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Best Poems Written by Victor Dixon

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

Details | Victor Dixon Poem

The Walk Upstairs

Finished off the casseroles
a while ago;
actually gave them to
someone with an appetite.
The neighbors have taken
your parking space.
The hallway’s unlit now,
but I still see the unhappiness in the mirror
even in the dark.
You always left the light on.
I cling to the railing;
it’s caught me more than once.
Each step leaves me breathless,
each ascent lifeless –
stranded and abandoned
without even a shadow.
It’s just as you left it inside.
I haven’t dirtied a dish.
The calendar still says June;
only the clock moves on –
ticking countdown.
Sometimes it’s too much
so I sleep outside the door
and guard what you left behind –
protect what was.
Slumber reunites us,
but daylight exposes me.
And the pity’s infected their whispers.

Details | Victor Dixon Poem

A Thousand Words

Tried to take a picture, but the world wouldn’t sit still
and I don’t have the breath for a thousand words.
Fantasizing what I have to say, knowing I never will -
subordinate to suppressive hands like a caged bird.

I don’t have the breath for a thousand words;
my thoughts scared off what I wanted to say.
Subordinate to suppressive hands like a caged bird;
I licked my lips, but choked on the bait.

My thoughts scared off what I wanted to say;
I’m steady as a punching bag.
I licked my lips, but choked on the bait;
still fetch bones, but my tail won’t wag.

I’m steady as a punching bag
absorbing the tears of the mistreated.
Still fetch bones, but my tail won’t wag;
it’s what they fed us yesterday, just reheated.

Always run away before I’m mistreated
and I don’t have time for a sympathetic smile.
It’s the same dish reheated;
seeing the truth makes me long for denial.

I don’t have time for a sympathetic smile;
I’m in the undertow of the mainstream.
Facing the truth makes me pine for denial,
because all that talent was just a wet dream.

I’m in the undertow of the mainstream
driving from point A to point B pointlessly.
All the promise was just a wet dream,
and no TV ad sells the product to comfort me.

Driving from point A to point B pointlessly,
an influx of indifference invading my head.
No TV commercial can sell comfort to me,
so why buy a souvenir when you’ve been misled?

An influx of indifference invading my head,
eroding an apex of decaying dreams.
Why buy a souvenir when you’ve been misled,
saluting the generals and bowing to the queens?

Eroding an apex of decaying dreams,
a self-fulfilling prophecy with outstretched hands.
Saluting the generals and bowing to the queens,
forfeiting free will for a slice of the promised land.

A self-fulfilling prophecy with outstretched hands
vowing sacrifice will be compensated.
My shoes are homesick for foreign lands –
a spot where therapists haven’t migrated.

Vowing sacrifice will be compensated,
followed my heart overseas
to where therapists haven’t yet migrated;
the weight left my chest and dissolved in the breeze.

Stalked my smile overseas;
sold my suitcase at the train station.
Tasted the wind and exhaled the breeze;
my finger wrote my will in condensation.

Sold my suitcase at the train station,
the masses were left to inherit my will.
Flipped a coin for a destination,
captured the words while the world sat still.

Details | Victor Dixon Poem

Good Morning, Good Night

Good morning future.
Good morning past.
Good morning today:
Could you make me laugh?
     a sincere laugh
     it's been too long
     or even a cry
     I've been too strong
          it's hard to admit
          how easy it is to confess
          when shame introduced herself
          she wore the sexiest dress
Hello tree branches.
Hello sky.
I'm waiting for you cardinals
to catch my eye.
     you can remind me of
     my dear ma and pa
     they admire you so much
     they had their cat declawed
          and I'd declaw myself
          if I'd be forgiven
          if I could bury my shame
          I'd still be diggin'
I'm thankful for this
house someone built.
Thanks to all the cows
who provide me milk.
     when I was a child
     I wanted a calf
     when we drove by a farm
     it'd make my mother laugh
          and now the shame's marinated
          cooked in seasoning
          it's not a convictable crime
          so how's that for reasoning

