Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership



Best Dialogue Poems

Below are the all-time best Dialogue poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of dialogue poems written by PoetrySoup members

Search for Dialogue poems, articles about Dialogue poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Dialogue poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

Definition & Discussion of Dialogue Poems
Read Dialogue Poems

See also: Best Famous Poems

New Dialogue Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Dialogue poems are below this new poems list.

DIALOGUE by lowe, millard
Dialogue of Place by Delaney, Suzanne
Dialogue Poetry - Poetry's Memorial Service by Khumalo, Tshego
Dialogue Poetry Between Two Poets by Ngomane, Raymond
Dialogue of Souls by Banner, Cole
His, Her Romantic dialogue by Parker, Stephen
A DIALOGUE OF MARRIAGE by Strand, Brian
a love for dialogue by delapruch, andrew
The Silent Dialogue by Anish, Matthew
Faith in dialogue with the world by escobar, mark

View all new Dialogue Poems

The Best Dialogue Poems

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

The days that brought me here

I thought I would go backwards
Into my uncertain
My awkward
The days of my wondering
What will I be when I grow up?
Will I ever grow up?
Is everyone better than me?
Boy I wish I could be more like that
That guy
Yep him
The athletic confident one
Words come so easy to him
Jokes flow freely from his lips
And they laugh
They love being with him
What's it like to be that self assured?
He has so many friends
None of them would ever talk to me
What would it be like to hang out with the cool kids?
I try telling myself
It doesn't matter
I have a few friends
I want it to be enough
I think it's enough
With them
I imagine and pretend
To be funny
Interesting
Until
One smile
One chuckle at a time
I gradually become me
A better more confident self
Assured
Witty
A lover of words
Dialogue 
Conversation
I talk my way towards my future
While listening for clues 
Building myself two by twos
Real friends are the ones I choose 
Their words
Teach me about them and myself
I don't hide on lonely street
There are more people to meet
So I jump up off my seat
Rewrite myself on many a sheet
Until I can follow and hear my internal beat
Do what needs doing
Repeat and repeat 
Until I come to here and now
Breathless with WOW
Understanding HOW
That uncertain and awkward part
Changed everything 
It still is
And 
Always
Will be
An important part of me
Because it helped me see
There are many many 
Incredible
Significant and individual
ways to be
So now I choose
Care Free!







More great poems below...


Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Poet -This Poem is About You

-Dear, Mr & Mrs Poet- 

Do you ever question where it comes from?
This poem's about you, sit down and get a load off 
Tranquilize your pen, take heed to the ecstatic applause 

The things in life we take for granting, in time get worse 
From WHICH' our lives transverse, ascends a deep poetic curse 
You write almost everything, rehearsing every living verse 
Embezzling words, like Martha Stewart, ---NOT YOURS!
Withdrawing from your substance, 
--yielding it to others, who aren't devoted lovers 
Spacing your lines, ready for reader's digest, 
Educating the mind, like Albert Einstein

You paint a different horizon for the color blind,
Drop a note, forecasting the news, that brings, Spring to mind
Your adrenaline, leaves people with a feel good faint.
At this level, Poet you're better than high speed Internet,
Anything that makes you feel this is the real deal, 
Today, you write like there's no tomorrow, borrowing yesterday's clay
Inspiring ink, left to right, feeding the need to breed a poetic degree 
Your dramatic dialogue, deserve 'The Peoples Choice award."

I love the sweet audio, when you lowercase every word
It's done so well, hell, let's never capitalize another word
Reaching a point across, when capitalizing every letter, 
This is your world, take it, manipulate it, with the perfect stanza
Produce it like a poetic film, imagery, action, CUT it like Jerry Bruckheimer 
One day Hollywood will incite a roll, looking for the best poetry soup rhymer

Your tears and affection, you pour on partial paper,
Showing every word you want to enunciate
A SHOULDER-- gone cold, drowning, forgetting the normal way
Writing about the pure religion that meets your light, 
A beautiful flower under the moonlight
Hear the bells, Poe wrote about, adding sprinkles to the twinkle in your eyes, 
A redolent scent not meant to be forgotten, from Eden's garden
Taking nature, by course, granting her a crown, before slamming us down
I will call her out --The evil and the fury of a goddess, a beast
This is my feast, I welcome you to my jungle, and the outer bounds of time.

