dahlusion - Hello Poetry

1. … from now on, a reshuffling of diction, word-acrobatics, perspectives gleaming with thought: somebody built an orange tree against the other things around it, to devour boiled eggs in the porcelain hand of a plate, the convulsions of the world can only go a short length, it’s a matter of … … regression, like tumbling downstream over the backs of boulders … 2. … near the end of his journey the man’s voice, as dull as ashes, a cracked seed ready to burst, declining through the dark, a short distance to a wintry end: traveling alone to the bottom, sound of his dusty age drawing in the earth lying at the edge of bones: today, the light, tomorrow the ledge: think lightning fast … … his affliction is not pain but death: cold at his feet, like frail children ... 3. … even in the icy spring of March, your eyes were the stars melting lingering snow: we lay buried in the warm blood of naked bodies, like refugees in a new land, and the wind that did not reach us, and the ice that could not find us: outside, the silent streets could hear thunder beneath our blanket … … ask me where she is, the one who ignored my heart, who was gone by summer ... ====================================== from my unpublished manuscript: Fragmented ©dah / dahlusion 2019 all rights reserved first published in Record Magazine

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Jan 11, 2020

Jan 11, 2020 at 3:04 PM UTC

fragmented no. 8

1. … from now on, a reshuffling of diction, word-acrobatics, perspectives gleaming with thought: somebody built an orange tree against the other things around it, to devour boiled eggs in the porcelain hand of a plate, the convulsions of the world can only go a short length, it’s a matter of … … regression, like tumbling downstream over the backs of boulders … 2. … near the end of his journey the man’s voice, as dull as ashes, a cracked seed ready to burst, declining through the dark, a short distance to a wintry end: traveling alone to the bottom, sound of his dusty age drawing in the earth lying at the edge of bones: today, the light, tomorrow the ledge: think lightning fast … … his affliction is not pain but death: cold at his feet, like frail children ... 3. … even in the icy spring of March, your eyes were the stars melting lingering snow: we lay buried in the warm blood of naked bodies, like refugees in a new land, and the wind that did not reach us, and the ice that could not find us: outside, the silent streets could hear thunder beneath our blanket … … ask me where she is, the one who ignored my heart, who was gone by summer ... ====================================== from my unpublished manuscript: Fragmented ©dah / dahlusion 2019 all rights reserved first published in Record Magazine

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1. the architecture of waves, pelicans in adagio but a tempo slower, the silver-colored fish, streaks of light, like conversations out of reach, counting waves, the soft and hard ones … the sun-reflected surface makes me sleepy as if a hypnotist at work: my thoughts resisting this sleep that feels like the final dust of existence … starfish ******* the life out of clams, the weight of the ocean … 2. the frail branches of an old tree, an old woman an old dog, a city that’s outbuilding itself, straight up from Hell, straight into the atmosphere, across the sky, across the universe … at sunset, the challenge the sun has to stay alive, as if a magician at work: darkness falls, like the dead flame of life, several seconds pass, then several more, I collect the darkness … time flies, like a harbinger of bad news, like an awkward simile that needs explaining … 3. of all of my loves, of those who were actually lovers, either married or single, you were the one who drew me in, against our will, both hearts fell, bodies withered and ****** … at sunrise everything reshaped, our bodies felt alien to each other: nothing has changed but the distance between us, always these forbidden remains … how our voices grew hoarse, outside it was raining, everything had rusted … ========================================= from my unpublished manuscript: Fragmented ©dah / dahlusion 2019 all rights reserved first published in Fishbowl Poetry, Germany