Good night angels.
Good night ghosts.
Good night late night
talk show hosts.
     I'm off to dream
     so wish me luck
     against those wicked nightmares
     that wake me up
          cuz if Annette arrives
          I'll be sad as hell
          like an empty-handed boy
          at show and tell
Good night the thoughts
written on this page;
you're the evidence
there was a today.
     and tomorrow's a treasure
     I'll try to find
     I'll keep to myself
     but I'll be real kind
          and if the world can forgive me
          for being scared and weak
          maybe I'll be less afraid tomorrow
          to go to sleep
Good night Annette;
I still love you.
I'm sorry I'm not strong enough
to ask how you do.
     but it hurts too much
     and the consequences are ruthless
     I'd endure the torment
     if it wasn't fruitless
          and I'm sorry Sally
          I should just think of you
          after all I'm tryin' 
          to love you too
Good night stars.
Good night moon.
All my wishes
will be leaving you soon.
     They'll come back to Earth
     like an aeroplane
     filled with passengers
     running away from pain
          that they couldn't accept
          that they couldn't defeat
          a plane filled with people
          just like me

Details | Victor Dixon Poem

Antarctica

Remember me? I told you
I’d haunt you when the nights
got lonely as Antarctica.
You ran when I cautioned
how empty it’d leave you 
to be so full of yourself,
when your wine glass overflowed
drowning your daily crossword
like a sardine without gills.
I warned you your hands
would contaminate
the naïve tongues
waiting for you to ring the bell -
that their mouths would dry up
and leave you yearning for the desert.
I was the mirror you scoffed at,
the funhouse you mocked 
and the piñata you filled with helium
as if to spare me.
And when the fiesta ended
you were too proud to trade 
an apology for a new beginning.
All those people you screwed
haven't forgotten...
and neither will you.

Details | Victor Dixon Poem

Annette

Annette, do I ever have
a cameo in your dreams?
Is it memorable enough
you question what it means?

Cuz you have a lead role
in my incomplete script;
my imagination wont let you die
and it wont let me live.

You were the sanity
in a line-up of disorders –
a nation of autonomy
between tumultuous borders.

I was a horoscope;
I was a forecast –
unpredictable day to day,
but just the same as the past.

Well, how does the future look?
Is the picture more focused?
And is the past as quiet now
as a kind gesture gone unnoticed?

I’d take one more day with you
for a lifetime without,
cuz it’d be one more day
than I expect to see you now.

Please don’t let them tell you
these words have no meaning,
cuz I’m coming to visit
tonight while you’re dreaming.

I’m coming for a bigger part
and I don’t need any fanfare;
cuz I can charm you once we’re face to face,
and play dirty to get there.

I spend too much time
wondering how
so much time came and went
to bring me to now.

Cuz now is ugly
truly considering
the places I’ve already been
and will never see again.

Oh, that innocence
was the magnet you clung to.
But once it’s replaced with arrogance,
it takes a miracle to undo.

But I believe in miracles,
or at least my definition,
because the options are minimal 
and one is submission.

At times it seems I was born to hurt
and document how it feels;
how lucky to have a chapter read
by someone born to heal.

You said melody was everywhere,
I just needed to listen.
But if life’s a musical,
this must be intermission.

And I’m so sorry dear
for being such a burden –
for walking you to the stage
and hiding behind the curtain.

There’s only one reason
to ever hesitate;
it might be logical
if it’s logical to be afraid.

And if you settle out of fear,
second-guess those who condone it;
cuz I promise they’ve never felt
like us for one moment.

Annette, I’ve been loneliest
since I last saw you;
if there’s a point where it all makes sense,
it’s a place I can't get to.

I try not to cry out loud;
I keep it all in my memoirs.
Cuz y’know, the wounded, love,
take no pride in battle scars.

I hope you wouldn’t be embarrassed by
a moment of weakness –
if you called me Chaddy
and I called you Sweetness.

History says we'll grow apart
and lead separate lives;
but if you ever change your mind,
I’ll remove my disguise.

Details | Victor Dixon Poem

Punchline

When we take our final breaths,
I hear we finally figure it all out.
When God gets to the punchline,
we laugh right out loud.

Everything seems to make sense
just when it’s about to change.
I’m told it’s all worth savin’
once it goes up in flames.

When we trade this existence,
you better leave more behind than regret.
Or odds are no one will be there
to read your death certificate.

When the truth finally reveals itself,
it says it’s been there all along.
But before you can introduce it,
it'll already be gone.

But we’ll all laugh without pain
at least one more time.
Cuz God’s got the greatest sense of humor
and we’re waiting on the punchline.

