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Jim Dunlap Poem
He lives upon a printed page,
marching golden in a dream.
His words described a brighter age --
which quaffed the milk and lapped the cream.
Fate brought him forth to love and live --
scion of a proud and noble race.
All he sacrificed and all he'd give
was deeply marked upon his face.
No gold survives the final frost:
in his prime death carried him away.
In wars, a nation's best are lost;
as then it happens still today.
His home was England, vale and hill;
across the years, he's with us still.
Copyright © Jim Dunlap | Year Posted 2019
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Jim Dunlap Poem
I'd have loved to see the bluebirds fly
above the white chalk-cliffs of Dover--
and as they were blithely soaring over,
immersed in thought I'd lie
in calm repose upon that beach,
admiring their swooping forms,
evanescent, in fleeting storms,
like ballet ... far beyond my reach.
Frisking, fragile, carefree birds,
symbolic through intrinsic meaning --
like sterling hope and freedom's words
light English springs, forever greening:
while England fought the bitter fight
to hold at bay the 'fall of night.'
Author notes
November 20, 2004 - approx 112 words
What makes Britain great? The entire world would be speaking German and Japanese right now if not for British courage in the face of overwhelming adversity.
Setting, approximately June, 1941, Dover Beach, immediately following the Battle of Britain.
This is a published poem, copyrighted, and it takes you to a specific place as well as a specific time, when the world was at war and the fate of all mankind hung in the balance. It is relevant because we are fast approaching another such time. Bluebirds are not found in the British Isles, but I wrote the poem before I became aware of the fact. The curator at the Dover Museum said I should just leave it that way, as bluebirds, since the song, The White Cliffs of Dover, specifically named bluebirds.
Update: BLUEBIRD is an old country name for swallows and house martins, which have a blue sheen to their plumage. These migrants arrive from the continent in spring and leave in autumn, crossing the English Channel. So these bluebirds appear at least twice a year over the white cliffs and no doubt many spend the entire summer in the vicinity of Dover. As portents of improving weather, swallows and martins are traditionally believed to bring good fortune.
The poem, a quasi-Petrarchean sonnet, is being archived with other writings about Dover and The Second World War by the Dover Museum, in Dover, England.
This sonnet was published in Sonneto Poesia, Volume 3, Number 1, Winter,
2003-2004
Written July 20th, 2003
Copyright © Jim Dunlap | Year Posted 2020
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Jim Dunlap Poem
Like sparks trailing
from a million, billion fireflies,
a single thought limns a trillion suns.
From the first small bonfire
flickering across four million years,
whose light imprints itself
upon the canvas backdrop
of a feckless, barely cohesive Infinity,
the matter of man, no more than
the past, transmogrifies the future --
denies the import of "real" or "black"
or any other type of matter.
Yet existing, it defines the local locus
of now and when ... and how and then.
The freezing cold of space
burns like energy backfiring on itself.
Somewhere, celestial lightshows
flare across parsecs of near emptiness.
Liquid oxygen fuels
the laboring lungs of multitudes,
singing out the music of the spheres,
maestros of a trillion symphonies,
platelets in the lifeblood of the Universe.
Like a Coriolis wave that imprints itself
upon a formless sandstorm,
a thought burns itself
into the very fabric of Eternity,
opens like a budding flower,
and initiates its own realities.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ibPT24qMTw
Author notes
Je suis un Capricorn.
]
This is my Desiderata.
Written December 2nd, 2005
Copyright © Jim Dunlap | Year Posted 2020
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Jim Dunlap Poem
A Horse, A Horse, Of Course, Of Course
For horses, horse flies,
For humans, shame,
But horses don't kill off
The halt and the lame.
It's apples and oranges.
My, what a surprise.
Horses don't deal in
Deception ... and lies.
Just stop and think.
A no-brainer ... of course.
To have a clear conscience,
One needs be a horse.
from a poem by Jane Hirshfield
I have permission to use the phrase from her poem, and she signed the original of this poem, which I still have.
Copyright © Jim Dunlap | Year Posted 2019
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Jim Dunlap Poem
Don't bother me right now, dear -- I have to watch the game! /center>
The pipe beneath the kitchen sink has sprung a nasty leak,
But he's afraid the plumber will label him a geek;
And he won't leave the t.v. to even take a peek.
