Sun dries her sandals Wicks away summer water Life becomes the mist cc: Chagall 2021
Tag Archive: summer
I smell so good after turning beds
of arugula by hand.
Chagall 2017
You remind me of someone you were, how you do that
so perfectly effortless
Evoke the we that we were
cue the salty sea air
Everything about then is beach-washed
designs, that’s how I remember
How could it be otherwise, the
other times we would soar
Just a little
bit more
We remind us
of then
Join me. Inhale – long –
and hold it gently.
© Chagall ∞
Grandpa would flash a spray of cool water
each morning on the panting gray cement
stones about the yard, colors and hues
of the earth’s minerals flushed deep
brought to life in small puddles
accumulated there near the clover tufts
holding tight in the cracks, the crevices
abutting the frame, the scene at large,
we pan higher than we did that day,
all of our life there in neat little
bunches of boxes in boxes where people we love
carry on, carry out their days, turning on and in
and out and back, to a different way as hope goes,
newly baptized, in deep commune, confirmed, wed to all,
in repose amid the somber hymns of concluding rites,
beneath grandpa’s spray, a flash of silver liquid,
an old man’s giggling face lost in the brilliant sun
of a promise forever solvent.
© Chagall ∞
The kids outside are playing their version of fear factor,
lying down in lavender amid dozens of lazily fuzzy bees.
© Chagall ∞
If my fate is to die by falling, let it be
Down weathered steps over the dunes to the beach
© Chagall ∞
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 ∞
Hey, if you want ice
You gotta fill the trays.
© ChaChagall ∞
It’s a singular frame of view
for a universe of points of
view that are merely bags of
shells strewn on your beach
in front of your cabana while
you lounge there marveling at
the beautiful contours of each
of your feet, your’s and her’s.
© Chagall ∞
The sound of planets receding,
the doppler of large trucks
flying by on endless road,
the cosmic hum of rubber
rubbed hot-asphalt on this summer night
beneath shot-stars that are
suns by day, while we lovers by night
with our tops down rejoice
in the blue-static
of AM radio
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 