I am intrigued by her etcetera,
the ellipsis she dangles without
modifier, the comma of her petulant
being, the subtle contour of her fonts,
the page she splays open while she sings
hymns to the bare branch, the storm
she incites with mere thought. She needs
no blessing nor permission to spin
maniacally as she pleases, a dervish,
a twirl.
© Chagall ∞
I will write free verse
of the universe, letters as galaxies,
implied points clear as constellations,
stars appear closer than they seem
when seen from light years away across
the paragraphs. I invert my event horizon
to search within and strew about the detritus
of my being, hence this ramble, these lines,
served up on the tines of synapse.
© Chagall ∞
Thinking of writing a screenplay for a latina
biker-type detective, call it and the character
Blue Agave –
Thoughts?
© Chagall ∞
Water bead grass bayonets cut tongues,
steely dew, fondant of morning rain.
How I love to lie eye-level to ground
to look up at tall blades against the sky.
I have an itch on my cheek that only closely
coiffed tightly tufted turf can scratch.
I mistake her smile for mist or soft rain,
so similar they are in drizzle pattern.
There’s a run of slatted fence traces hillsides,
hugs the rise and the run of the land as a tribute to time.
Eyes beguile but only if you let them, don’t you let them, don’t they say?
Sometimes the wax can be saved to create brand new candles to burn.
Eye-level to ground the flames from above
cast my outline as an amber cold hollow.
That which is me which does not pass light
rests immortalized sunk into shadow.
With morning comes water nourishing.
The eye adjusts to blue. Rain sugars dew.
© Chagall ∞
I will cash in on thespian knowledge
So I really must know how to act
Or make a fortune while foretelling karma
Still I’d owe way too much deep in debt
So I’ll seek to reap riches from relating tales
About life being grand at the edge
Where only sweet water flows across miles
Evanescent, effervescent, ever long
© Chagall ∞
Is poetry the poignancy
of thought or is it the
syncopation, the flowing
water of sound from page
to ear? Rivulets of tone
wash over you, leave you
untethered; to slip away,
stealthily glide to the
ether, is all I ever wanted.
© Chagall ∞
My enjambement is intended to make
make you stutter, step a-
round stuff, leap …
stick
the landing.
© Chagall ∞
She is waxing prosaic as she elbows her way
through the crowded agora, how she loves the bustle!
Throwing fingers up to signal the meter, opening bids
under kerchiefed hands where a shake resembles a seductive
sleight of fingers traced in palms’ undersides;
I continue to traipse my way up her wrists until
I cup her shoulders and press the tension
from her neck and temple. I will smooth her
into massaged rapture before agreeing that
her prose is genuine.
© Chagall ∞
This poem is a bridge, you’ve just missed
the last exit before the toll. Perhaps
it’s a bell, for bells toll too, I’m told.
Poem me? Poem you! The nerve
is what needs
touching. Meaning?
EZ Pass – right this way; Always in
the wrong lane behind the guy with no cash
who cannot get the mechanical arm to lift
no matter what, and then just misses running over
the service technician crossing slowly in front of
our earth-bound vehicles.
You’ll note that there is no toll going in
the other direction. Try to make me pay.
I dare you.
© Chagall ∞
I stared at the symbols for years until
they were no longer alien and I was no longer illiterate.
© Chagall 2017
Alphabet City 