If you ever question where it comes from?
Sit down and get a load off, listen---Where's the ecstatic applause?
I'm not afraid to say, -----I'm Proud to be A Poet Without A Cause

by;PD
I do it for fun

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

War and Peace


                                             war
                                     violent, deadly
                          confusing, damaging, suffering
                    armament, strategy, dialogue, harmony
                       forgiving, respecting, understanding 
                                    mental, spiritual
                                           peace


                     -------------------------------------------

                                  11th November 2014
                               Contest: Diamante Poem
                                Sponsor: Regina Riddle
                                         Placed: 3rd

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

White Shoulder Dreams

Oh the images we freeze in time

the sweet, sweet scents that bring recall

the sharp and painful longing that belongings bring

for those lost or lingering on sheets of lavender

on shelves of shaving mugs - Old Spice

soap roped in shower stalls.



Oh the images warmed and torn, sun burnt to brown

upon what's left of glossy crenulated sheets

showing frozen plumped out peeks of

blistering love, gape toothed girls

and sour apple dreams.



We freeze in time on scrapes and shards

on compasses far from the woodlands scene

the tobacco scent of Papa, his yellowed fingers

as they touched my dimpled chin,

blue eyes behind wire rims.



The sweet, sweet scents that bring recall

White Shoulder's between her wholesome breasts

Mother's satin, Chantilly drenched negligee 

and father's black onyx ring

ah, I still have him.



The sharp and painful longing that belongings bring

guilty pleasures hidden from the public's tut-tuting eyes

hoarded in ornate boxes, or pressed between stout boards

relentless, heartless is the passing

passing into the frayed, worn fringes

of our dollop of mirrored time.



For those lost or lingering on sheets of lavender

with drawers of balsam pillows to recall the olden days

bring forth the buds which bloom on taffy and apple pie

do not forget the taste of the love

the cotton candy kisses 

their first chocolate cone.



On shelves of shaving mugs - Old Spice

soap roped in shower stalls, no sense comes

without its call to memory. Oh you do not sit alone,

play all the old tunes from radio days

and invite your loved ones

to come home.



This is my form it is called Etcetera. 

Definition: Write a line or a stanza, take from that line or stanza words in the 
order they were written [ from 1 word to whole lines or phrases] begin your 
next stanza with it continue until you have written using all the words in the 
order written in the line or stanza being explored in depth in a stream of 
internal dialogue. ALL poetic devises/tropes may be used INCLUDING internal 
rhyme. The verse may be as long or short as you wish, no meter required, no 
syllable count.





I would say Etcetera and Blitz are sub forms of Free Verse - Stream of 

Consciousness - Etcetera- Blitz
































































































































































































Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Dialogue of Place

Dialogue of  {Place}

Should I whisper words
that hang on memory’s peaks,
cumulous across my forehead?

A world of words - connected
like tides to the moon.

Words that mingle and rise,
as mist from a valley 
or, dwell in half forgotten dreams;
endless as ocean waves,
or vistas of flowering fields.

Beautiful words
that tell me of my place.

Suzanne Delaney

More great poems below...


Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Color Surety

Canvas, calm, grinning. . .blank
Had words screamed, scarecrows trapped on the poles of their creators,
Had words formed psalms that barricaded the strongholds of the heart,
Divine despair would desperately take hold again,
Embellishing the muse
To smile, the impassive smile. . .confuse

Enraptured by your tail,
Coiling, boiling in the hot and hungry sun
The eyes, clouded, caught in a moment of inexorable suffering 

Death glistening in the confirmation of tears and groans,
Shading the dialogue that never surfaces
Justice in pale focus. . .constant, still held in out-of-the-blue faith

Please, 
Do not allow your perspectives to dull
Waiting so long, I deafened the cries
The very cries I so blindly expressed. . .
Words etching existences imagined

I want you to take the hand of uncertainty
For as I have, I forever feel the tremors that have given me shape
Those very hands create what you dream,
And not what you fear

Take that hand,
Squeeze it tightly
I promise you, once you touch. . .I will never let you go

For I love you, 
Oh, unexplained hold. . .
Help me escape the newborn deaths of today
Teach me how to step over the carcasses of calamity
Where the innocent die to inspire the remaining
Learn how to lead me into the lights of your eyes

Please,
Give me your beautiful hand,
I will take you to places you will never understand
And it will be okay

Because where I go,
The scarecrows roam with the roaring ravens
Making music with the pulse of their wings
With the sharp click of their beaks

Where I go,
Psalms of serenity's back way make love with impending day,
Spinning despair into the golden hairs of suspended May 

Where I go,
innocent flowers freely giggle arrays of life
And his tail whips mightily,
His black velvet purrs arousing breaths of caramel verisimilitude

Where we stay,
In the forever grip of the trust you and I made,
Justice is pure water,
Cool and refreshing. . .ever smiling

Please,
My love, please
Hold onto this world with me
Give me your needs that I need. . .
And I promise perspective will prosper
The canvas, one blank, filled with detailed destiny of Color Surety

October 19th, 2014

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

He's Just a Dog

He’s just a dog, a mongrel pup that fitted in me hand,
short haired, tan and white, with needs of high demand,
he’s whingy and he’s whiny, I s’pose he misses Mum,
but now his Mum and Dad are what me wife and I become.

And the recommending is that we must take him to the vet,
to have all his virus shots with rates that put us into debt,
we had to have him micro-chipped in case of getting lost,
and then de-sexing and to register all added to the cost.

We made a fuss of him and spoilt him rotten to the core,
even after peeing on the carpet on the lounge room floor,
we fed him ‘smackos’, munchies, and tins of high-class meat,
and let him lick our plates for a special little treat.

We knew we shouldn’t feed him sitting at the dinner table,
but when those eyes stared through me, I just wasn’t able
to ignore the little blighter who was pleading for a crust,
and of course I’m feeling guilty, so ignoring is unjust.

He mightn’t talk, but body language gets his tale across,
by demanding his intentions with a bark “I am the boss!”
That can mean our double bed, becomes one of his beds,
it’s a God given right to scratch a pillow into shreds.

He’s just a dog, but as he grew from pup to fully grown,
there are more human aspects that our little dog has shown.
He’s believing in his own mind, we are not his Dad and Mum,
because now he is the King, and slaves we’re now become.

Dogs shouldn’t have to take a bath; a chain should be denied,
and a dog definitely should never have to sleep outside,
to prove his point before its dawn our actions are defied,
he’s barking at the back door demanding to be let inside.

He’s just a dog with habits that does reimburse our training,
he licks his bum and then me face, and thinks it’s entertaining,
then rubs his bum along the carpet, so we have to come to terms,
that we have to medicate him… ‘oh my God it’s bloody worms!’

The more we tried to train him, then the more he’s training us,
for he always gets his own way when he’s kicking up a fuss,
his wicker chair and blanket are for him and him alone,
and every week on shopping day he gets a king size bone.

And doesn’t he love visitors; it’s all ‘welcome to my joint,’
wagging tail and somersaults, but to get more to the point,
if he can’t grab the sole attention when he sits up and begs,
then it becomes acceptable to go humping people’s legs.

It took him very little time to claim the television set,
he’s the closest to the heater, and he does get quite upset
if we don’t take him in the car… and now when being fed,
he’s expecting us to feed him, his brekkie in our bed.

