The light hasn’t come
yet the promise of new day
today is certain
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Tag Archive: Love
I’ve thought of becoming
a satellite
that orbits around
your space
send you news
and weather of the heart
just a 10-second
delay on a live feed
as long as it takes
to recover
from sunlight
and dips in the road
in order to see
in dark rooms
and to find one’s
stomach again.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
See that hand
waving up from your waistband?
That’s me
via your pajama leg!
I’ll just loll here a while
let my fingers moonwalk
up and down your belly
index
tapping on your navel
a little bongo
scurry like
a cat on a mouse
on parquet
triplet raps
middle to thumb
add the ring for
straight four-four time
end with all moving
cascades and flourish
like Vladimir Horowitz
full-hand five finger
quintuplets
ah, so you’re ticklish!
well, I’ll just blow raspberries here . . .
and here . . . and . . .
okay, enough? cry uncle
Tio!
Come on, get dressed,
we’ll go have breakfast.
Did I lie,
wasn’t the sleepover fun?
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Please see The Invite – the prequel to the frolic
Calliopes lilt up
stride down beautiful horses
sunlit carousels
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Fractured silver back mars the mirror’s face
To avoid the flaws, we tilt our heads so
Find we’re young again, away from the wear
Between the cracks there in the untouched glass
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
two people in love
breathless alone
beneath stars’ light
any era anytime
pick a country or a world
have no one speak
but search through kiss
and listen . . .
could be any place
anywhere any age
through time
if there’s anyone
there’s always two
long as life
as long as there were stars
© Carlos Chagall
You are intoxicating
a heady mix
of flowers and brine
a salty
dusty stew
a sweet opiant
a tart granita
shaved ice
a fine talc
a spirit scoured clean
in the early rain
the new day
You are, aren’t you –
aren’t you the new day?
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
She says it’s way too early,
this time of year for warblers,
kinglets and tanagers too.
Ornithology challenged
(I know little about little birds):
What then is this time good for?
I shouted out from the crowd.
Despite the many faces,
drawn about her in the park,
she is prompt and direct with response:
It’s that season for fine young ladies,
to sight those special and rare
ducks like the Cinnamon Teal,
birds like the Black-Tailed Godwit.
With that she puffed her plumage,
I turned to exhibit my wingbar,
snapped at a mayfly there in the air,
and lifted off in glorious flight.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
I told her I had a couple of doughs
that had been rising for most of the day.
Come back with me, what’s the worst could happen?
A slice of great homemade pizza, some wine?
OK, maybe a kiss, or two, or three.
I make a fantastic marinara.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
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
Alphabet City 