I started to write a poem then shifted
to write a song
Chagall 2017
Tag Archive: Writing
I grow weary of the couplet, such a shame
as it’s how I halve my quatrains
Soon I’ll offer nary
more than a letter
Welcome dear reader
to “name that thought”
© Chagall ∞
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 ∞
I did not think I would write today,
living life had more allure until
I reached too far, I felt too
deeply, I fell ever so gently
from such a short height,
that’s all it took
to be here.
© Chagall ∞
My drafts hold nothing of interest, some nonsense I scribbled
in a vain attempt to infer Sara from the existence of stars,
some ambiguous mumbo (tiny, not jumbo) plus
a line about life in the canopy over
fields at the apex of gloaming.
Nothing of value to work with here
so I turn to birdsong to quell
my ache for expression.
© Chagall ∞
I search for the source, a vantage point
over which I hover to resonate, in order
to speak with alacrity, honored to be
the medium, the clarion voice,
le trompettiste; I flow and so
I’m a flower, a steady stream
of warm words awash in your ear,
the storm before the quell,
not merely a silent hour,
an end to separation,
a prelude to the loss
of the throb.
© Chagall ∞
I’m not sure
to trust in
my ear or my heart,
impatient
to convey, to commune, to go with
the rhythm already,
shunning sidestep,
when I breathe
the wax is eloquent,
each pause
brings new delight
in asides,
innuendo
more than any tryst
captured
a lover’s imagination,
a wink in due time,
and I am merely a waif
combed in elusive fashion.
© Chagall ∞
52 weeks in a year, 26 letters in the alphabet
… merely coincidence?
Time is money and money is naught and so
thought is time. I keep looking for a word
to rhyme.
She just didn’t happen upon circumstance
or the circumference of the happenstance.
Far from it.
Far be it for me to opine from afar. I’m
fairly sure that that of which I speak is uncertain.
Hold your tongue, I’ll hold mine
or yours if you prefer.
Oh,
how I’d
hold it
Right up front, before I begin, a preface to what
I’m about to say, a few opening remarks. But first …
I need to know,
how easy is it
to maintain that glow,
that wonderful charm,
that sense of the moon
while dancing
© Chagall ∞
Can a couplet convey an altering jolt similar to an epic?
How many gods does it take to screw-in a tree?
© Chagall ∞
An enthusiastic reader of blogs attempts to engage with the blogger
via comments, fills the space with her wisdom,
cites resonance with the themes, probes,
intellectually touches potential hot spots,
only to be responded to with a trite
Thank you for sharing
Shoot the load, one and done.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 