Sun dries her sandals Wicks away summer water Life becomes the mist cc: Chagall 2021
Tag Archive: memory
I helped an old lady - planed her stuck-door, enables her to come and go as she pleases To finish the job where the plane does not travel (at the door-bottom) I needed a rat-bastard file she knew what they were - My late husband called them dose rat bastids - and where his were love to las abuelas cc: Chagall 2021
as a pointillist I dabble in implication, you infer sky and water from dots I render the eyes' sweet surrender to that which is not I touch the blue by the sky inside you, provoke the memory of dappled green whorls of afternoon sun diffract lazily off the pond reflecting nearby reindeer lichen you the viewer are yourself once again twice stippled cc: Carlos 2021
I remember (once) stringing my Strat with nylon
Then I turned the twin reverb on:
no magnetics, no sound
but great action
My friend Pete played so loud
we bought him a number 11 jersey
Vovo would pan for seeds down
inclined album covers
Sara would flick ashes onto her jeans
and rub it in to add wear
And Bob Smith (true name)
stole my Sunn concert lead amp-head and
my Zimgar conga shells
that I bought from Benitez
in the early ’70s; old-Robby
one morning vacated the house we
used for practice
S**thead couldn’t even keep a beat
Chagall 2019
We were the last,
sad you don’t remember,
the high cliffs overlooking
an ocean, I can’t recall
its color, but the salt mist
remains upon my tongue, as if
the name of a newborn, like
sparks at the edge of vision
And now we are the first to set foot
here on the softest of downs
Chagall 2019
You remind me of someone you were, how you do that
so perfectly effortless
Evoke the we that we were
cue the salty sea air
Everything about then is beach-washed
designs, that’s how I remember
How could it be otherwise, the
other times we would soar
Just a little
bit more
We remind us
of then
Join me. Inhale – long –
and hold it gently.
© Chagall ∞
Grandpa would flash a spray of cool water
each morning on the panting gray cement
stones about the yard, colors and hues
of the earth’s minerals flushed deep
brought to life in small puddles
accumulated there near the clover tufts
holding tight in the cracks, the crevices
abutting the frame, the scene at large,
we pan higher than we did that day,
all of our life there in neat little
bunches of boxes in boxes where people we love
carry on, carry out their days, turning on and in
and out and back, to a different way as hope goes,
newly baptized, in deep commune, confirmed, wed to all,
in repose amid the somber hymns of concluding rites,
beneath grandpa’s spray, a flash of silver liquid,
an old man’s giggling face lost in the brilliant sun
of a promise forever solvent.
© Chagall ∞
I am as young as this moment allows but no less.
Someday I’ll have been here again.
© Chagall ∞
As the beat goes it says
so much to do so instead
do nothing – lose myself
in any direction – when
I was a girl once combed
in elusive fashion – was
more than I’d ever do –
take myself in any direction
– laughter rings and never
fades, simply dies away though
fingertips touched so lightly.
© Chagall ∞
Each sense has a cache of
residual reality
– attention! –
not memory at-work at all,
just dimming glows, we filter
the actual,
we choreograph the quintet,
low-capacity volatility,
mosaic,
iconic,
saccadic.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 