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Best Poems Written by Bluebell Dixon

Below are the all-time best Bluebell Dixon poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Bluebell Dixon Poem

The Delusion

I looked at my community, and everything was ruined.
I thought, "It's a conspiracy; it's someone else's doing."

Day by day, I blamed the world---angry and frustrated:
The "Man"; the cops; "society"... THEY were the ones who hated.
Everybody said the same, so that's what I believed;
but gradually it dawned on me that I might be deceived...

I watched the young men stealing; I watched the gangsters killing;
I watched the girls soliciting; I watched the dealers dealing;
I watched the children fighting; I listened to them swearing;
I watched my neighbors trash the streets---and sneer at me for caring.

The more I watched and listened, the more things became clearer:
"We've been looking through binoculars instead of in the mirror.

"Outside of our community, the world is getting on:
Folks of many colors and cultures get along.
What's separating us and them is not conspiracy
but fundamental differences in how we choose to be.

"If we could just be HONEST about how we really are
and work to CHANGE what isn't right in our OWN minds and hearts---
our behaviors and our values, the people we esteem---
we could end this nightmare and start to live the dream."

And after I had pondered and come to this conclusion,
I stepped into reality---and out of my delusion.

Details | Bluebell Dixon Poem

The Salon of Forbidden Thought

The Salon of Forbidden Ideas
is a place where the free-thinkers go
to express their unsanctioned opinions
and explore what they aren't meant to know...

At twilight, they slip through the shadows
of the alley 'twixt Far-Left and Right,
wearing black masks and cloaks of red satin,
bearing lanterns of unfiltered light.

The door to the salon is fastened
with various fashions of locks---
each one with a key and engraving
of the name of a theory or hoax.

For the one with the keys to unlock them
there awaits a most pleasant reception:
A tea in an elegant parlor
with others so-freed from deception.

Over salvers of tea cakes and lokum,
and samovars piping with steam,
they indulge in uncensored discussions
(like the cats who have gotten the cream).

The portaits of Nietzsche and Darwin,
and of Freud and Marcuse and Marx,
gaze down with intense indignation
as the fireplace feasts on their works.

Engraved on the mantle is FREEDOM,
and the roar of the flames, "Liberation!",
and the parlor is bright with the fireglow
from the canon of indoctrination.

Outside, in the mist and the darkness,
the justice wolves prowl on patrol---
sniffing fiercely for dissident skeptics
in their bloodthirsty lust for control.

The tea in the parlor continues---
as the wolves run the alleys in vain---
til the night-shadow fades into sunrise
and the guests don their masks once again.

Do you know the way to the Salon?
Do you have the keys to its door?
Simply follow the compass of Conscience,
and the pull of your heart to know more.

The alley is narrow and lonely;
you might lose your family or friends,
your religion or good reputation
before you arrive at its end...

But if you are yearning for freedom,
and the knowledge of truth is your goal,
there's an ear for your voice at the Salon,
and refreshment and peace for your soul.

Details | Bluebell Dixon Poem

Gotta Hate Somebody

Gotta hate somebody;
someone's always wrong.
Gotta hate somebody;
we just can't get along.

If it ain't for the color,
it'll be for the creed.
We judge the deed by the doer
and not the man by the deed.

Well, draw the line and pick a side:
There's only black and white.
We both stand for peace and love;
but we can't both be right!

You gotta hate somebody.

Gotta hate somebody;
it's so much easier to do---
to put the blame on another
than put the blame on you.

Ain't no conversation
if it's just one side.
Can't be no education
with a heart of pride.

So draw the line and pick a side:
There's only black and white.
We both stand for justice;
but we can't both be right!

You gotta hate somebody.

Gotta hate somebody;
you can't reason with hate.
But if we don't come together
it'll be too late.

If we both want freedom,
it seems simple to me:
We'll have to find some middle ground
and agree to disagree.

Well, tolerance is harder
to practice than to preach;
but you can't have true diversity
if you control the speech.

You can't have equality
if one side has to kneel;
and you can't have compassion
if you don't know how they feel.

So if you hate somebody,
take some time to reflect:
Liberty is a two-way street;
and so are peace and respect.

What you hate in your neighbor
you oughta hate in yourself;
what you want from another
you gotta give someone else.

Well, you may want division,
and you're bristling for a fight---
but we can't have the USA
without both left and right.

Gotta hate somebody?
We best decide what to do;
'cause whether this nation stands or falls
is up to me and you.

Details | Bluebell Dixon Poem

The Cockroach and the Honeybee

The honeybee; the maid of flowers:
Selflessly she toils for hours,
filling up her pollen stores---
never grumbling at her chores.

Sips of nectar keep her strong
as she labors all day long,
pollinating field and arbor,
and making honey in her larder.

Humble as her kind may be,
their loss would be a tragedy.
The earth would shed a mournful tear,
were honeybees to disappear.



The cockroach is a great success,
a paragon of hardiness.
It serves no queen and tends no hive;
its sole concern is to survive.

And this it does---to our chagrin:
Wherever we home, it settles in---
to feed and breed at our expense,
exploiting without recompense.

A champion at adaptation,
it garners no appreciation:
Were cockroaches eradicated,
their absence would be celebrated.


Two species doing what they do best:
The one a friend, the other a pest;
one a blessing, one a blight:
Worker by day or scourge by night.
According to its occupation, 
each kind has earned its reputation.


Consider, now, society:
Are you a cockroach, or a bee?

Details | Bluebell Dixon Poem

Politically Correct

I am...

P oliteness overdone;

O ffense over everything and everyone;

L iberation---in a box.

		I am 

I nversely orthodox.


		I am...

