Sweet Sara
I’m slipping
You have let me go
I am confined forever
In this last grasp
© Chagall 2014
Tag Archive: twin souls
When Mercury and Venus are devoured
by the wake of collapsed stars
we will emerge again as purest
love
© Chagall 2014
I found her shears in the garden today
though it’s years since she’s passed away;
I imagine she left them one morning
then nature took its course, consumed the pair.
Time unveiled them just now at this moment
in the mound of rocks we’d hill together,
tiny stone quarries nestled by the beds.
Strung Bougainvillea, tatted Queen Anne’s lace
grow through the handle loops about the blade,
whetted once, now too dull to pare the rose.
So petals and thorns need not be afraid
of falling prey to the anvil motions;
how I miss her steady hands, my twin soul.
© Chagall 2014
In a dream, she calls to me from outside.
It’s just before the darkness settles in,
the final rays of sunlight still the trees,
the day retains its heat, promising night.
I open the window and wave to her,
this Juliet fair at my balcony,
gently nudge my body forward then down
floating slowly to the ground beside her.
Her face, beautifully lit, supernatural
in bold relief against the black empty.
She is so close, she eclipses the world;
as we meld we do not pass but are one.
I am her for the moment so I feel
the love for me I as she has for him,
turns us still deeper inward till again
there is no separation; there’s no need.
© Chagall 2014
Night lightning strikes twice
Twin souls birthed fragrant with dawn
Ache to breach the edge
© Chagall 2014
Elaborate schemes scrolled ornately
elegant passages etched
in a world at a time when no one wanted
more than any one
perhaps it’s vertigo
settled in
allow me my Hitchcock moment
God, I’m on the hour-hand
of the bell tower clock
again
and I promised myself
that this chance would not be
wasted
and so I jumped
with so much confetti about
I have no sense of falling
uniquely six-sided we are
crystalline in nature
curious to find
identical snowflakes
yet there you are
I’m
so
sorry
I
melted
© Chagall 2014
I’m lost
thank you for your
hints and oblique shapes
Mist on my face
in a glade that’s
not mine
In this place
where there’s no time
to advance
Until your gaze falls,
and I’m felled by grace
face down in the aromas
of lovemaking: pungent,
sweet, salty and loamy
On our backs
we are blinded by pulses of sun
revealed through windblown branches
We are shadows in the after-blink,
spectral and green
embroidered in the foreground
© Chagall 2014
She’s too polite a poetess perhaps, upbringing is hard to shake,
with the grace to condone even those who’d regard her
disdainfully, empowered to do so by her own decree,
so self-destructive she is.
Be not reluctant
to unveil secrets after all
that’s what words which glance aslant are for . . .
she once wrote, or something to that effect and along those lines.
Her speech once was cursive, carved and poignant filigree
about the air and above the heads of unsuspecting passers-by,
she hovered in full Technicolor over the bleak and disenfranchised
ideas yet to be grasped, bursts of dizzying oxygen but helium-spiced,
sugars, and everything nice, a will-o’-the-wisp who left behind
the scent of salty brine and lavender.
I will have kissed her face in the warm downpours,
brushed snow from her lashes, stood her umbrella in summer sand,
and pondered with her the golden passing of autumn,
every year since I’ve known her.
She writes less and less, prefers instead to hold it in these days,
to let it eat away rather than share the poverty, she’s decided that’s more valuable,
though she occasionally jots off a couplet or two, just for me,
and once a sonnet shared over cocktails and take-out.
Sometimes I sit at the piano and shape chord forms freely in space,
handsome constructions of arched fingers and opposing motions,
search for dissonance though often find harmony,
while she randomly intones beautiful sonorous sounds like words
aimed at the more resonant chambers of the room, her voice round
with a touch of the rasp to alert the world-weary that we are kindred spirit;
her melody shifts at odd intervals and the tempo-free meter allows us to float
in time and heart, in perfect poise aligned without tonic,
we resolve at will, or not at all, the upper partials of our tensions,
we modulate to a better point of view on life, its victories
and more often of late, its sweet despairs, which no one key
can capture, paint, hold or release; how many times we’ve stopped mid-phrase
and have kissed like two insane pretending, without losing the tone nor the shape of our song.
© Chagall 2014
Simple
and
deep
I
would
rather
be
versus the alternative of then otherwise having to be complex and shallow.
© Chagall 2013
Small
delicate lines
about your being
tether me to
you.
© Chagall 2013
Alphabet City 