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Best Poems Written by Dah Dahlusion

Below are the all-time best Dah Dahlusion poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Dah Dahlusion Poem

Between Happiness and Sadness

Between happiness and sadness
 —silence; an angel prays:

I kiss the loneliness of old people, 
their temples like handfuls of winter; 
their hearts
are used baggage, 
waiting; 
memories speak to them, 
they smile and
tell me stories from their youth 
—sadness falls; 
silence passes unspoken
—they remember the dead. 

I kiss the loneliness from their temples
and sadness lifts from their mouths.

———————————————————————
From my first book: 'In Forbidden Language'

©dah / Stillpoint Books 2010
all rights reserved

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Details | Dah Dahlusion Poem

Dictator

To those who forgive me
I loathe you
for you are weak
No
your voices are not worthy
you spineless living
dead things
worthless as dumb dogs

If not incarcerated
I would do it again
would squeeze everything
out of you

land

pride

dignity

your life

No do not say you forgive me
you are not gods
You have no power to forgive
you are impotent

After I vanish
I will haunt you to your deaths
and there
I will be waiting
to squeeze the light from your soul
until nothing but darkness
 
-----------------------------------------------------

 from my 6th book-length ms.

"Dictator" was first published in
'The Recusant ' (UK)

Details | Dah Dahlusion Poem

Gardener

My hands are the hands
of a gardener,
fresh with soil, sunlight, and rain,
with the breath of flowers
and kisses of moisture.
I sprinkle seeds over the earth,
like a holy man sprinkles sacred water.
The soil: grateful for my blessing.
The birds: grateful for this small fare.
I chant incantations and listen
for the growth of roots,
for the rustling of sprouts,
pastel green and tender, spiritual
and uplifting.
I rain dance and praise the sky,
hold my hands to the air,
forming a small bowl
for the rain to fill,
to be the stimulus, the birthmother,
the liquid that makes
the garden whole.
I ask the sun for waves
of light, the breeze
for strength and circulation,
the fertilizer for sparkling minerals
that infuse the roots, stems, and fruit
with vitality.
On my knees I dig
with bare hands into the soil:
my hands, like intimate dancers,
lead the busy prolific weeds
to another existence, to their rebirth.
My hands are the hands
of a gardener,
fresh with soil, sunlight, and rain.

——————————————————————
From my fourth book: The Translator
'Transcendent Zero Press', 2015

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This poem was first published in ‘Stone Voices Magazine’

Details | Dah Dahlusion Poem

Earth

Earth, builder of beauty;
her plumb line: a still point,
precious center, damp
minerals.

What I’m composing are
my words: a swathe of heat,
painted deserts, morning musk,
saguaro green.

Upon my lips, misted whispers:
a fog’s low roots, moist glaze,
dawn’s red vine, dappled light,
cypress, corn silk.

I shake my pen
and from its throat spills
night’s ink sac: salt,
stones, spicy stars.

I shake it more: it empties
the imagery; my feelings;
black sand, spears of pine,
a river’s idle yawn.

Earth pushes us from her womb
where an underground gurgle, like a god
blowing into a straw, creates star bubbles,
first breath, birth cry.

Like birds, we build nests, lay eggs,
feel earth buzz in our bones:
a jug of dreams, seasons, necessities.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
From my fourth book: 'The Translator'
Transcendent Zero Press, 2015

This poem was first published in 'Eunoia Review (China)'

Editor: Ian Chung

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Details | Dah Dahlusion Poem

Sound

The spirituality of sound
of a gong
of a loon
the impossible grieving
of morning doves
the cracking of ice
the drone of urban streets
trucks rumbling
over wooden bridges
a cat’s purr

There’s a need to hold sound
to feel its pulsation
to see colors of sound
or to hear the sun mounting
the sky or
the bloodless and wicked
sound of lightning

Ah, the overflowing tapestry
of sounds
with their invisible force
or the unconscious sounds
of the dead
diffused and distant
or the meandering of echoes 

the broadcast, the transmission
the longwinded sermons 
the cry of a newborn
the utterance, the announcement
a city’s cacophony, the uproar
the dissonant chord
the rhetoric of schizophrenics
or Purple Passages of Deep Purple
psychedelic or progressive sounds

Om, a sound of guidance
the chant, the mantra, the moan
of orgasms, the gasp, the scream
the subtleness of whispers  

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

from my 6th book-length ms. 
©dah / dahlusion 2015 all rights reserved

"Sound" was first published in 'Chicago Record Magazine'

Details | Dah Dahlusion Poem

Solo Flight

In this valley of earth
the wind 
comes with the same gift 
the same solitary wind
that carries faith
without speaking 

with the same sightless purity
that sees everything
as it is
that causes the same quiver of branches
that have pulled their skins
out of soil and rocks 