T ruth (as defined by me);

I ntolerance of those who dare to disagree;

C ritical but not constructive.

		I am 

A bstract and unproductive.


		I am...

L ogic in a loop;

L abels to create a thousand factious groups;

Y outhful idealism exploited.

		I am

C onceited and anointed.


		I am...

O bfuscation to beguile;

R emorseless as the tears of a crocodile;

R estriction of dissenting voices.

		I am the

E rosion of your rights and choices.


		I am...

C ontrol---for utopian bliss;

		I am

T yranny's vampire kiss.

Details | Bluebell Dixon Poem

Loneliness

Lonely gazes glumly at the world that bustles by, 
from the tinted windows of her heart, 
where no one sees her cry.

"Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink..." 
They're close in their proximity, 
but not in how they think.

As God withholds His comfort, despite her many prayers,
she searches humankind in vain 
to find a soul that cares.

She smiles for their comfort, and tells them she's alright, 
concealing, with a stoic face, 
her torment day and night.

She'd rather suffer loneliness than suffer as a fool:
The people she has dared to love 
have proven false and cruel...

They sought from her compassion and the honesty they lacked, 
and used the shards of broken trust 
to stab her in the back.

(How quickly hope is kindled, and how painfully it dies! 
--- with accusations, exploitation, 
fickleness and lies.)

She smothers in her hiding place, but so it has to be,
for there is no kindred spirit 
with whom she could be free.

A lonely ultimatum in a world where no one cares:   
Be genuine in one's own world, 
or make pretend in theirs.

Details | Bluebell Dixon Poem

Chile

Endless purple flowers
and salt pools like polished mirrors
give color to the desert 
and reflect the clear blue sky---
disguising with their beauty
the poor soil and salinity
of wastelands inhospitable, 
inarable and dry.

Wrapped in a serape,
and sipping chocolate´,
I gaze up into the universe above me,
musing in soliloquy
on Him who formed the galaxies, 
and thinking of eternity, 
while hoping in His sympathy--- 
that He has formed a soul somewhere to love me.

Oh, Chile, 
your beauty, charm and mystery allure me:
Wild as the desert breeze,
rugged as the heaving seas---
la alma solitaria
su eco puede eschuchar
y encuentra su lugar
dentro de ti.

Vine rows gently rustle
in the sunlight warm and gentle
as carmenere fills glasses
and companions wine and dine. 
Blue mountains, dusted white with snow,
uniting sky with earth below,
cast shadow on the living
like sundials of the time.

And the rainbow-colored buildings
are contrasted with my feelings
as I walk the narrow avenues 
unnoticed and alone,
contemplating freedom's price---
a wanderer in paradise---
whose travels, like the tracks of tears,
have marked the passage of the years
but led me to no comfort, home 
or friendship but my own.

Oh, Chile, 
your beauty, charm and mystery allure me:
Wild as the desert breeze,
rugged as the heaving seas---
la alma solitaria
su eco puede eschuchar
y encuentra su lugar
dentro de ti.

Oh, Chile, 
your beauty, charm and mystery allure me:
Wild as the desert breeze,
rugged as the heaving seas---
la alma solitaria
su eco puede eschuchar
y encuentra su lugar
dentro de ti.

Details | Bluebell Dixon Poem

Ode To the Cardinal

Cheerful, chirping little cherry---
crimson as the holly berry,
dressed in your vermillion best
with your pointy, feathered crest---
what a sight you are to see
perched atop a snowy tree.

Songful spirit of the pines, 
streaking through the winter sky,
ne'er does your appearance cease
to bring a smile to my face.

Beau Brummell of backyard birds,
every dawn your song is heard---
distinctly sweet among the chorus
of the visitors from the forest---
brightening night's waning gloom
like the color of your plumes.

Friendly, feathered garden gnome,
be pleased to make this yard your own.
Winter, summer, fall or spring,
joy is when the redbird sings.

Details | Bluebell Dixon Poem

Utopia

Two great minds had a tete-a-tete
to apply their intellectual grace
to the achievement of a utopian state
and improving the condition of the human race.

Said one, "Religion leads to violence,
foolish thought and senseless wars.
Therefore, replace all faith with science
and utopia will certainly be ours."

Said the second, "No, no, my friend;
the root of all evil is wealth and greed.
Pay everyone the same and crime will end,
and we shall have a utopian world indeed."

As the two were in debate,
a mouse emerged from a hole in the wall
to add his piece to their tete-a-tete,
having carefully listened to it all:

"It isn't faith or wealth," said he,
"or inequality that prevents your goal;
you look at the flower but not the seed:
The source of corruption is man's own soul.

"It is man's own nature that creates
the problems in the things you seek to fix;
therefore, no matter what changes you might make,
your desired utopia can never exist."

The mouse went back into his nook
as the two men sat and stared, dumbfounded---
left in a state of mild shock
by the wisdom that the rodent had propounded.

Then, one at a time, they left the room---
sober and more humble than before---
back to the ivory towers from which they'd come,
and the last turned out the lights and shut the door.

Details | Bluebell Dixon Poem

Derakht

*Author's note: Derakht is the phonetic Latinized spelling of the Persian word for tree.


How many weary travelers have you shaded?
How many private conversations---
between lovers, between friends---
have you overheard?
And how many birds
and all their broods
have called your branches home,
O derakht?

Who was alive when you were planted?
How many lives began and ended---
like the sunrises and sunsets---
as you slowly grew?
When the breeze blows through
your graceful boughs
you whisper all their stories,
O derakht.

Silent witness of untold ages
ancient keeper of the passage
of time, unceasing in its flow,
which carries man away,
you too someday
will fall and sink 
into the earth that bore you---
taking all your secrets with you---
O noble, great derakht.