The house is rearranged these days to suit his every need,
each day by his insistence he is walked upon the lead,
we bow to all his wishes, to his commands and dialogue,
but for anyone who drops in… they only see a bloody dog.

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Probabilities


   relying on chance 
trying to find a needle 
   inside a haystack

a well-balanced choice
  a winner or a loser
   you can bet on it

     when tossing a coin
the most probable outcome
  would be heads or tails

     lack of dialogue
increases the probable
   failure of marriage

        waking up early
does not always guarantee
    you’ll see the sun rise

  weighing pros and cons
when faced with a decision
  between right or wrong


------------------------------------------
Author: Paul Callus ~ 24th July, 2014
Contest: Haiku on Probabilities
Sponsor: Marvin Celestial
Placing: 2nd




Details | Dialogue Poem | |

EARTH ASTRONAUTS AND PARISIAN CAFES

I have traveled the world     rode 
the scorching desert on horseback     
Dined in Parisian cafes on the 
Left Bank repulsing the poetry                               
of amorous French men     and
toasted my toes by a roaring fire 
in a chalet high in the Swiss Alps

If you repeat a story until it is absorbed 
into the collective consciousness of 
enough people it becomes the truth     

Doesn't it?     

The world watched TV to see man land 
on the moon     No one noticed that the space 
capsule was an aluminum salt shaker
launched by a slingshot     The elaborate 
pyrotechnics disguised the truth in the hands
No one knows where the shaker ended up 
for the matching pepper shaker was waiting 
in the Australian outback resting on dusty ground
Astronauts romped around leaving footprints 
that the wind later erased     and spouted dialogue
scripted by Tonight Show writers     I could divulge 
the coordinates for the flag they left     
but that would rend the illusion     

I could relate the directions 
to my hometown of 3,000 souls     sister city 
to some Swiss town with an unpronounceable name
with the French-like bakery on the corner by the park
where the town council built a sandbox for the toddlers
But people find pride in their ability to know the truth           

Who am I to tell everyone that man never left Earth     
I never left home     
We all settled for less than we deserved 



Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Touching the Stars

The blue mood of silence, is there on the screen Not a whisper, no dialogue, just a hum that is found A celluloid reel, spinning backwards in time while flickering shadows, has hushed all the stars that watch through a curtain, while marking the years The soft ocean breezes are catching your hair. It frolics, embracing the blue dress you wear You are running barefoot along the incoming tide The beach is as smooth as the silk of your skin You are flying a kite in the swift summer sky You raise up your arm, and are waving at me A smile on your mouth, and a star in your eyes I can almost hear whispers, that come from afar shattering silence, without any sound The joy of it falls through the long winter years.... In voiceless, vague memory, to rest on my ears I follow along...as I'm watching you play Your lips ever moving....what is it you say? I find myself reaching... still, wanting to catch to set a small trap...and reach into the past I can't hear the chords,....nor the score to your song Or music I long for.....that is kept by the stars But, here in the heart of this moment, I grasp Like the kite reaching higher....while piercing the sky Weaving a magic...where joy never dies I watch how you hold on....that kite in the sky... Before me in silence....no questions to ask... Then you throw me a kiss.....that I'm reaching to catch And for a moment together, .... we are touching the stars....
_____________________________________________________________

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

SHADOWLANDS

                    “Once very near the end I said, 'If you can -- if it is allowed – 
                        come to me when I too am on my death bed.”

                       “Allowed!' she said. “Heaven would have a job to hold me;
                        and as for Hell, I'd break it into bits.” 



                         Oh God, God, why did you take such trouble to force 
                         this creature out of its shell if it is now doomed to crawl back
                         -- to be sucked back -- into it?

                                                     ~ C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed


                                  __________________________________



The division should be acute, 
the before her, the with her, 

                        the after her.

