A sun encounters a probing of it,
course a bargain at a remote lea.
Jilt Thistles yields to breeze that never quit,
brush forces the stately Yellow Daisies
dressed, and clips wispy tall grass they'd cornered.
Giving Geraniums, lil' fuss yet mild,
errant gust o'er feral terrain, murmured
along roads of spooled vines, draped plain Pines filed.
Jumping Junipers Jurassic epoch,
weighs low Violets in check of their guides.
Mute untamed bouquet dells, wouldst edged dear Puck,
herald of joys, Baby Breaths, never chides.
Parts spring inseparable their lil' games,
divided droplets formed handheld mirth tames.
Trapped inside a wasteland,
dying inch by inch
Slave inside a rusted heart,
feelings chained then lynched
Later now than yesterday,
earlier than goodbye
Spooled like thread that can’t be sewn,
the needle asking why
But time contorts, reversing,
trumpets call you home
Eyes unspoken, voice untouched,
senses all atoned
Words on fire with freedom stirred,
reasons scorched and bare
A silence brewing louder,
new light burns through the air
Eleven Angels fly as one,
and twelfth, you join their throng
With wings now soaring inward
—time’s grip left dead and gone
(Airplane To Seattle: March 8, 2017)
the orchestra played full volume in the theatre of her mind
thoughts and emotions vied for undisturbed attention but
her misplaced applause failed to settle restless blind screens
decoupages tapestries and fabrications of her imagination
whole movies and symphonies arranged on fast auto replay
spooled forward and backward until vision blurred into one
epic film tear of overload exhaustion and impenetrable void
hungry children
uncivil wars
deforestation
xenophobia
fission bombs
subjugation oppression marginalization genocides homophobic attacks
power money greed opulence decadence and seeming banality of evil
for the charade that life was she needed to close plenty of curtains
unveil at the same time what had been hidden behind a solid façade
when the cacophony climaxed in crescendo staccato and discord
she knew that her voice of conscience would lead her the way
03rd June 2021
Trapped inside a wasteland,
dying inch by inch
Slave inside a rusted heart,
feelings chained then lynched
Later now than yesterday,
earlier than goodbye
Spooled like thread that can’t be sewn,
the needle asking why
But time contorts, reversing,
trumpets call you home
Eyes unspoken, voice untouched,
senses all atoned
Words on fire with freedom stirred,
reasons scorched and bare
A silence brewing louder,
new light burns through the air
Eleven Angels fly as one,
and twelfth, you join their throng
With wings now soaring inward
—time’s grip left dead and gone
(Airplane To Seattle: March 8, 2017)
Trapped inside a nightmare,
dying inch by inch
Slave inside a rusted heart,
feelings chained then lynched
Later now than yesterday,
earlier than goodbye
Spooled like thread that can’t be sewn,
the needle asking why
But time contorts, reversing,
trumpets call you home
Eyes unspoken, voice untouched,
senses all dethroned
Words on fire with freedom stirred,
their meaning scorched and bare
A silence brewing louder,
new light burns through the air
Eleven Angels fly as one,
and twelfth, you join their throng
With wings now soaring inward,
—time’s grip left dead and gone
(Airplane To Seattle: March 8, 2017)
The last hour lies down
in mid-winter’s gully
a frosted string of light
spooled into dark
stitched into fantasy
Flying birds gather the city
in their wings
Ah, to love birds and their flights
to love the moon’s obsession
to love the softness of light
in stained glass windows
Still glowing a bit from daylight
I turn into evening
Thus in the astral darkness
a figment of ghosts
bobbing their heads
Between rain and clouds
a cool breath opens the uneasy sky
a spindle of dust leaps from the ground
Ah, all of this magic seen
with my human eyes
is everything I believe
everything I stir and drink
O eager child
kindled fire of youth
bare heart of zeal
I stretch my imagination
to little boy impressions
I believe in fairy dust
so that I can exist, so that
fairies can exist, so that
fairies are here, always
and never frightened
----------------------------------------
from my Fairy Tale chapbook-in-progress
©dah / dahlusion 2016 all rights reserved
"Astral Darkness" was first published in
'Liquid Imagination' a creative writing journal
This is a monument.
It was born from us a town illegitimate; we never married.
A great hall of artifacts, plucked still-gunked from our livers,
Others clean-picked from our birdy bones.
Over there you had loved me, there I spooled my sobs.
Here, the streetcar - windows fogged with our laughs.
We would visit this dead museum,
with crumpled dollars to smash through the box-office slats.
We would laugh at the silly, dead fossils.
Now I am alone, inhabiting it like restless taxidermy.
I call you through each dusty chamber,
Every dull ceramic and jaded mask.
I regress to a baby one hundred miles a moment,
My nightgown heavy and helplessly slumping down my shoulders
And not even your body: dried, tattooed, is on display.
Your insides are not carefully dissected, labelled in a looming case.
Your wings and your pulsing pink eyes lay on no proud board,
Your legs are not zip-tied, toes not tagged and inkily named.
You are not Americana Exotica -
You are more elusive.
You're exploring one thousand Arabias
While I breathe sarcophagus air,
Befriend the flogged and leathered skins.
There is only my lonely feet.
I love her limpid, clear blue-eyes
and her long, yellow tresses;
wise, and with grace that never dies
or wavers, she blesses.
Behind those intelligent eyes,
she ponders, thinks, and listens;
as I surmise, she feels the rise
of saintliness that christens.
With golden tresses dressed in waves,
spooled, and weaved in sage;
she braves the loathing that enslaves,
assuaging enmity's rage.
Shrewd, wise, and just, she's tolerant,
patient, kind, and compassionate;
and eschews man's Pride, the giant
of deadly sins that's intemperate.
But her existence's all but undone,
for she's more abstract than real:—
that she's only fiction I bemoan,
for she's “la femme idéale.”
she is alabaster and brine
she is a faster lairs line
unwind her spooled mind
memory a keepsake in hand conquers a trinket lost
eat mandrake to the root but what the cost
unspoiled her thoughts broil in her head
steam from every seam
salty her groin but she declines the offered coin
she will reap the bliss of your salty kiss
as you bite her short hair she will sing a country tune so fair
she is alabaster and brine
a master of wasted time
my chantilly heart
spooled by your burlap embrace --
simple blessings twine
Gang violence has hit the cities and is often in the news
In hate and anger they are schooled
We had our own gang when I was just a kid
In the days when my gang ruled
We rode together on our bicycles
Our bikes were finely tooled
And we hung out at the pool room
In the days when my gang ruled
We carried gloves and bats and baseballs
Ice from home would keep our sodas cooled
Sometimes we’d go to church together
In the days when my gang ruled
Our music had no curse words
We were wild so don’t be fooled
We smoked Lucky Strikes and greased our hair
In the days when my gang ruled
Sometimes we’d meet at the river
Our fishing lines all spooled
Just having fun together
In the days when my gang ruled
Annette and Frankie set the tone
Bikini Beach is when we drooled
Even the movies were clean and wholesome
In the days when my gang ruled
We cared about each other
For America our fire was fueled
We grew up to serve our country
In the days when my gang ruled