The Moon’s Deep Wounds

When the soothing daylight

became absorbed

by the dim-colored distance

and the moon’s beak

like a horde of splinters

hit with a thud against earth,

night fell with a rumble

that made no noise.

Then the abrupt moonlight

got caught in your dark hair

and the early evening air

untangled autumn’s roots,

its twilight, its temple of leaves.

I watched you pull closer to yourself,

shaking like a thin spidery web.

You said: ‘Maybe life is an invalid

or a guide gone astray and inside each

circle of breath there is a path of light

that winds around

and comes back to us … and … maybe …

(pause to shiver)

on the day that we are going to die the veil lifts

and we know exactly what it is that we need

and when we turn back to reach for it we fade away.’

Suddenly your gaze was that of a wolf,

calm and transfixed, unaware

of its divine ripeness and only aware

of its physical hunger.

You asked, rhetorically: ‘If love is the master key

to the cosmic equation then why do lovers

become disjointed like worn out nets?’

Looking out over the wooded valley

where gray light feeds on the wilderness,

a jovial wind makes the leaves laugh and blur

and peel from the trees like orange embers

fleeing a fire.

In the dark stubble of the forest

the distance wavered, then disappeared.

The day was gone.

You continued: ‘The bane of our existence

is cold sweat within the icy throes of sinister dreams.

There is too much drizzle, too much clutter.

Then nothing, nothing at all.’

We heard voices coming from along the river,

children’s delicate voices, gentle laughter,

happiness the color of autumn, a crackling fire.

White smoke rose from the valley’s black shroud, rose

like ghostly medicine over the moon’s deep wounds

and the wind shifted to a steady chilled motion.

You shuddered in silence.

Overhead, the noisy geese made their escape

and every leaf was shaking.

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

from my fourth book: 'The Translator'

©dah 2014 "The Moon’s Deep Wounds"
was first published in 'Lost Cost Review'

Prophet

In an effort to cross the street

she raises her hand

a prophet giving blessings

The traffic halted

Dressed in pink sweats

and magnificently poised

the heavy woman

illuminated by the sun

floated to the other side

Staring in store windows

her distorted reflection

is a pink pillar

One by one pedestrians fill

the kaleidoscopic canvas

with blue sky

like misplaced water above

Entering the reflection

in dark, grimy threads  

a street woman becomes

the shadow of Pink Prophet

Shifting in and out of the canvas

cars dart like startled fish

Then Pink Prophet moves on

and the dark shadow

limps down the street behind her

a tattered rag doll  

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

from my sixth book-length manuscript

©dah / dahlusion 2015 all rights reserved 

"Prophet" was first published in

'The Canon's Mouth' (UK) as "Pink Prophet"

The Vanishing Of Differences

Because in the beginning

we were without language

this then is the account

We have landed here from the other side

pushed together into clumps

There were words beneath our skin

souls talking

teaching us memories of self

This is how we arrived

with spirits longer than eternity

Because the gray line is without margins

black and white blend

Gray becomes the way

the vanishing of differences

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

from my fifth book-length manuscript

©dah / dahlusion 2014, 2016 all rights reserved

"The Vanishing Of Differences" was first published

in 'Eunoia Review' (China) 

To Say Goodbye Means Forgetting

As silhouettes everyone wants us

to come out from hiding

They want us to grow

in bridles of light

leaving our shadows

If they could see

the one’s who’ve fallen apart

have forgotten their shadows

and forever look for things

they can’t find

When I close my eyes

I’m the lucky one

I’m youth, I’m joy

What more could there be

My last childhood

was charmed with pixie dust

a lamp burning hand-puppets

on the walls

They were all skipping about

If only I had wished harder

when I felt I could fly

It rarely happens

that I really see myself

An inner-voice pushes me

to invoke Never Never Land

but the magic is thinning

growing old

To die will be a big adventure

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

from my seventh manuscript collection

©dah / dahlusion 2016 all rights reserved

"To Say Goodbye Means Forgetting" was first published

in  'A New Ulster' (Ireland) 

NOTE:

This poem is from my manuscript-in-progress 'The Fairy Tales'

which alludes to fairy tales or fantasies while keeping the poems

introspective with self-ruminations, self-reflections and self-doubt.  