There is this constant 
rattling of doors, though they remain 
locked, in theory. I think of her 
as gone until I turn a page, 
read a passage of pompous 
dialogue and she returns,
My Joie de Vivre, 
entertaining me with that puckish 

play, unabashed.
She smiles in the dusk with crusading 
colours that bend dark horizons, 
changing clouds, unexpectedly. 

What was I before Joy? 

Content, pleasant, productive.                    
But was I alive, aware of life, 
its blissful rhythms? 
Irony defined: 
the heart which awakened stone 

                           no longer beats. 

Finally, I understand. 
Lessons are sharp things 
which infect both fresh 
and aging amputations. 
What do I do with this knowledge?
It is like learning a language 

that is no longer spoken, 
a long monologue 
unbearably forlorn, painful. 
Faith dismisses hauntings, 
yet she does so in daily degrees. 
O, the sweet ghosts that peer 

from those notes, 
my name underscored in margins. 
Why is there only one glove 
in the sewing box? 
Agony hunts me 
in the garden. Perfume almost, 
but not quite a match.  

Some rooms have snares. 
I dare not open a kitchen drawer. 
Pain waits there.
The specter of my former self, 
a staunch gent, so sure 

                            of Heaven's role, 

that cold bloke follows me 
into the shadows, 
land of man’s rage 
and despair.  There is no pretty 
death, no words can comfort 
the ravaged left behind, 
There is no poetry 
in our departing.

I only pray 
there is Godspeed in mine. 







Details | Dialogue Poem | |

The Ignoramus: Who Is Not Far From Being A Fool

When everyone goes east, he heads west to him, every dialogue is a contest comes into an interaction as the biggest then leaves agonisingly as the lowest. When he speaks, you know he is half-honest even though he truly knows, but not near the best. He always end up lost in the forest this simple fact, he cannot digest. The moment he shamefully fails the test he begins to manifest then becomes far from being modest and everyone around him, he treats like unwanted guests. Causing a general unrest as he unnecessarily protest. All over his countenance, ignorance crests not accepting defeat, he holds high his egocentric chest. Quick to make jest but correction; he equates to incest and disagreements, he always detest. We all have the quest to know and share the latest so as to add value to ourselves and self-invest which can be a cultivation to future harvest. But knowing it all is impossible and knowing half, believing to know all is ridiculous. Admiting not to know it all is the fairest but this is yet not comprehensible to him, to whom; to know is like a conquest. The wise keep quiet lest, they cause him to become the tempest and with every word, he neutralizes any palatable zest. Oh poor child! change or you'll suffer from everlasting molest where no one wants to visit your nest not because you are unblest but cos of the truth of your infest which now, is obviously clearest. It is good to learn my child and sharing is an attribute of Love. But run away from half baked lines or be humble enough to listen while they become fully whole. You were given two ears and one mouth hence talk less and listen more because an Ignoramus is always not far from becoming a fool!

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Gone are the Winds But Long Live the Words

~	
Heavy in the wind,
was sound of a phrase-
Rhett Butler's curse word   ~
blew open the door
to eminent change
                                            ~
The dialogue 
withstood critics
who could not keep
that door bolted                                  ~

A strong wind               ~          ~
swept away      ~
old values

Filth caved
in the

door
            ~                 ~


____________________________________________________
For Judy Kono's Contest: "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn"
8/29/13

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

In Good Conscience

IN GOOD CONSCIENCE
Heavily tread, are those small fractious steps On the stairs to my own peace of mind The sound of transgressions that I'd rather forget is the pounding of a most clamorous kind The dialogue I'm having, within my own self drums on the door of the closed minded truth I try to rewrite scripts, shoving back on the shelf But the turbulence shakes them loose No matter, how buried, how deep I will hide them My conscience can shovel them out That child inside me, denies what was done then But can't deafen the voices that shout I profess to regret many sins I've committed The most difficult task is one of admitting
__________________________________ Revised 4/6/13__ __________________________________ (Original Poem....Diminished Hexaverse) MY CONSCIENCE heavy on the stairs the sound of my thoughts- my own voice resounds and pounds on my door of solitary the dialogue within myself never perjured is translucent I profess to launder past regrets if stains can be cleansed _____________ 2/14/11 ___________________________________________________________ Both poems submitted for Roy Jerden's Contest: "Makeover"

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Give Peace A Chance

The rich are getting richer
The poor are losing hope
Mother Earth is dying
Over populated
Polluted
War Torn
Anybody notice?

