It’s late and so it’s time
to be plain
Pulse steady and eyes trained
on the target
I feel so long and lithe
and alive
While it’s fun to be obtuse
I think you should know
That before morning comes
I will die for you.
© Chagall, 2013
Tag Archive: Love
Wind through the trees,
Autumn –
or is that surf,
July?
I am northeast
and southbound
baby.
I need a jukebox,
an American Legion.
I prefer a good tap beer,
or a pinot noir from Beaune.
You can’t beat 3PM
for afternoon
delight.
although
noon, one
two, four, five
all have special meaning
Okay,
anytime
is right.
I adore
the produce aisle.
I do so love
losing my ticklish mind
undercover with you.
Keep a bottle on chill,
keep us moving forward.
© Chagall, 2013
How I loved
living life
with her.
Anticipated her every
moment.
Pondered how
she made me wonder
of all things.
She would sidle alongside
and coo,
always exuding
harmony.
© Chagall, 2013
I pulse,
you pulse.
We both pulse?
I guess.
But you know . . .
you’ve always been
more certain
than me.
I see
you saw it
(I saw you had)
in my eyes,
where I can
never gaze
directly.
© Chagall, 2013
Who knew the gnome was real?
Dancing in the garden
like some common elf,
beside herself with glee
and wanton magic,
curly pirouettes ’round beanpoles,
a small exotic dancer
with pointed shoes,
red velvet vest, not much else,
in morning mist,
gleeful and billowed
heart that she has,
allows her to glide
without missed step
and trample of the fruits
that lie there.
© Chagall, 2013
It appears to be confetti
fluorescent lilac petals
falling in the black arena
amphitheater aloft
with swings
on long sterling chains
silky stocking smooth
you can dance on a star
miles-long pendulums
catapult you ’round the horn
the belt-line
of the Milky Way
moons bigger than suns
but trees bigger still
right here in my backyard
her face just inches from mine
blocks the universe
whole
her lips
larger than life
appear where my heart
used to be
displaced
she pounds
like a pacemaker
sets the tempo
of my time
passes the baton
in the oval
of the race
for my being
such a kick in the stretch
the hurrah of the throng
is ticker-tape
along the ridge
in silhouette
a traveling man
with all his belongings
wrapped in a pillowcase
sings
unquiet
unwritten
unfinished
songs
whistles
effervescent
a tune she knows
she’s heard
long ago
in a dream
it seems
star-bound
earthward
and spellbound
© Chagall, 2013
Twilight doesn’t swirl
move in tandem
or whisper as it did
when the time
between evening to dusking
stretched longer than today
rosetted sunsets barely touched
the eye and the hue
of nighttime garments
delicate, fringed
Corselettes massage
the brace of it
forcing the soul upright
to attentive pose
lean bodies
sinewy, still young
cheeks blushed with the skies pinks
reflecting new-day promise
and everywhere a freckle
now nowhere a dimple
or a wink
to conjure
the crazy thoughts
or to stir the violet echoes
© Chagall, 2013
How long can a syllable hold
before it breaks to the next,
crests in anticipation?
How long can you ponder the hour,
wonder if love’s just stalking
or intends to settle down?
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
This weekend there’s a deadly bombing
at a funeral for one who bombed
this more recent bomber
was killed in the act
by others who were killed
themselves in the course
of retaliation
friends and family
of the first bomber
deceased
but not before killing
at least twenty-one people
You following me?
Somebody please
cue Louis Armstrong!
. . . and I say to myself,
what a wonderful world . . .
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
We bloggers are like bouquinistes
with our shops along the Seine
mine is at Pont Marie
I open my green box
the smell of weathered prose
yellowed black and white portraits
wafts all the way
to the Quai du Louvre
alongside thin trails
of smoke
from Gitanes Brunes
my brand of cigarette
For cold mornings
I carry a flask
of brandy
that keeps me warm
and much too obliging
when haggling over price
for the things that are mine
antiquarian
Oh, did I mention Dominique?
Her shop’s at the Quai Voltaire
she fancies plaid skirts, black tights
and ballet slippers,
both at work
and when we make love,
keeps her hair tight
in a chin-length bob
she has over five thousand books
and claims to have read them all
I’ve watched her
read them all
Our shoppers stop by
to browse and buy
what makes them
remember and yearn
for simple times
and carriage days
through summer gardens
down long vanishing horizons
where once they kissed
under the victory arch
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 