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Jan 11, 2020

Jan 11, 2020 at 2:59 PM UTC

fragmented, no. 2

1. the architecture of waves, pelicans in adagio but a tempo slower, the silver-colored fish, streaks of light, like conversations out of reach, counting waves, the soft and hard ones … the sun-reflected surface makes me sleepy as if a hypnotist at work: my thoughts resisting this sleep that feels like the final dust of existence … starfish ******* the life out of clams, the weight of the ocean … 2. the frail branches of an old tree, an old woman an old dog, a city that’s outbuilding itself, straight up from Hell, straight into the atmosphere, across the sky, across the universe … at sunset, the challenge the sun has to stay alive, as if a magician at work: darkness falls, like the dead flame of life, several seconds pass, then several more, I collect the darkness … time flies, like a harbinger of bad news, like an awkward simile that needs explaining … 3. of all of my loves, of those who were actually lovers, either married or single, you were the one who drew me in, against our will, both hearts fell, bodies withered and ****** … at sunrise everything reshaped, our bodies felt alien to each other: nothing has changed but the distance between us, always these forbidden remains … how our voices grew hoarse, outside it was raining, everything had rusted … ========================================= from my unpublished manuscript: Fragmented ©dah / dahlusion 2019 all rights reserved first published in Fishbowl Poetry, Germany

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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'

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Feb 26, 2016

Feb 26, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC

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'

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I could not sleep imagining it must be raining There is darkness inside these clouds I have come to know this feeling this obscured emptiness All night there is nothing but my breathing and there is a nebulous death that happens between breaths The sky bends around me touches the trees and knifes its way between the branches I stand in the cold air as a child stands in winter’s whisper snow angels freshly painted and pinned to the ground It seems that there is still something that I need to say to support this melancholy to bear witness to the sorrow the world owns Could this darkness be a god that takes me to the other side where what is left is invisible Tonight the moon is unseen by its own absence How many more thoughts must I make to understand the entire world to understand the joy of some the grief of others ------------------------------------------- from my fourth book: 'The Translator' (Transcendent Zero Press, 2015) ©dah / TZP 2015 all rights reserved "Invisible" was first published in 'Acumen Journal' (U.K.) http://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

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Feb 25, 2016

Feb 25, 2016 at 9:57 AM UTC

Invisible

I could not sleep imagining it must be raining There is darkness inside these clouds I have come to know this feeling this obscured emptiness All night there is nothing but my breathing and there is a nebulous death that happens between breaths The sky bends around me touches the trees and knifes its way between the branches I stand in the cold air as a child stands in winter’s whisper snow angels freshly painted and pinned to the ground It seems that there is still something that I need to say to support this melancholy to bear witness to the sorrow the world owns Could this darkness be a god that takes me to the other side where what is left is invisible Tonight the moon is unseen by its own absence How many more thoughts must I make to understand the entire world to understand the joy of some the grief of others ------------------------------------------- from my fourth book: 'The Translator' (Transcendent Zero Press, 2015) ©dah / TZP 2015 all rights reserved "Invisible" was first published in 'Acumen Journal' (U.K.) http://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

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Late spring. Early morning. Horseflies in my dream, dissonant church bells, legless pigeons I wake to the light’s sharp angle that cuts this day open. A breeze stretches its wrap Lying here, dawn is brief like a banner slowly raised then dropped abruptly Rising from bed I slump a prisoner waiting for a beating The chilled air, a sword stuck into my skin Through the blinds a snap of sun my eyes rollback colors pop I stand barefoot and become the sum of a legless pigeon a horsefly’s faint buzz dissonant bells I think of my dream how it called me inward closer to the core a caravan of pine coffins lined up in the streets a future template Suddenly, church bells, a fly dead on the sill, a mournful pigeon’s coo. -------------------------------------------- from my sixth book-length manuscript ©dah / dahlusion 2015 all rights reserved "Horseflies Pigeons Coffins" was first published in 'Secrets and Dreams Anthology' (Kind Of A Hurricane Press)

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Feb 25, 2016

Feb 25, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC

Horsefly Pigeon Coffins

Late spring. Early morning. Horseflies in my dream, dissonant church bells, legless pigeons I wake to the light’s sharp angle that cuts this day open. A breeze stretches its wrap Lying here, dawn is brief like a banner slowly raised then dropped abruptly Rising from bed I slump a prisoner waiting for a beating The chilled air, a sword stuck into my skin Through the blinds a snap of sun my eyes rollback colors pop I stand barefoot and become the sum of a legless pigeon a horsefly’s faint buzz dissonant bells I think of my dream how it called me inward closer to the core a caravan of pine coffins lined up in the streets a future template Suddenly, church bells, a fly dead on the sill, a mournful pigeon’s coo. -------------------------------------------- from my sixth book-length manuscript ©dah / dahlusion 2015 all rights reserved "Horseflies Pigeons Coffins" was first published in 'Secrets and Dreams Anthology' (Kind Of A Hurricane Press)

