Tag Archive: poetry


A Poet By Any Other Tongue

My love poem to you has been translated
by one from your land and language. It says:
My major organs leap from their confines to enable
coexisting in the same ethereal space as your exultations.
Clearly the word was intended to be “exhalations.”

© Chagall ∞

Proof of Others

At the core of my existence I am certain
that poets exist on beautiful celestial orbs
other than earth

© Chagall 2017

 

Pun Tears

I cry nowadays
At the drop of a hat
All about me
Berets and fedoras

©Chagall 2016

Unfinished

I came across
my draft of a poem
started a while back

It reads as if
we’d been interrupted
for all it says is

She

Chagall 2016

First, Stretch

Have you considered recently
refurbishing your haberdashery
or buying a brand-new commode, maybe armoire?

Some words must be paired
as fine wines vis-à-vis
fish or chicken.

Grassy, picked too young –
this one’s a hint of chocolate.

Barring any unforeseen outcomes
I’ll bet the barista falls madly in love
long before we reach five stanzas.

Chagall 2016

Communication

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I wish I could scream
raise the words from the page
and hurl them in your face

© Chagall 2015

Bubbles Always Burst

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Threadbare themes are all I’ve left
discarded, dressed in symbol
so far removed from the pang in my gut,
the swift uptake of breath, the gasp
that attests to beauty, the prolonged
search for words to convey the fleeting
moment, one step behind disappears
a paintbrush stroke of water,
a wet hieroglyphic that mists in the hot sun
and is gone.

© Chagall

Light Frost

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I imagine woods where snow falls still
in dark along a fieldstone wall that separates the fires

Hickory smoke like old gray wool, natty dressed in starlight,
the steam of living creatures is crystal in the air, tears
crunch underfoot, whose tears they are
I think I know

© Chagall 2014

Eeeny Meeny Miney . . .

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Like a toe into water
the word pushes onto the page
testing . . . no, that’s not quite right

Paris morning, chill of the starry night
warmed by copper . . . nix

I inhale deeply and shape my mouth to her’s
at right angles, I gently exhale
her cheeks bellow, her eyes open
and our heart begins to beat . . . maybe

© Chagall 2014

Focus

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Maybe it’s not the words we lack
but the keenest sense of what to feel.

© Chagall 2014

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