Certain songs I cannot sing, conceived to cry, melodic intervals, melancholic chasms, lyrics left unsung like spoken word, life's celebration cut short, the foolishness of what we feel, fragile undying compulsion to love perchance to exist, finally Just when the fun is starting, comes the time for parting... cc: Chagall 2022
Tag Archive: love lost then lost again
There's nowhere to run but forward when your very own buttocks are chasing after you I look up; the view of my forehead escapes me, I have trouble tasting my own tongue I have gazed into eyes, though I've never heard a word from the ear despite listening intently (somewhere once I heard that gerunds are bad) maybe all words are bad the imperfection of the green bottle is more precise than the words that attempt to describe it the contents of the bottle shake, underground tremors but not enough to make waves, albeit how tiny I can throw thoughts like darts, from my bullseye out to any errant arc aren't we the pair? I stroke the umbilical cord, coaxing it gently to relax, to collapse into a coil, to reel you in to feel you in total darkness attempting to discern shapes any form will do to exit the nil nipping at wet organisms that threaten - nay promise - to engulf we ride the tide home in free-fall akimbo asleep back-to-back, we have nowhere to go but forward cc: Chagall 2021
Caroline, was that the bell?
Time to unfold it all away.
I’ll grab your bag, just give
me a moment, light is coming
into the window now like then
and again.
A room full of petals to welcome
the morning wind, shutters wide open
to ocean air.
I waltz with myself in a salty room
broom-swept but no worse for wear,
still smelling of summer, now I samba
on sand from beaches I conquered
barefoot, on bleached plank floors
carefully o’er and around broken glass
Caroline, you’ll call when you land?
After you’ve had the time to
grab your bag from
the carousel
before red-green
lights whisk by
and carry you away
I mist the room of petals
to keep them opened wide
alert to the sound of dark oceans
dancing waves, froth sexy
whitecaps warm in bare moonlight
rush about our ankles
I am breathless
running full-speed
maniacally at the threshold
of something about to burst
Caroline says she’s coming again
to pay a visit, without any bag this time
sans parcel, save a pair of dancing beach sandals
and a bucket of merely shells.
dark rum, slow rumba, undulating sand,
I wear clothes to capture the breeze
she shines light
luminescent – she is cyan in color
a cyanodite
she reflects moonlight
Caroline says I should
talk a lot
less
© Chagall ∞
I’m not coming out, but I will invite you in;
today we’re serving sliced-twice fried rainbow.
© Chagall ∞
Candles oblige me, light me back
to the sea, for at night I lose my way
if not for the sound of surf, the salt-spray,
I’d be lost, tossed about as innocence in the squall,
fragile bones amid limber wind, snapped barely alive
except for the thought of you buried deep,
the last seed of hope that I know I’ll sow someday.
© Chagall 2016
I told her
as you had asked
that she knew nothing of moons
that it was waxing and gibbous
and she replied to tell you that
you are an idiot as anyone can see
that it’s nothing of the sort
but indeed instead waning crescent
She added
it comes with old age
then she gave me this kiss and this locket
she said that you’d know
Chagall 2016
My heart, adept at somersaults,
sticks the perfect landing.
The pain in my knees though tells me that
it’s not that long till fall.
So tape me up
to brace me tight
in time for another go.
Madly to the springboard
without stopping to plant
I soar of my own desire.
I emulate feathers floating
till ground.
To lie there
spying clouds move
up and down as well as left and right.
In motion emotionally always
forever truly yours.
Chagall 2016
More than whispers, a whistle, in pert moonlight vespers
prayers through branches that sweep by my face, at this clip
too fast pace, I can easily traipse across lines lost except
for a glimpse of life pulses every now and then.
Curtsy, we bow throughout time, an elegant wakeful rest
is just all I can take at this moment, forgive me – how sad that we falter
I fall, every now and then.
Chagall 2015
I’m finding more
guitar picks
laying lying around
these days
I’m feeling
more nimble
then and than
stars
We, I believe
are our own
answers
Swear
on a pinky
ring
More in
a haze
these days
Amazing these
swifty
autumn ways
Chagall 2015
She overcame inertia by bearing down hard
catching grip on shift-gear and leather,
deeply like cement – she became fixture,
a ground to figure
aloof, always the bold one off-axle spanned across
imperfect timing, but not to be lost on a roll –
tipped her shoulder, head-down ditched and tumbling
to topple her way to the billboard below,
fifteen famulous minutes though nary five feet high,
smaller than popcorn and concession soda,
but horribly beset by bugs in the diffraction of projector light.
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 