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I am hearing it winter’s freeze the tightening of air water light a noisy gang of clouds Snowflakes are feathered stones In the field this day builds its frozen bones A beautiful disaster forms Submerged in it I listen for birds There is nothing A moment’s wind brittles my breath numbs my ears I listen for a note There is nothing A hush of sleep tucks into January’s bed Even the dogs stay inside to refuse the ice jabs into their paws The cold cracks the skin of my hands sharpens its blade slices deeper At the edge of the field I stand in stillness an ice-covered statue waiting for the company of pigeons ______________________________________ ©dah / dahlusion 2014 all rights reserved "January" was first published in 'The Canon's Mouth' (UK) Editor: Greg ***

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Jan 8, 2016

Jan 8, 2016 at 8:29 PM UTC

January

I am hearing it winter’s freeze the tightening of air water light a noisy gang of clouds Snowflakes are feathered stones In the field this day builds its frozen bones A beautiful disaster forms Submerged in it I listen for birds There is nothing A moment’s wind brittles my breath numbs my ears I listen for a note There is nothing A hush of sleep tucks into January’s bed Even the dogs stay inside to refuse the ice jabs into their paws The cold cracks the skin of my hands sharpens its blade slices deeper At the edge of the field I stand in stillness an ice-covered statue waiting for the company of pigeons ______________________________________ ©dah / dahlusion 2014 all rights reserved "January" was first published in 'The Canon's Mouth' (UK) Editor: Greg ***

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Perhaps the doors to our dreams space time rambling mind hang on cosmic hinges restless hinges aching hinges in need of hemp ***** 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) ©dah / Stillpoint Books 2015 all rights reserved

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Apr 24, 2014

Apr 24, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC

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 ***** 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) ©dah / Stillpoint Books 2015 all rights reserved

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I can hear my soul kicking its feet inside my body trying to get out. I can hear it trying to boot my body into its deathbed: Death lies waiting within the soft harp of sleep. My soul is thrashing my ribs twisting my spine, milking my **** to a shrunken wrinkled prune-like mummy. There is death crawling under our skin, death in the broken heart of love, death in Mother Mary’s lie. I can feel my soul slamming against my lungs trying to puncture holes in them. I can feel its pointed teeth eating its way out of my *** I hear it inside of me laughing at God’s sick jokes, licking my heart dry and clawing at my eyes. ————————————————————————— From my second book: 'The Second Coming' ©dah / Stillpoint Books 2012 all rights reserved http://www.amazon.com/The-Second-Coming-Dah/dp/0982874715

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Oct 22, 2013

Oct 22, 2013 at 4:51 PM UTC

Within The Soft Harp Of Sleep

I can hear my soul kicking its feet inside my body trying to get out. I can hear it trying to boot my body into its deathbed: Death lies waiting within the soft harp of sleep. My soul is thrashing my ribs twisting my spine, milking my **** to a shrunken wrinkled prune-like mummy. There is death crawling under our skin, death in the broken heart of love, death in Mother Mary’s lie. I can feel my soul slamming against my lungs trying to puncture holes in them. I can feel its pointed teeth eating its way out of my *** I hear it inside of me laughing at God’s sick jokes, licking my heart dry and clawing at my eyes. ————————————————————————— From my second book: 'The Second Coming' ©dah / Stillpoint Books 2012 all rights reserved http://www.amazon.com/The-Second-Coming-Dah/dp/0982874715

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In this poem I am not speaking to you but to myself: As I write, sentences form their own voices, their own moods and opinions such as rebellions, loves, harmony and disharmony. The universe is not so perfect. My epiphany: A fathomless consciousness is composed of collective mind stretched across the magnetism of space only to exist as ambitious matter—dense and absurd, light and heavy; humanity has existed for thousands of years in cold-slumber; unconscious and inhumane; thrashing about in between life and death where in the final moment everybody longs for catharsis. ———————————————————————— From my second book: 'The Second Coming' ©dah / Stillpoint Books 2012 all rights reserved "in the final moment everybody longs for catharsis" —from Polish Poet Zbigniew Herbert Search Amazon: "the second coming/dah"