She calls for him to help her, but the answer's still the same:
"I really don't have time, dear; I've got to watch the game!"
Their anniversary has come again, and she's putting on the heat.
Going out for dinner would really be a treat --
Yet just to leave his t.v. for him's a pointless feat.
She's asked him and she's begged him, but the answer's still the same:
"You'll have to go alone, dear; I've got to watch the game!"
She hears the ringing of the phone, and answers it to hear,
"Your mother's had a stroke, and she will die, we fear."
But when she yells the news in, he says, "Get me a beer."
She's putting on her overcoat when she hears him call her name:
"You'll have to go alone, dear; I've got to watch the game!"
Then one day, he hears sirens, sounding very near,
But since he's watching t.v. and sucking on a beer,
When the roof falls on him, he doesn't even hear.
For as the house is burning, he has to bear the blame:
He ignored the smoke and fumes so he could watch the game.
POTPOURRI, February, 1992
Copyright © Jim Dunlap | Year Posted 2019
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Jim Dunlap Poem
Rainwater stands in rippling pools, or trickles by.
Sharp fusillades of hail pelt down...and glance --
Far distant thunder calls, and echoes a reply.
Sunshine, streaming through the clouds, lights up the sky;
Like sunlight, shattered by a prism, rainbows dance --
Rainwater stands in rippling pools, or trickles by.
In search of worms, a daring robin, keen and spry --
As warbling songbirds greet a pristine world, entranced.
Far distant thunder calls, to echo a reply.
The earth seems, here and there, to nearly liquify --
Stray raindrops falling, glisten...happenstance.
Rainwater stands in rippling pools, or trickles by.
In full glorious bloom, wildflowers revivify...
Like tiny armies, windswept, sway and prance;
While distant thunder calls, to echo a reply.
Rows of thunderheads, arraigned, withdraw on high --
While shadows flee -- daylight makes swift advance.
Rainwater stands in rippling pools, or trickles by;
While distant thunder calls, to echo a reply.
Previously published in Lyrical Iowa, 1993
Written March 27th, 2005
Copyright © Jim Dunlap | Year Posted 2020
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Jim Dunlap Poem
But you might not go
in exactly the way you might expect.
All you have to do
is think outside the box.
Step around obstacles
and open up your eyes.
The mind-police are everywhere now,
tapping your phone,
scanning your e-mails,
sifting your dumpster,
maybe even watching you from space.
Just remember that they can
imprison you in a virtual cage
of intrusion and surveillance,
but your mind remains free
(if you still know how to use it).
Jackboots echo in the halls,
while the whole world cowers in horror.
If you believe in freedom,
if you believe in conservation,
if you believe in right, not right-wing,
if you believe in justice,
if you believe in hope,
if you believe in goodness,
don't forget to vote,
don't forget to dream --
and avoid small aircraft
in election cycles.
Copyright © Jim Dunlap | Year Posted 2020
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Jim Dunlap Poem
If leaves in summer failed to fade,
they’d garner nary an accolade
when autumn brushed the hills and dales,
and Jack Frost whistled storms and gales.
Ice Kings would genuflect in awe,
while vainly winter’s storms would claw,
and flowers withering would fold
in anguish from the bitter cold –
yet all the while and all the when
the earth would tuck its bowers in,
embellishing this brilliant scene
with landscapes swathed in Irish green.
Author notes
Published by The Society of Classical Poetry.
Copyright © Jim Dunlap | Year Posted 2020
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Jim Dunlap Poem
Should Death be arrogant and proud,
Or slink like villains plotting harm?
Should it come open-face, shouting alarm,
And crying prophecies out loud?
Is Death the villain, spoiler, thief --
Harbinger of our last Apocalypse?
Is it a messenger whose coming slips
Past pain and opens doors for grief?
No. Death is but an entryway to Life
That holds us true and lights the Way
To horizons far beyond our mortal clay:
It ends for good all ill and strife.
With answers to all our questions immutable,
We'll penetrate, at last, the inscrutable.
Copyright © Jim Dunlap | Year Posted 2019
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