You would have liked this morning
with the dancing trees amid cool breezes
blowing salty air.
You’d have liked the azure blues
sung by the sky, pink-tinged and vast
under the sunlit dome.
Where you are I want to be
a million times smaller than now,
simple fragrant mist that once was
© Chagall 2015
I’ll be gone at morning
like moonglow beads on lashes
when the sun-warmed wood pops
frighten away the dears
Sadly it needn’t be so sad
Awaken by then or of course
this will be the last time,
yes, should you sleep it will be
Too much ado of the kiss,
where one lip daubs another
so fine
so
so long
till an evening somewhere, not yet
ahead of where we are right now
Sleep
just rest now
sleep
© Chagall 2015
Working right now on the internet’s interplanetary expansion,
appearances point to IPv12 to provide all that we’ll need
to be heard above the din of inter-creative force, a border protocol
at the edge near the boundary right before event horizons suck you in,
all for the sake of smileys bounced between the stars.
When we were young
the tables filled
with faces eternally
upturned to grace,
but now we dance
in starlight wan
ever quiet.
© Chagall 2015
This post comprises 3 separate haiku. It is a reblog from May, 2015.
Peace and love to all. —CC
1
Songbird calls two tones
Lilts sadly this crisp morning
Beckons from treetops
2
High, a breath, swoop low
I respond then flap my wings
Perched beside my love
3
Memory of flight
Overcomes me so I soar
Guiding her back home
© Chagall 2015
A kiss is a probe, isn’t it? Tell me . . .
Wait! First, meet me in the shallows
where the echoes go, or atop the tree
where we’ll find our self
in selfish longing,
won’t you?
© Chagall 2015
Her love reached me in fragments
until I was whole, except for fine fissures
where sometimes I cry at the seams
© Chagall 2015
I slept too late that morning,
awoke to find you, your coat on,
head down, hand on the door, though we’d said goodbye
the night before I still wanted
to see you one last time.
© Chagall 2015
Destined to languish atop dead trees,
instead her lost bird sings.
© Chagall 2015: This poem was inspired by http://evapoetex.wordpress.com/2015/03/27/canary-spirit-poem/
I am not Carlos
nor am I the person
who pretends to be
Carlos. She is not
me, I tell myself
I’m not like her,
of the haunting grin,
with seeming knowledge
of my delicate whispers,
scribed by her spectral hand.
© Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 