The wind’s long horn blows
into this valley’s earthen jug  
and applies its wisdom
as thin as
this silver hair that holds the heat
to my bones 

this wisdom that assembles 
and stirs above me watching 
and me standing
below
in this valley as cold as heaven
where there has always been
and even now a river’s 
unsaid oath 
where birds drop feathers
where birds balance the wind
even in sleep

even when nothing moves
even when knowing that 
each feather dropped
can fly 

alone

each one 
gifted with the wind’s wisdom

_____________________________

from my fourth book 'The Translator'
(Transcendent Zero Press, 2015)

"Solo Flight" was first published in 'Jellyfish Whispers'

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The Lake

Dawn, asleep at this hour
Chilled air is a gift
in the grip of summer


Landscape’s fresh silence
Moon, half blind
The traveling breeze
is a caravan


‘Come, naked and shivering, 
says Lake, 
dig through the mud for that
which is Truth, where the moon
inters her light, where bullfrogs
bark in circles’


The water
Lover, formless womb
ovulated by sunrise
I set the canoe in motion 


Orange dragonflies, murmuring duckbills 
fist-sized tadpoles, radiant finch 
gesticulate above and beneath surface
Green reeds are light tendrils

 
Sky’s blue inks a mallard’s back
A raven’s croak is more alive
than most people
Mist drops while rising
The canoe glides
water laps, gasps


The poised presence of an osprey
circling
Everything silences, stills
except for the canoe
over the Lake’s belly


The sun, pinned to the tip
of a redwood
reflects like an eye in chrome
I lie back and float, 
a water blossom’s thirst

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

From my sixth book-length ms.
©dah / dahlusion 2014 / 2015
all rights reserved

“The Lake” was first published in
‘Black Market Re-View' (U.K.)

Details | Dah Dahlusion Poem

Yard Sale

There is a spy within me
tapped into suspicions
one eye zeroed in
round the clock

There is a ward
of smuggled wounds
convalescing in my notebooks
smudged so badly
that only I can decipher
their blood

I wake early
before family commotion starts
before the endless
mandible chatter
rips apart the silence

because my mind is groggy
standing before sunrise
because birds flutter
in such a manner
that my center loses grounding

My eyes are sky
pulled away from my brain
morning fog stuffs my head
I am an old basement
damp and dripping

Maybe a yard sale is in order
to rid myself these shabby feelings
these ragged doubts

--------------------------------------------------
from my 6th book-length manuscript

©dah / dahlusion 2016 all rights reserved

"Yard Sale" was first published in
'Chicago Record Magazine'

Details | Dah Dahlusion Poem

In Streetlight, His Wet Hair

On the sidewalk standing in the rain
the old man is a wounded dove.
Longish white hair: wet feathers
grounded in a storm. The rain is heavy
and repeats itself, like buckets of water
thrown out of windows.

The old man stands there
holding a memory or a wish.
Under the streetlight
his wet hair glistens like tinfoil.
The downpour is a creature
that’s eating him up.

Darkness projects
from a deserted apartment building.
The ground floor windows and doors
are boarded, nailed shut.
It appears dead, like an old disease,
or stripped, like a despoiled tomb.
Its bricks cracked and crumbled,
wooden casings dry rotted and helpless.
Painted in bold red
across the boarded front entrance,
a graffiti-message: Girls Rule.

Looking back at the old man,
he stands the way a king stands alone
when doubting himself.
Dark crawls around him. The old man stares
at the building. He is motionless,
in memory. Rain gallops over him.

Inside the warmth of a café,
my steaming coffee. Outside, the streets
are laundered clean of everyone
except for the old man who stares
at the apartment building. Time has grown
over his face and body, has grown
over the broken down building.

Now the rain is as heavy as mucus
and with his tiny body
the old man shuffles away into the dark
and gradually disappears
like a casket being covered with earth.

_________________________________

from my sixth book-length manuscript

©dah / dahlusion 2014 / 2015
all rights reserved

"In Streetlight, His Wet Hair" was first published in
'Switch (the difference) Anthology'
from 'Kind Of A Hurricane Press'

Details | Dah Dahlusion Poem

Perhaps the Doors To Our Dreams

Perhaps the doors to our dreams
space   time   rambling mind
hang on cosmic hinges
restless hinges    aching hinges
in need of   hemp   opium   or fine wine

Unmoved by being in my dream
she walked barefoot over my breath
speaking languages 
from a trillion universes
unknown to me

I heard her   I called to her
I listened   and her voice
spoke to me   one word
slowly   one word at a time

Her face near my memory
her kisses   her body   our whisperings 
I held my hands out   they disappeared
a lonely finger remained   pointing

Perhaps the portals to our dreams
are hungry mouths stuck open
endlessly whimpering to be nurtured

I watched her laughing and crying
at the threshold of my tenderness   crying
slippery tears   severe tears   unreal tears
tears like smoke rings   tears like crystals
tears like rain the roses love

Gently   she lifted a red rose
to my mouth
it lived in ecstasy   
on my tongue

O Love   love   love
daylight is near
and dreams will fade
like one moist blossom after another

————————————————————————

from my third book: 'If You Have One Moment'
Stillpoint Books, 2015

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