Tag Archive: youth


Least of All, Time

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




…If I Want To

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



Da Capo al Signo (Settle a Score)

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

A Life In The Day

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 ∞

All In A Ray Of Sunshine

The kids outside are playing their version of fear factor,
lying down in lavender amid dozens of lazily fuzzy bees.

© Chagall ∞

Trigger

I’m exploring why this one particular
poem of my own makes me cry.

© Chagall ∞

To Soar

As a child I could project myself to the tops of tall trees
I would search out the highest point of the canopy and imagine
The world from that vantage

My wings would ache
To fly down to me
Looking up

Instead I’d turn
My sideways glance
To the sky

As a bird I would project myself to the lowest clouds
I would search out the thinnest white line and imagine
The heavens from that vantage

My wings still ache
From ascension

© Chagall ∞

Druthers

If my fate is to die by falling, let it be
Down weathered steps over the dunes to the beach

© Chagall ∞

Cushiony Beach Feet

I am the samba that remains unwritten
For the space between sand and sea
The dance upon rocks polished by time
Made smooth by deep-water indigo
Bluer than wet waves, sails settle thusly at dusk
On horizons beneath sunlight ceased to fall
To fail to bring light, a blow to grace
A jab to faith, a tinker’s blow to pierce
The armored scowl, the incalculable wonder of eyes
The ponderous pout, beget and be gone
Forgotten, nay a fadeaway dappled in corduroy
Supplicants or another vicarious agenda, indigenous
More than formulaic, naturalized to exist right there
As it must in a flow of energy besieging my optic nerve
I exist to impart everything, I defy thrombosis for I bore
Deeper than the vein of inflammation, the zone of wizened trespass
Thank you for the bodies receptors, for warm city nights
For carousels and the songs that they play, the march of grand horses
Somewhere glasses touch, each a soft mallet upon the other to rub gently
Searching for the warm tone, the sensual rub of globes
I am that samba that snaps you back to the beach
In cool day, in bright coveted morning
Amid constant pressure despite inclination toward shade
Over-anxious more than unctuous or ingratiating
A tip of the hat coincident with the wink is elementary sparkle
The samba that returns like the surf does
Though sometimes it stops
It’s true, so samba through
To the space between sand and sea
Samba, there is where I want to be
Samba, gesticulate, a cuba libre
Leaning out over the rail of the balcony overlooking sand and surf
A small fox at dusk darts furtively through the rough sandy brush
The backs of houses along the dunes along the beach along the ocean
Darkness settles on salted breezes aromatic with land crabs
Less fearful to exit their holes this time of day just before night
When the number of stars and wan atmosphere rival the majesty, the ocean’s roar
In pitch blackness, the world of the blind
The roar of sound dominates the ear
And so goes the body, I am the waves you hear
Of this there’s no denying
I am the song of the samba receding

© Chagall ∞

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