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Oct 21, 2013

Oct 21, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC

Everybody Longs For Catharsis

In this poem I am not speaking to you but to myself: As I write, sentences form their own voices, their own moods and opinions such as rebellions, loves, harmony and disharmony. The universe is not so perfect. My epiphany: A fathomless consciousness is composed of collective mind stretched across the magnetism of space only to exist as ambitious matter—dense and absurd, light and heavy; humanity has existed for thousands of years in cold-slumber; unconscious and inhumane; thrashing about in between life and death where in the final moment everybody longs for catharsis. ———————————————————————— From my second book: 'The Second Coming' ©dah / Stillpoint Books 2012 all rights reserved "in the final moment everybody longs for catharsis" —from Polish Poet Zbigniew Herbert Search Amazon: "the second coming/dah"

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Who am I to know that the existence of heaven lives in the pause between breaths or that the story of creation is a searing scar in the side of Jesus? I have collected my pleasures, like monsoons collect the dead, have collected my memories, the raw force of vitality, the swift silk of a spider’s web, the emptiness of being, all of this: a country of vibrant emotions. I have touched the sea with my hands, bringing them together, feeling the abrupt salt between my fingers, torrid like the stinging whip of a lover: Her tongue burns me alive with its naked wine; her eyes dig into the depths of mine. Who am I to know that the Kingdom of God lives in the stones, the fire, the water, the mud, or that twilight is a sudden sadness like gray blood clots caused by black thorns? Still, my excitement is like a tower of energy or a vigorous burst of ***** or the moonlight’s mysteries fitting its key into my soul where a secret stillness wallows in its swaggering bliss. I have tasted the meat of the universe, its heart, its lungs, its liver, tasting it with my gentleness, a gentleness like soft lips, or a feather, or a lover’s whisper: Her mouth burns me alive with its raw juice; her heart feeds from mine. Who am I to know that the Supreme Spirit lives in the flies, the lice, the grub, or that death’s bitter sorrow lives in the dust, the bones, the ash, or in the agony of a broken heart? —once, Jesus summoned me. He undid his wounds with the jagged blades of my tears. I held him, embracing him, saying: My brother, my brother, my peaceful brother ... who am I ... to know ... who I am? ________________________________________________ From my first book: 'In Forbidden Language' ©dah / Stillpoint Books 2010 all rights reserved Search Amazon: "in forbidden language/dah"

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Oct 19, 2013

Oct 19, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC

Twilight Is A Sudden Sadness

Who am I to know that the existence of heaven lives in the pause between breaths or that the story of creation is a searing scar in the side of Jesus? I have collected my pleasures, like monsoons collect the dead, have collected my memories, the raw force of vitality, the swift silk of a spider’s web, the emptiness of being, all of this: a country of vibrant emotions. I have touched the sea with my hands, bringing them together, feeling the abrupt salt between my fingers, torrid like the stinging whip of a lover: Her tongue burns me alive with its naked wine; her eyes dig into the depths of mine. Who am I to know that the Kingdom of God lives in the stones, the fire, the water, the mud, or that twilight is a sudden sadness like gray blood clots caused by black thorns? Still, my excitement is like a tower of energy or a vigorous burst of ***** or the moonlight’s mysteries fitting its key into my soul where a secret stillness wallows in its swaggering bliss. I have tasted the meat of the universe, its heart, its lungs, its liver, tasting it with my gentleness, a gentleness like soft lips, or a feather, or a lover’s whisper: Her mouth burns me alive with its raw juice; her heart feeds from mine. Who am I to know that the Supreme Spirit lives in the flies, the lice, the grub, or that death’s bitter sorrow lives in the dust, the bones, the ash, or in the agony of a broken heart? —once, Jesus summoned me. He undid his wounds with the jagged blades of my tears. I held him, embracing him, saying: My brother, my brother, my peaceful brother ... who am I ... to know ... who I am? ________________________________________________ From my first book: 'In Forbidden Language' ©dah / Stillpoint Books 2010 all rights reserved Search Amazon: "in forbidden language/dah"

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