linger there eschewing translation.

© Chagall 2016


Quick Convey

The procession begins,
mere letters shape form
from void, become benign
shapes we call words,
to beget concept.

I’m happy
right here.

© Chagall 2016

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