Is the Garden of Eden gone for good?

It starts with You
And it starts with Me
Recycle
Get Involved
Share
Listen
Accept Differences
Dialogue, not Bullets

We still have a chance

But do we have the time?

June 7th, 2013

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Night Writer

The silence is deafening in this house tonight 
I sit on the couch pondering something to write
light is dim, kid’s gone to sleep,
nothing creeps as I stare at blank sheets
I keep waiting for a witty dialogue in my head
but instead I’m brain-dead, should I go to bed instead?
Dogs bark in the distance, the instant that happened
My dogs started barking then I started laughing
An uncontrollable urge swept over me swiftly
I looked at the clock and it read 01:50,
I have time to write; the night is still young,
Took a sip of red wine; bitter on my tongue,
Stacked up the papers until they formed a pile
Came up this song though it took a while

Sometimes I see you sitting across from me; 
in my mind I smile a big smile;
I should go over there and run my hands through your hair, 
my love for you stretches as long as the Nile;
To lose you would be too much to take; 
to win your love, just enough
Though my ability to trust has been flawed since birth;
You’re so worth it that this won’t be tough;
Being without you would be like living in a black hole
A spot of infinite darkness in space;
There would be nothing to hide; not emotions nor pride;
I’d ride the rollercoaster of love in a daze. 
While you lay asleep, I’d lay awake
Watching you dream your sweetest dreams
I’d like to think we’re walking along the beach;
Hand in hand as a passionate team.
I wish I had known your soul before
I wish I had chose you back then

And with those words I closed my notebook;
I’ll finish this later.  The End.

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

High Hopes

Before we implode or reach cluster one
What do you want from me, as you humans dry run
We are Poles apart in what you and I do
Marooned you will be, if you don't turn to be true

I am only but a sphere, but your wearing the inside out
Our futures lost for words as we enter life's drought
There is time for dialogue to take it back
Will it be a great day for freedom, or will we enter our black

Around the table of powers we have to keep talking
We had high hopes when we stooped, we may cease to stop walking
It beggars belief that we are heading into strife
Maybe one day we'll acknowledge, that were coming back to life









http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/music-3.php

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Dialogue of the soul

In his stern deep expression
and his tender caring gestures
When he is in silence, also in solitude.

He conceals the mystery of love,
beauty, and the experiences 
that he encounters in life.

He reasons as he walks,
and contemplates every epiphany
that had happened in his past and present life.

He laughs and keep walking 
as he shakes his head
then retreats as his heart races
panic and fear as his past comes alive.

He ask himself; is it all this true? 
What’s going on?
Why are these ridiculous feelings?
He wants to disregard his emotions, but he can not.

Finally …. In his enlighten self debate
He, surrender down at his feet
Astonish at his finding.


Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Prologue to Lessons of Change

  for King Wen, circa 1151-1143 B.C.E. – with seven mind-bending kowtows

There where you had no occasion for play
There in your confined Ming I space
Where change wrought no change
In your fate
But for those plagued by your linear grouping games

Where before the fall from your embroidered gardens
The lavender embossed bowl to dip your fingers in
The enamelled daïs that spurned the kowtows
the cloistered summer watering palace
the decorative duck pond
the turtle and dove court
where dainty demure mincing concubines
under dispassionate eunuch eyes
stroked and tickled the mandolin strings of their Lord’s heart
Where time sailed through Flying Dutchman seas
At the serene centre of Qian’s mundane realm

