In the moon I’ve seen
slow waltzes of shadows
sultry and long-lined
silhouettes arched, stretched tightly
around rims of deep craters,
sunlit so far away.
© Chagall 2015
Tag Archive: Moon
How odd the stars that burn so hot
can wink, demure, so cold
I am warmed by the faces
of so many moons
More real than the lights
of jet planes
These nights I find
I slow down seeking free fall
Up, so I float
without need to ever
look down
© Chagall 2014
You’re not anywhere near
where you’d promised
you’d be,
Señor Moon . . .
Mister Moon.
And my sweetheart
is flat, she’s downright
disappointed.
So I think that you owe me
something – no Señor Moon?
Mister Moon . . .?
You’re waning, I’m waxing,
we’re slightly out of step.
Or perhaps, as you say,
she simply finds me too . . .
clean-shaven?
Oye baby!
Signorina,
that’s a
che
bella
luna.
Extraordinarily che,
opulently bella,
laughingly che bella
luna.
© Chagall, 2013
There’s no one for me who quite matches up,
the moons have ceased to align for a while.
There’s no one who can catch me then keep up,
they wax when I wane, they rock when I roll.
I can guess the card almost every time,
didn’t you just pull that from up your sleeve?
Stone with me, share blankets under moonlight,
tell me the stars are not that far away.
Let’s get off the grid, shoot them all the bird,
witness each full moon on the calendar.
Instead I’m surrounded by non dreamers,
those who are deluded by what is real.
Son-of-a-bitching-moronic-buzz-kills,
pissing on my clouds, stinking up heaven.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
The movement of bees across the lilacs,
group brilliance spread, for each flower we touch,
has its own due time, a suckle, a rub,
powdered noses, compound but bloodshot eyes,
quick departures to drop off sweet treasure,
returns in wing-step to resume harvest,
never missing a beat or a petal.
We are the we who colonize this place.
You move, I fill, you fill my move, and so
we dance a pert, apian polonaise,
primal patterns that intoxicate us,
gluttonous pleasure amid the nectar,
I roll in the musky charms of Venus,
without desire to come up for air.
The hive is a place for our alchemy,
where powders convert to beads of gummy
cone-nestled honey, the local terroir,
the minerals and startdust peculiar
to only us, there’s no others like us,
anywhere in the throbbing that surrounds,
nor the worlds of impulse we hold within.
We move like a magic hand, our chevrons
sketch the same subtlety as our synapse,
similar circuitous routes we take
over the landscape, this ecosystem
is home, we are the flight we imagine,
we are patterns we choose, gestures we make,
bonds we forge, one in the one of it all.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Midnight, sparkled frost.
A full moon presides o’er fields,
where I’ll never lie.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 