dear dan fogelberg my old singing friend! oh, how I miss you and the times she and I spent harmonizing your songs, you went from young with dancing shoes to dead and gone, so quickly, at least in my mind was it like that for you as well? Love when you can Cry when you have to Be who you must That's a part of the plan you sang, promised that one day we'd all understand and then suddenly you got old at least in my mind was it like that for you as well... or did we all get old? and then you passed off to the Netherlands away to captured angels danny, we've all since gotten older with love, triplet brother (different mother) cc: Chagall 2022
Tag Archive: youth
Certain songs I cannot sing, conceived to cry, melodic intervals, melancholic chasms, lyrics left unsung like spoken word, life's celebration cut short, the foolishness of what we feel, fragile undying compulsion to love perchance to exist, finally Just when the fun is starting, comes the time for parting... cc: Chagall 2022
The heathered pink and blue of this dying winter's day, reminds me joy is tinged with sadness, while love and sorrow be a singularity How the trees' wood turns golden in the gloaming! We of the canopy there in the dying light, hereby... Stripped branches like veins reach to the indigo, as much above ground now as rooted below Stars be our blanket, protect us from the wind till dewy 'morrow cc: Chagall 2022
I helped an old lady - planed her stuck-door, enables her to come and go as she pleases To finish the job where the plane does not travel (at the door-bottom) I needed a rat-bastard file she knew what they were - My late husband called them dose rat bastids - and where his were love to las abuelas cc: Chagall 2021
Where do the young go, do they frolic in a new field warmed by an old sun, or in aged meadows lit by now? Everything dies, sheds skins, to give way to the moment Once swayed by the song, the length of the body in dance presses on, listens for the rhythm, hums along until the tempos change And watch as if outside-in, themselves a third party, a single heart here... From the rise that emerges there in the lowlands, amid the mist and the faces, an outstretched hand, a single smile, a breath, a curl, a lash, a cool smooth cheek The incredible sensation, the surround of loving arms, the perfect nestle of neck in neck, a race to all that is good was once good I know now that blue continues long after the eyes are gone cc: Chagall 2021
the balloon from your party still holds its helium long after you're gone it bobs there yet in the ceiling corner its long rainbow tassel a curlicue of color in time it will slide down the wall without promise of rising anymore all the best wishes of the day flattened and peeling inert cc: Chagall 2021
I remember (once) stringing my Strat with nylon
Then I turned the twin reverb on:
no magnetics, no sound
but great action
My friend Pete played so loud
we bought him a number 11 jersey
Vovo would pan for seeds down
inclined album covers
Sara would flick ashes onto her jeans
and rub it in to add wear
And Bob Smith (true name)
stole my Sunn concert lead amp-head and
my Zimgar conga shells
that I bought from Benitez
in the early ’70s; old-Robby
one morning vacated the house we
used for practice
S**thead couldn’t even keep a beat
Chagall 2019
Originally this began more ornately,
a broad-swept flourish, a pompadour,
a bob exploring the wind, arabesque
and filigree. An idiot’s tale?
Nothing less, and now it simply ends.
© Chagall ∞
Grandpa would flash a spray of cool water
each morning on the panting gray cement
stones about the yard, colors and hues
of the earth’s minerals flushed deep
brought to life in small puddles
accumulated there near the clover tufts
holding tight in the cracks, the crevices
abutting the frame, the scene at large,
we pan higher than we did that day,
all of our life there in neat little
bunches of boxes in boxes where people we love
carry on, carry out their days, turning on and in
and out and back, to a different way as hope goes,
newly baptized, in deep commune, confirmed, wed to all,
in repose amid the somber hymns of concluding rites,
beneath grandpa’s spray, a flash of silver liquid,
an old man’s giggling face lost in the brilliant sun
of a promise forever solvent.
© Chagall ∞
The kids outside are playing their version of fear factor,
lying down in lavender amid dozens of lazily fuzzy bees.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 