I know you.
But not this time
nor place.
Quickly,
before we’re lost again.
Tossed again
to the wind.
Shadows awash
in brilliant light
await the opening.
A pucker, a dimple
so easily missed,
just a nod.
Then you’re gone
leaving nothing
but flat plain.
And the endless gray wash
of limbo.
© Chagall 2014
In her eyes, timeless
though unlit candles.
© Chagall 2014
We’d kiss deliciously
after having had bonbons
© Chagall 2014
My weakness?
I believe
people are
more bright
than they are
more kind
than they are
just human
potential before
the unveiling
sadly
so many times
alas
the world is
disenchantment
and unraveling
© Chagall 2014
More dice than snake
I don’t rattle so much as I roll
© Chagall 2014
You cannot appreciate who you are
from within yourself.
So stand alone
aside, inside
the sparkle.
© Chagall 2014
They remark about the devil
in more intricate pattern
and then lose the train
of thought
© Chagall 2014
A day so beautiful
I find even the squirrels
delightful.
© Chagall 2014
Alone at night I sip tea spiced with bergamot
under crisp cold stars and watch small planes overhead
strobe tail-lights and wings, on to steady red then off
to the past that comes readily as an echo
soars octaves in free-form under the dome
of souls in free flight under streetlight like soft snow
it’s the last hurrah: it’s the first hush.
So many little planes.
© Chagall 2014
Today, this cold crisp April day
there’s the smell of smoke and soil.
The attitude of sunlight just so
illuminates zephyrs in treetops
and gargoyles rutted in the shadow of rough bark.
They’re all smiling, so that’s a good sign –
right?
And the wind is actually whistling,
oval lips over an empty bottle
while now and then more menacing tones
much more gasp than whistle or song, hang there high in the field.
The hawk is anxious I know, that I not mistake it as soft.
And I travel back too easily and swiftly
to another place and day so much like this one,
to a time more deeply hued though equally sun-dappled.
Soft curls of white smoke hide me from my knees down;
I’m sure it’s my altitude.
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 