Details | Victor Dixon Poem

Postcard From Hell

I prayed to God hoping he’d send me a distraction.
Then I just stood around, and well, nothin’ happened.

So I said, “This just proves you don’t really exist,
and it leaves no excuse not to take the initiative.”

So I wrote you a postcard postmarked from Hell,
and I assume you received it, but it’s hard to tell.

Cuz I checked days off of calendars, hours off clocks,
and never found a response in my post office box.

And it’s hard to forget all the sweet things you told me
before you washed your hands like I was uncooked poultry.

I know I should be over it; I thought I was stronger.
I’ve said, “Time heals everything,” but I don’t any longer.

I’ve always had the good fortune of attracting lovers,
but I have two categories, and you’re not like the others.

You’re the secret I keep, and it keeps me humble,
and when I try to sleep, it awakes like a jungle.

And it terrifies me cuz I know I won’t get out alive;
but that a’int the scary part, it’s the waitin’ to die.

And there are unflattering descriptions to define such a scenario;
I discuss it with the sad singer I’ve trapped in my stereo.

We conclude to write it down and examine it on paper
with a grain of optimism that it’ll all make sense later.

Details | Victor Dixon Poem

Postcard From Hell (Xiv)

I awoke in a kitchen
on a pillow of aprons;
my body covered with bruises 
from a mob of angry patrons.

Then I came to in my bed
with all my ex-lovers
and their menstrual blood
absorbed by my covers.

Then I was asleep on the freeway, 
alone in the carpool lane;
drove off a bridge in California
and woke up underwater in Maine.

Then I was alive in a coffin
snuggled with a teddy bear –
a knocking at my door,
but I pretended I wasn’t there.

Then I was back to the mirror
engraving my eyes with glass;
as the lights went out,
my ears started to laugh.

Then I was shivering on a pier
with a needle in my arm,
and my intestines unraveling
like a ball of yarn.

Then I was behind steel bars -
opposite a prison guard;
telling him your address,
and handing him a postcard.

Details | Victor Dixon Poem

If Time Wasn'T Linear

If time wasn’t linear
and life was an orbit,
pain couldn’t make me old
and age wouldn’t sound morbid.

I’d know every ending
would only bring pause;
that birth was just as relevant
as any loss.

I’d know eyes are subjective,
and the mind is a trap
disfiguring reality
like a folded map. 

Doubt will provide distance
like a neighbor’s fence
as pictures and frames
attempt to capture innocence.

And love is the answer
that will set you free,
unless you’re a hostage
in its captivity:

begging for release
or at least a transfer
like the sweetest memory
too painful to remember.

But life lasts longer
than the gifts we have to give
and it’s not about what’s lost,
but what you can’t live with

that ultimately will dictate
the silence and the sorrow;
that leaves you grieving yesterday
and dismissing tomorrow.

You followed the rules;
you kept your hands to yourself.
But you’re the one person
you never knew how to help.

You say people are leaves:
they change color and fall,
and just before their death,
they’re the center of it all  -

the years of emotion
that finally surface,
and, in a brief moment,
give those years purpose.

And we mourn a death
or a life is celebrated.
And we rot in the ground
or we’re reincarnated.

The weak and compassionate
struggle to move on
as a cycle returns to its origin
and time moves along.

Two generations later,
bones lay in a coffin
beneath an engraved stone
that’s nearly forgotten.

Details | Victor Dixon Poem

Paperweight

Nothing’s lost till you stop			searching;
it’s still on 				Earth man
with no reason it couldn’t be yours again.
And if every little moment serves a 		purpose
forgetting would be a dis-			service
no matter how painful it is.
When you long for the innocence of a 	                virgin;
the naïve laughter from a 			church van;
the times you took for granted when
all your dreams danced around the 		surface,
before they made you 			nervous
that they’d be drowned by loneliness.
And it’s easy to submit to all the 		hurt man
when nothing’s 				working
to free you from where you have been.
When peace comes at last you know you	earned it;
as precisely as a 				wordsmith,
you say you gave all you could give.     				            
Aware you own a soul where sadness is	                lurking,
but when time feels less			urgent,
you can promise to never give up again.
And there’s documentation that can as-	                sure this;
your trail’s not pa-				perless;
it’s where you stash your ugliness.  
When loss and hydration are painfully                     merging,
don't die of                                                               thirst man;
there's got to be a better plan.