Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Bryan Dahl Oct 2019
If in your lifetime,
You don’t want to watch the world
You have the right to abstain.

If you are with anything left to lose,
You can’t believe
Government isn’t to blame.

If an artist,
sees for the sake of art,
If an artist and partner,
See for the art of growing,
If an artist and seeker
Of truth and shelter grow weary,
If an artist and liar
Sit long by the fire outside the growing
Thunder, lightning hissing
Booing down from the balcony
Onto the stage,
Rising from the artist’s grave,
If you’re still watching,

Many delicate things have you
Smashed without noticing.
My clumsy hands give
Everything to hold some one thing
If trembling,
Shaking, Dropping,
Casting brutish shadows they offended,
Smashed aloof and nought is mended,
.........What the ******* liar
Call me sometime, so long, after all.
If you’ve not clumsy hands, my friends,
Please, stay on hold for ohms, amens.
Many more delicate things will smash,
No one noticing.

What’s the most beautiful thing in this world?
All such things, in this beautiful world,
Might remain very subjective.
But if I code an experience into a thing,
Tchaikovsky’s siren with her strings,
In the sea beside the shore,
1812 cannons’ overture,
Bellini’s casta diva’s love,
Cecelia’s colors lofted
From Sevilla to St. Petersburg...
But my love, the truth in this
Most beautiful blasting world,
This sure subjective silent bliss,
This moment, present,
Setting sun, holding your beautiful hand:
Our kiss.
Bryan Dahl Nov 2018
Pick a song.

The rest will take care of itself.

Breathe deep the first note
through heel and every toe.

Lift, as space above,

Support, so strong below,

And you can,

With your voice,

Weld each word

On the back wall,

Sparks flying in the shape of the line.

Your interpretation of traditions,

Your rejection...

Don’t forget the words.

More importantly, Don’t

Forget what they mean.

What they don’t mean.

What they still mean.

If they still mean anything to you,

Finish the song.

Pick another song.
Bryan Dahl Oct 2018
don't be
anything but that
to which you are
most devoted
Bryan Dahl May 2018
Street performers.

Busking. Panhandling. Begging.

An artist’s most submissive position.

Music’s all-powerful mystery beholden to pocket change.

Until a blind man, guitar in hand,

On the Blue Line platform,

Plucks from an unsuspecting heart

An unmistakable theme-

“What can you say about a 25-year-old girl who died?”

An unmistakable love story...

One bill and some coins in his collection basket,

A mysterious, gentle reminder-

Dynamics come wholly undone.

I drop in my all-powerful dollar,

All aboard the train.

Down here and now will I

Write for the first time in nearly three years.
Bryan Dahl Sep 2015
Her singing reached a level deeper-
Nature's unspoken parameters sung.
The waves foamed and crashed
Their soulless masses on the shore,
But suddenly in rhythm with
Her song- did something more.

We could see then, the sea
Having nothing to hide, neither did she.
She simply sang.
But the sea would have nothing to say
Or so it seemed, until her song
Made poetry from its spray.

For it was her voice telling
Truth and story that given day.
Her music, more than the sea
Was how Mother Nature
We recognized, unmistakably.
Every time she sang.

The gray clouds given their silver lining,
The sun brought to its setting place and time,
Her sublime independent singing spirit
Personified sea, shore, and sky.
And we knew it every time she sang-
There was no other way or reason for her,
And for those like her, who only feel alone
When the music stops.
Bryan Dahl Jan 2015
Called Religion before Romanticism:
Darling Radha’s swing,
Pressing softly to her blue
Beloved Trickster’s skin.

Called dharma, grace, and savoir-faire
Confounding fated will,
Called freedom then for putting off
The destiny we fear.

From her swing I can believe
In good romantic faith-
While makers of a moment’s
Beauty, steal a tear away.

When I laid,
Bathing in the roaring spray
At the feet of the lower falls,
And wandered through soft blue
Volcanos guarding Atitlan.

When I watched,
Clouds burst from his fingertips
Cold war to choral glory,
Seid um schlungen Millionen!
An die Freiheit! An die Freude!

When I found,
A girl whose smile couldn’t hide her pain
Singing her song’s last echo,
At once the world was not the same, but...
How could I ever know.

How could I ever know...

After the West was won with lies
One man said, "God is dead."
I mute the TV from her swing,
Smile, and bow my head.
Bryan Dahl Dec 2014
Two pointed crosses scabbed over
My Achilles tendons.
Left upright said, LOVE,
Inverted right said, HATE,
That I might never forget
Feeling too much of either
Would undo me.

Eleven years later,
I knew, I would know
Her touch by how she caressed
Both calloused words,
Like a wolfmate
Licking my wounds.
Next page