The last silver streamer alights,
confetti and ticker tape abandon flight,
balloons fall from celebration
failing to be held aloft.
Remember when we were? Each awakening brought
a new day with new sun in which we bathed defiant,
we dared it to blind us, we countered with our own
heat, radiance, impulse to grow, and then to burn away.
Soft brooms whisk the memory; the clink of glasses raised
to toast is still there, not quite yet imperceptible.
© Chagall 2017
I had such a clear falsetto once,
soared the musical scale high above
any notes that mere mortals dared
to defy. I’ve lost it since the
childhood innocence is gone, left
alone, this humble baritone, no longer
a tenured tenor, soon to hit rock bottom,
a baseless bass who dreams of being in love
fully soprano.
© Chagall 2016 – oops! – 2017
The sun is too hot – it always is,
a single lock of hair on your cheek
scrolls a shadow where I’m lost in whorls
of deep affection, a whirlpool of your gaze,
the tangle of arms and lips, you are scented
everywhere of salts, soaps and time.
© Chagall 2016
Christmas Morning on the Lower East Side when I was five
I awoke to find a tiny white baby grand piano alongside
the tree that crowded the front room of our railroad apartment.
Not quite a toy, it was a real instrument crafted to stand
not two feet high. On the beautiful bench sat a card in script
that simply said Love Dad.
This year, for what would be his 100th Christmas, I will place
my hands on the keyboard again to wish him peace in silent night.
© Chagall 2016
Near a century ago, cousins
from the old country had written
to her, my grandmother, to tell her of
new life, love, old life, and death,
she’d missed, the chronology of
the beautifully handwritten cursive
on paper unlike any I’ve ever seen
in size and touch, with a scent of
many years contained there in the folds and
the unfolding of many reads, here and there
a letter blurred, the errant pen of
the author or a teardrop.
© Chagall 2016
John Glenn said as he crossed earth’s line:
At Zero G and I feel fine.
© Chagall 2016
The woods were lovely, dark and deep,
And I’ve fulfilled my pledge to keep,
With miles behind me now I sleep,
With miles behind me now I sleep.
With great humility, respect and love for Robert Frost
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Dear Sara – I was deeply saddened today to realize it will take less time to attain your parents’ age than has transpired since we first met. Desperately breathing irregularly. Love, Carlos
© Chagall 2016
The curtain is parted as she’d left it,
worlds continue passing by.
© Chagall 2016
Where do all
the tumbleweeds go
after they’ve blown away?
Where do all
the scorpions hide
during the rain storm?
Watch me now,
James Brown said,
watch me as I bust a move.
Radio
even back then
out there in the desert.
© Chagall 2016
Alphabet City 