Even what drops from the sky may hit the ocean bed
And so stamped under in your tyrant’s dungeons
With your retinue and court
Where each faked their fate in psychotic delusions
Simulating as it were
The neurotico-schizophrenic passage in another dimension
There where you bought a little time
Time enough to fashion a play
A game of change
A game that never really changes
Even if your son the Duke of Chou
And the Master expositor Kung
Paved your broken and unbroken lines in words
from which no man may return
unchanged

Where the longest dialogue you began
Becomes seems a polyalogue among some
  or all
Who have gone beyond the hexagram wall
And those who await the inexorable call
Where speech is ambiguous
To say the least
In eight by eight cyclic situations
Though someone YOU maybe ME seems to be saying
Take heed ! all this’s a mess
The Truth
Might not it be hidden in the lines
and in the lines alone
and not in the words

Take them down one by one
And build them up again
Note the beginning and the end
And the correspondances of change
Put the judgments of my son
And the wordy attributions to Kung
Especially those from the young Wang Bi
On either side of the hexagram
What is claimed for the Superior Man
Is within the reach of every clan
Measure the lines in or out of tune
The trigrams from whence
The inner ones note hence
Think on them but once
Or only now and then
for the nonce
This’s all I have to say
Though others may make much of the Way
Think not on what I have said
More than it takes to put paid

O ! Great Royal Sage !
Are there not behind these lines
Three or four bearded lords, nay sages
Who drive terror into those who gaze
Day and night into their wizened faces !

© T. Wignesan, May 20, 1987 (rev. 2011, from the collection: Lessons of Change, 1987)

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Theory of devolution

I am a pacifist I despise war.
It’s the only thing I actually hate.
I’m never able to brace myself for
Diplomacy that deteriorates:
Recriminating dialogue amuck
That results in irrationality.
Adults become intellectual schmucks
Whose mentality in reality
Is equivalent to a chimpanzee
In spite of our advances in science.
Our mentality still swings from the trees
Where once apish self’s had claimed provenance.
We haven’t evolved from our ancient source
Thus war is likely a matter of course.

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

MAXIMUS

    

    There is a spirit that watches over you
    In the daylight hours, and nightime too.

    You may not think that they are there
     But there is a way to make you aware.

     I learned the name of my angel a long time ago
     Because I was interested and I wanted to know.

     His name is "Maximus" and is with me here
     To learn of his presence once made me fear.

     Because what you do is watched all the day
     The angel keeps tabs, God finds out that way.

     I guess you think I'm being naive
     Trust your faith, if you believe.

     If you want to know your angel's name
     There is a way to find out which is no game.

     Say a prayer for three days in a row
     And after each time ask him to reveal his name to you.

     If you believe in him he will tell you true
     If not, he may be silent to you.

     I know of others who have tried this I can say
     Some, have learned the names of their angels this way.

     When you pray for their name do not think it absurd
     Some, I know, will hear that singular word.

     It won't come as a shout from heaven on high
     But rather as a whisper, when your angel is nigh.

     These spiritual beings are here for us all
     Sometimes they wait just to here us call.

     And when you do wouldn't if be grand
     If you knew the spirit's name...who behind you stands!

     Try it and see if you think I'm fooling around
     Be honest with yourself with both feet on the ground.

     As someday that spiritual angel you will greet
     Wouldn't it be nice to be on a "first name" basis when you meet?

     And if you try but do not hear their name
     Keep on trying because your conviction was lame.

     I know many will think I'm crazy with this
     But knowing my angel's name has brought comfort and bliss.

     So try it yourself and see if in kind
     If your angel will speak to you...they really don't mind.

     Because then a dialogue with them you can share,
     Even if they never speak again,  you'll know...they're there.

