Tag Archive: rhythm

Two Per Week

52 weeks in a year, 26 letters in the alphabet
… merely coincidence?

Time is money and money is naught and so
thought is time. I keep looking for a word
to rhyme.

She just didn’t happen upon circumstance
or the circumference of the happenstance.

Far from it.
Far be it for me to opine from afar. I’m
fairly sure that that of which I speak is uncertain.

Hold your tongue, I’ll hold mine
or yours if you prefer.

how I’d
hold it

Right up front, before I begin, a preface to what
I’m about to say, a few opening remarks. But first …

I need to know,
how easy is it
to maintain that glow,
that wonderful charm,
that sense of the moon
while dancing

© Chagall ∞

Cushiony Beach Feet

I am the samba that remains unwritten
For the space between sand and sea
The dance upon rocks polished by time
Made smooth by deep-water indigo
Bluer than wet waves, sails settle thusly at dusk
On horizons beneath sunlight ceased to fall
To fail to bring light, a blow to grace
A jab to faith, a tinker’s blow to pierce
The armored scowl, the incalculable wonder of eyes
The ponderous pout, beget and be gone
Forgotten, nay a fadeaway dappled in corduroy
Supplicants or another vicarious agenda, indigenous
More than formulaic, naturalized to exist right there
As it must in a flow of energy besieging my optic nerve
I exist to impart everything, I defy thrombosis for I bore
Deeper than the vein of inflammation, the zone of wizened trespass
Thank you for the bodies receptors, for warm city nights
For carousels and the songs that they play, the march of grand horses
Somewhere glasses touch, each a soft mallet upon the other to rub gently
Searching for the warm tone, the sensual rub of globes
I am that samba that snaps you back to the beach
In cool day, in bright coveted morning
Amid constant pressure despite inclination toward shade
Over-anxious more than unctuous or ingratiating
A tip of the hat coincident with the wink is elementary sparkle
The samba that returns like the surf does
Though sometimes it stops
It’s true, so samba through
To the space between sand and sea
Samba, there is where I want to be
Samba, gesticulate, a cuba libre
Leaning out over the rail of the balcony overlooking sand and surf
A small fox at dusk darts furtively through the rough sandy brush
The backs of houses along the dunes along the beach along the ocean
Darkness settles on salted breezes aromatic with land crabs
Less fearful to exit their holes this time of day just before night
When the number of stars and wan atmosphere rival the majesty, the ocean’s roar
In pitch blackness, the world of the blind
The roar of sound dominates the ear
And so goes the body, I am the waves you hear
Of this there’s no denying
I am the song of the samba receding

© Chagall ∞

Calliope, pentateuch, kombu bay-bay
Chukka boot a Buddha yay!

© Chagall ∞


In the space there between slipped fingertips
whorls of sound explode into bursts of light

© Chagall ∞

Sand Dance

One day long
ago I lived
with a senorita
who scored
duets for money

From the window
I shouted
It appears as if
snow is starting
to fall!

She whispered dryly
Then let’s let it

Chagall 2016

Way With Words

We all understood it
at the same time

But I was able
to articulate it swiftly

sue me

Chagall 2016

Untitled #10

greys – candy-finished blacks
bursts of day-glo color
then everything goes
misted white again

Chagall 2016

The Dropping Shoe

There used to be
a caesura here

It’s gone

Chagall 2016

Yeah Baby, Give Me Some Skin


they say they play jazz – or so they say; more kenny g, not Bird who’s soaring,
’cause that’s what they heard; in pink silks, in morning mist, at daybreak, all splendor,
at twilight, in indigo, round and round, I go so deep in a dizzy, and now She’s saying
with Her back turned, all this and heaven; primally perfect – all this Jazz.

© Chagall 2015

chagall backdrop

A paler horse for the time
no worries at all – if any, they’re small.

They told you, I hope, that I used to bang gongs?

First let me tell you that I love
frost, snowflakes, eyelashes and somewhere – everywhere tears.

Me, I’d uphold and upend the merry, depending on
the time of day, or the time of year.

In a pale wane moon out the hourglass,
just a speckle on a wire white with choir light
on plexiglass, polished chrome and pretty barristers shuffling home
on gravel paths, they rise then crest and ride you fast to the other side,
just a belly-whop, just a jelly roll, there will never be another you
and Nat King Cole comes from window light, where everything rises and falls,
not just once or twice, but always, and forever plus a single day

Bang a gong –
uphold and upend the merry.

Sing a lilt of the will o’ the wisp.

© Chagall 2014

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