 

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 rustle 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 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' (2015)

©dah / dahlusion 2015 all rights reserved

"Gardener" was first published in

'Stone Voices Magazine'

https://www.amazon.com/Translator-Dah-Helmer/dp/0692415254/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1437074680&sr=1-1&keywords=the+translator+%2F+dah 

A Longer Journey

Makers of eternity

thunder and fear, I bring this

offering, my used soul,

in return for a length of life

longer than eternal,

a slash of lightning to break the dark,

sunbeams, a stillness that moves me.

This thin air, this breath,

a momentary escape, here, forsaken

and twisted, rotted like an old storm,

caught in death’s drift, hardened

by an acrid drip of ice.

If I could break myself, these habits,

these scattered moments. If I could cut

like heat through the final ice, melt,

spill, ooze, discharge a living hiss,

some eternal life.

I rush to you this offer,

crash into time, carry wind

in my lungs, waves of blood,

drums in my heart, I rush

and pass faster into this growth

of hollow space, a cold dull gasp,

lips mute, eyes dumb.

Do not sever this hope from me,

do not break me here on earth,

a longer journey, a longer journey,

good fortune, good luck,

a shot in the dark, more hours

on the clock, a longer journey.

Gods of eternity thunder and fear

I bring this offering, my used soul,

broken, dismantled. This is all I have

and you have so much.

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

from my sixth book-length manuscript

©dah / dahlusion 2015 all rights reserved 

"A Longer Journey" was first published in

'The Linnet's Wings' (Ireland)

Old Woman

In the middle of the day

light’s damp lid

presses on the old woman

She hobbles

with swollen joints

along broken sidewalks

The wind punctures her skin

Wet light flares

as children streak by

The old woman pulls in

wobbles and continues

The city is too alive for her

She stops again

A rugged wind lifts debris

scatters it about her feet

She looks down at scuffed shoes

then looks up

Her expression is an empty slate

because so much is erased

from her life

I watch her stand there as if hollow

Holding hands a young couple

strolls by 

The old woman seems invisible

then she struggles on

until distance blurs her

erases her

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

from my sixth book-length manuscript

©dah / dahlusion 2015 all rights reserved

"Old Woman" was first published in

'Eat Sleep Write' 

Sadder Than Anything

An umbrella moves

through the rain

and in between each drop

emptiness

Morning’s broken light

far from the sun

trips over the rooftops

into the wind’s mouth

passes

over my eyes

and I hear footsteps

alone on the sidewalk

alone in the rain

only to stop and wait

for a dream or a green light

Then time passes

even darker

and from the sidelines

a burly boom

of far-off thunder

Raindrops tangle in my hair

raindrops sadder than anything

Neruda has written

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

from my sixth book-length manuscript

©dah / dahlusion 2015 all rights reserved 

"Sadder Than Anything" was first published in

'The Recusant' (U.K.)

Misdirection

Sometimes the gray sun

is like dry rain

other times an old bone

Sometimes there’s a whisper

from the inner-ear, a drag of words

announcing a profusion

of discontent

There are times I wear sadness

like deep sleep

so rising into the day

creates a storm that places its mouth

over my ears

and blows cold wind

to produce a melodramatic silence

Some days I hold tightly

to the quiet that surrounds me

and listen to the dead

for they have much to say

about unfinished lives

Beneath the fog’s tarp

moisture is a wet parachute

undulating in the air

and light’s eye

has rolled back into its skull

Sometimes I ask out loud

What is the point?

But my thoughts are

discombobulated, misdirected

and I wait for a voice to answer

but there are so many

that I cannot separate them

yet, somebody inside is listening

and keeps laughing and laughing

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

from my sixth book-length manuscript

©dah / dahlusion 2015/2016 all rights reserved 

"Misdirection" was first published in

'Red Wolf Journal'