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

As Long As I Am Alive, I Can Speak of Death

time melts down in the death
obsession decays with death

death awakens me in the state of absolute tranquility,
tranquility not even bothered by the buzzing in my ears

I was thinking that death lives only in the heart of 
one who wanted to keep cherished memories 
but, alas; will diminish one day
like ripples carried by the water 

however, on some occasions, death throws its shadow  
becoming an uncontrollable passion, it bursts into flame 
and flows in the wilderness as a stream of molten rock;
then comes together to become a mound of ashes 
and scatters in the air blown by a gust to yield naught 
which may be the linkage to never perishing another life

so what do you have to do with meeting death, it’s nothing 
but the shadow of the moon that hanged on a limb of a tree; 
what about dialogue with death, 
it’s only a whisper you made to a star  

actually, death is the resignation of self with closing eyes 
in the dark that is darker then the darkest hour yonder horizon;
death is time ceased in an abysmal chasm where water
neither moves nor stands still but has petrified 
and become gentle waves in the sea 
over the edge of a mound of fossils 

still and all, 
when the dead one’s thoughts are floating on the quiet water 
it becomes a raging billow higher than a mountain and swallows the sea
an irresistible yearning for the departed occurs in the heart of the living one,

if death is the four seasons that alive walk stepping on the time of oblivion 
as the subsequence to a hatred, no one can torment death; no one can shake open death’s eyes

I wonder who said those clever things on death?

“how wonderful is death, …pale as yonder waning moon
with lips of lurid blue, ….”1
“sleep is lovely, death is better still, ….”2

as long as one is alive one can talk about death 
death most beautiful; death would be beautiful forever 


1. Shelley: Queen Mab  2. Quote from Heine



 

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

The Coyote

For years, you have been trying to catch that elusive bird.
In your cartoons, we have never heard a single word.
Warner Brothers decided to give the late Mel Blanc a break.
With no dialogue, there were many foolish steps you would take.

That Acme Company must have made a fortune off you.
You failed at every single attempt you would do.
Each fly ball you hit never left the ballpark.
With rockets, catapults, and bombs, you kept missing your mark.

The lousiest luck hit you in each episode.
That roadrunner kept zooming down the desert road.
With each failure, you kept coming back the next day.
Give it up, coyote.  Roadrunners do not taste good anyway.



Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Generative Persistence

            Generative Persistence

Give it a name; “generative presence”, “persistence” 
Emergent with life, feeling and a pulse
Send it on its way while clinging to the egg
Enable it from a distance to become of use
Keep yourself in a suggestive cocoon
State of fixation, enameled in stasis
Embedded in concrete reality if only to form
Wrapped in patterns, in sequences, in character, in disarray
Care to be objective, immersive, informative, and inspired
Decline to describe, suggest, discuss, gaps between life
Grasp the past meandering.  Record the record of history
Understand; you are a guest in your own home
In your own existence; fantasies not included
Invoke the yoke of yellow, involve useful dialogue
Desirable, normal, absurd diagnosis of that which is
Adapt to youth as it passes 
Glanced at by events unfolding, reflected in a mirror
Placed appropriately in your path
From the context, content of that which is perceived
In the persistence of memory let it live

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Love thy brother.

Brothers killing brothers......a field of blood
sisters slaying sisters.......instead of bearing sons.
mothers ,daughters..fathers, sons
all dead and gone, kindred spirits slaughtered one by one
by the hand of those each should love. 
I wonder if at the last moment they had second thoughts
Is this the way to go ..isn't there a better way?
Perhaps dialogue or patience would have been better
Less lives could have been  lost ..less regrets to bear.....more hearts could have 
been won.
Yet the war continues unabated..send in more troops is what we say.
 Isn't there another way?
 Too many orphans left.. ..uncared for and grieving
too many tears have been shed.... hearts harden.
Prisoners of war......wounded and shell shocked veterans....... physically 
handicapped....mentally deranged....a terrible plight
both sides share the same fate....pain and sadness is all that's  left
no one wins yet the war never ends.
Love's  now a thing of the past
only anger and hatred remain 
 When, oh when will Peace prevail.