I wish I could scream
raise the words from the page
and hurl them in your face
© Chagall 2015
Tag Archive: poetry
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
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
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
Maybe it’s not the words we lack
but the keenest sense of what to feel.
© Chagall 2014
Today is a special day.
I can tell by the quality
of the poets’ output. Each one
this morning describes the world
brilliantly.
© Chagall 2014
If with each word I fall shorter of you
should I then leave it to silence?
I confess the odds are half against
I’ll connect, yet I pursue the bridge,
the aftermath of breaking words, the masthead
on your brow through cortex of vision,
around and about your cape of good hope.
© Chagall 2014
Haiku, constrained words
Arrhythmic rigor profound
Words unveil haiku
© Chagall 2014
This poem is unlike the others.
It tells no tale of twin souls,
makes no attempt to pinpoint
the space between here and there,
the real and not. This poem flies
at a level that can be deemed neither
high nor low. Arrhythmic at best,
to say the least, sans discernible
-ameter. The point is all ways shifting
in time, like the bouncing ball of olde,
prompts us to sing-along, for past times’
sake, for those who’ve gone before us,
and wait. If I hold this poem up to the sky
once printed on thick opaque bond,
it can serve to shield the eyes
on days eclipsed by celestial objects
aligning their orbital sine-waves. Folded
as a fan, this poem can cool, or can serve
proxy for one’s hand to wave goodbye,
to a stranger or soul-mate or exiting goddess.
Yes, this poem is not like the rest.
© Chagall 2014
She climbed the lilac
and fell not thinking
once that she’d be shattered
from scent in the heights
surrounded by petals
that swirled less than she
rode the updrafts
this young pollynose
ascension in moonlight
giggling all the way
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 