Today, the light has a sharp edge,
one swing of a sunbeam
and the tower-bells
melt to a bowl of soup.
Flowers are sweating and
the dried grass, like limp scales.
I think the day is crazy, almost
sour and sick.
I’m standing under a tree
viewing abstract shapes
on the ground
with stylistic movements.
One by one the white clouds
with a simple function.
Sometimes the cat wakes up.
If I had a flute I’d play
something rhythmic and slow,
something deep and soulful,
like a smooth heat wave.
Dividing my time watching
the day then not watching
is a bit mad. The truth is,
I should be napping.
Wind Stuffed Shells
As if the ocean’s ears,
I pick up two shells,
imagining a head between them
blue syllables of waves,
sky of starfish.
A line of pelicans arrive
hauling distance, hunger.
the wind in my hands,
breath of winter’s brew.
Drifting the water, a dark log,
peeled from the shore
is a heavy body, face down,
In a red raincoat, yellow boots,
a little girl chases a seagull.
Flapping her arms, she jumps
for two seconds.
I take out my notebook
in between grains of sand,
about how the ocean
lost its hearing.
Echo Ech Ec …
In an alley I tried to capture an echo
in my mouth
but it was pinned between two buildings
that held it until it broke
There is no way to repair an echo
you can make another one but
it will never be the same
In trying to explain this, the light
in the alley is shrinking
After we die
all of our echoes return and sing for us
Espresso Roma Café
Summer’s ocean-like fog slips
over the city, a criminal stealing
heat from August, stretching and
shaking, like a harbor seal.
Sitting in cold moisture, my body’s
a water sac: suddenly, a woman
jerks a hood over her head, hugging
a foamy latte, her middle-aged face
dense with makeup.
Having a tight ache in his thoughts
an old man stares at a newspaper,
sunken grey eyes, ghostly. His dry,
round face, the wrinkled yellow
of thirsty onions.
Other people are moving slowly
as if having lost their bearings.
Dressed for winter they simulate
sluggish creatures in mud.
This fog, a muscular god that has
drowned the sun. Sky: dark gray,
light gray, foamy white, complex
and turbulent, like a rough sea.
The Mauve Of Fatigue
As empty as silence, fatigue,
the rain’s downfall
a weariness of color,
As if running, I cannot sleep,
It would be better to be
In a state of doubt, I crack
then hold it under water and wait
for a modern prophecy.
Around my finger I tie string and
say nothing of what’s remembered,
the hidden seer inside
the walnut’s cave.
Four AM slips its darkness
my fabricated escape.
This house is nervous,
I sense electricity’s yellow
magnetic mirrors that draw me
to their pessimism.
Who will take the sickness from
What if all humans went to sleep
forever? The shape of my heart,
a droplet, autumn leaf, a symbol for feeling.
Dah’s seventh poetry collection is Something Else’s Thoughts (Transcendent Zero Press)
He is a Pushcart Prize and Best Of The Net nominee, and the lead editor of the poetry
critique group, The Lounge. Dah’s eighth book is Full Life In The Day Of A Poet
(Cyberwit Press). https://dahlusion.wordpress.com/