Currently
voltage and water
don’t mix
ohm my!
© Chagall 2014
Tag Archive: poetry
Birds chirp, agree
the day is safe
for short reconnaissance flights
Keep the starlings close at wing,
just how early is
too early?
Worms sleep in
below the ground
languid in compost heaps
© Chagall 2014
I’ve set myself the goal
to approximate the intensity
of a scream here in a poem
Epithets in all caps
seems too obvious
and besides that’s point in time
what I’m seeking is something more
A gradual swell that starts
as a mere perturbation
or perhaps more an uneven rise
to crescendo, jagged edges
exasperation, the incredulous
mortification, shit all over me
fucking duck bastards
that’s right, walk away!
© Chagall 2014
I embraced your arrival
so I will hold you as well
when you perish, you will taper
and disappear to leave behind
an asterisk, the ripple
of a damselfly on the lake
pure crystal tone
© Chagall 2014
This is our moment:
when the light off our bodies
travels for eons
and is as far away as long ago,
those who reside there
yet to come
will know our triumph
through the energy of our waves
and the ecstatic angles
of our dance.
© Chagall 2014
The wind tonight
moans like a pan flute lover
on the crest in salted foam
searching aqua on the black
I pray for boughs from the arbor
round as thighs, engorged with snow
frozen crisp, ready to break
free, to collapse the roof
and bury us deep in the rubble
© Chagall 2014
The slower snow is content to flurry
but hastened to blizzard
by crazed young flakes
so all the world’s a-swirl
© Chagall 2014
Tatted lace about the heart
of the secretly admired
is over time tattered.
Let’s not unveil our eyes,
not yet.
The spun world
welcomes lovers,
you’ve heard
the old song say.
It all comes undone,
your hair, your belt,
your inner peace,
when this reddest heart’s
at bay.
I will cherish
your innocence
until I won’t,
so sadly.
Farewell love,
time will have
no need to heal
this time.
Starched white tatting
hold sway, this Happy
St. Valentines Day.
© Chagall 2014
I was unable to reach any conclusions
with the ladder she’d provided
foregone or otherwise,
though I drew upon her wisdom
first with crayons
and then acrylics
in my second trimester
of expecting change
for better or worse
whichever came first
depending on the speed
of her stroke
time marches to a sweep
smaller than a second-hand
takes away
what the hour gives
broad arcs on which we ride
to evade the flood
two by two
concussive blows from
two by fours
do-see-do and curtsies
picking at nits
and daisy petals
she loathes me
she loathes me lots
the bathrobe I recognize
but whose sari now?
© Chagall 2014
There’s a song we sing in the mountains
When clouds envelop the peaks
As stars overwhelm the senses
Our hymns overcome the air
We are born to be celestial
From star to dust to star
We constellate in the shape
Of beautifully human
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 