Tag Archive: sound


on writing on

sometimes I re-read things i once wrote and at first
thought they are grammatically wrong until i realize what it was i meant

Chagall 2017

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For Chloe

where ripples fold thin flues arise
to hollow glass tubes to chime

she of first lines and I of the hook
made beautiful poems together

haunting caesurae

we prayed coaxing winds to carry
the continuum

my life
she would cede

at a 4-way stop where none proceed
she pirouettes?

Chagall 2017

To A Page

blank page – i don’t know
whether to load it or stroke it

or smoke it
down to the wick
(be flip
for an idea)
must be cartesian
product they’re
selling ’round
here

cheaply, on chagall’s time
not mine, I speak through
him, it’s rare to meet such
a medium…Well done! When
the steaks are – scratch that –
the stakes are high, way above
our heads – scratch that –
my head, an aftermath befitting,
a prequel to an epilogue, a rattle
of prose chugs along, not waylaid and
cannonballed. Sometimes you just got to
get up hill a bit and start to tilt down crest
allow yourself to roll to the finish, pick up steam
as the contour of the line permits, it’s a coaster
works on gravity, life’s a carnival.

blank page – i don’t know
whether to eat it or eye it
so i sing it
lullaby

© Chagall ∞

Crush on the English Teacher

She had a conniption at his addition
Of a fourth dot to the ellipsis

But it’s the end of a sentence he sighed
Oh God, yes she replied

With a moan made in heaven, mellifluous

© Chagall ∞

Not Bergamot

No word is as lavender, in scent or color, is in life,
as a film is longer than a poem or a sigh is,
pointillists revel in innuendo, a pout once hidden
behind a shoulder, turns as time turns, twice bitten,
nipped on by lips and a tongue most tender in touch as in life
as a year is longer when newer as younger was a smile
awash in sun that clouds had hidden
away behind serious-nimble strata
upon cheeks

rained down like kisses, a softer sense, what’s ahead within
dappled then mottled, the shadows of waving leaves, offstage: the sun,
adept, persistent, a beacon perhaps, a sentry, a guard on the nod,
a star

There is no creation more possible than this one
she flies laughing-deflating, a wisp of her vanishing self,
a balloon losing air, she is ground around figure once was,
and no one is she, in blood nor marrow, as in life
as a day is longer than a poem or a sigh was.

© Chagall ∞

Neat Little Bows

How subtle are these symbols, to clinch or to clench,
both embrace, one the certainty of winning, the other
holds tight to imminent loss, to quench, bring cooling
liquid, healing balm, through tight canals to affliction,
immersion in ice, or steam, infinite horizons of water,
too quiet, to hush someone lovingly with finger upon lips
shushing air.

© 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 ∞

Haiku for Sara Remarked

Eternal bright light
Her soliloquy honey
Evergreen deep rain

© Chagall ∞

 

Ta-Da!

My enjambement is intended to make
make you stutter, step a-
round stuff, leap …
stick
the landing.

© Chagall ∞

To A Tee, Baby!

I have certainly been less legato of late,
still I’m not quite yet pizzicato.

© Chagall 2017

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