"dahlusion" poems - Hello Poetry

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

dahlusion

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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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

dahlusion

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

dahlusion

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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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

dahlusion

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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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

dahlusion

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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