Tag Archive: Relationships


Bon Voyage

Looking for bandaids
today I found her
old shampoo. I added
water beads and shook
the bottle, then I showered
and lathered. I am no longer
in the now but am back
to an earlier day when
she was still here. Aroma
is a time machine.

© Chagall ∞

Life is a Mid-Sentence Kiss

I am precisely like a beacon she breathed
yet the time still faded quickly away, syrup
stopped in its pour, a cascade surreal atop
lithe and limber aplomb. Inside I am a rush
of water banking smoothly along high sides
of perilous plummeting flume, before I dive
so help me God … to ascend and emerge again,
the scent of lavender adrift on warm woven mist,
I am blinded by light calling me from the shore.

© Chagall ∞

The Market

She is waxing prosaic as she elbows her way
through the crowded agora, how she loves the bustle!
Throwing fingers up to signal the meter, opening bids
under kerchiefed hands where a shake resembles a seductive
sleight of fingers traced in palms’ undersides;
I continue to traipse my way up her wrists until
I cup her shoulders and press the tension
from her neck and temple. I will smooth her
into massaged rapture before agreeing that
her prose is genuine.

© Chagall ∞

Fondly

There are high tones
in all things about her

Smell, sound, taste,
touch, sight

Her presence brings quick arousal,
awareness that life starts here

As her dimensions deepen
I find myself more
mystifyingly immersed

Oddly – sadly –
perhaps it is time
to part

Chagall 2015

Dog Ear

chagall-backdrop4.jpg

The page is parted so subtle
where once your finger touched
and I traveled, searching the meaning
of words and the lattice of white space

© Chagall 2015

Dear Follower,

Hello.

I am not writing about you.
I am not writing about anyone, let alone anyone you might know.

I am vamping, riffing, making it up on the fly.
A matador working the cape, entangling the horns as they come.

I am a romantic, a raconteur, a fabulist.
I parry in rhythm and rhymes, in sound, guttural, enunciated.

I do not know you, dear follower. You do not know me.
I do not know me. If anything, I write about the people I know in flesh and blood.

I am inspired by those who have been at my side for my lifetime.
They are here with me now, living the day-to-day, the grind, with love and commitment.

We sweat, laugh, sometimes hysterically until we cry, aching good, chest to chest, cheek to cheek.
Your comments suggest you think I am alone on this planet; au contraire, my life is bohemian rich.

We gypsies take care of us gypsies. Our ladies take care of us very well, thank you.
We are surrounded by generations of love; we partake of sage offerings to make us wise and wired.

Trust me. If I have never met you except in passing here on WordPress, in this blogosphere,
then you are not my motivation. Please do not delude yourself otherwise.

I write for me. I write for her, and him.
I do not write for, nor about, you.

If by chance the words coming off of the page, speak to you very specifically,
convince you that they could only be meant for you, well then, welcome to Poetry.

Our music, like our poetry, is for us. Some of these tunes were written very long ago.
They are written with very specific people and places in mind.

Alas, you are not among those.
Reality check, please.

Hello.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Sonnet For Dying Sonnets

Running away, we outrace the comets,
then rest on our backs, at the southern pole;
stars, concentric orbits, clarions toll:
Life on this planet, as good as it gets.

My love for you hangs in mist, crystalline,
cascades in tickling ripples down your face,
rinses from inside out, the dust, this place.
There is no heaven, nor hell, this serene.

There is no place at all, there’s no bridge back.
I reel, mad dance, awestruck, struck dead, anew,
the last call. We didn’t make it did we?
“No my love, we both died in the attack.”

Cold wild winds blow hard in vain to renew
the calm before the storm, eternally.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

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