Dah- Three Poems

BIO:

Dah’s most recent book is ‘The Translator’ from ‘Transcendent Zero Press’.

His first three books are from ‘Stillpoint Books’. Dah’s poetry has been published

by editors from the U.S., the U.K., Ireland, Canada, China, Philippines, and India.

His poems recently appeared in Lost Coast Review, Recusant, The Cape Rock,

River&South Review, Acumen Journal, Sandy River Review, Stone Voices Magazine,

The Linnet’s Wings, and Diverse Voices Quarterly. Dah has been nominated

for the Pushcart by the editor of ‘Transcendent Zero Press’.

He lives in Berkeley, California where he is working on the manuscripts

for his fifth and sixth books.

 

Visit: Words Of Dahlusion

poem 1:

Disheveled Boats

 

Tonight the wind tangles the waves

making sounds like distant chants

 

breaker after breaker gone wild

 

The current is a jealous lover

that pulls us apart, together, apart,

a net of salt, in, out, gasping, floating

 

                                               She says:  To float is divine

 

Our bodies, disheveled boats moored

against a dune

A sky of gulls roving, roving

Restless watchers

 

We fuck in the dunes

and sink into sultry bodies

Her black hair, as if night spilled

an apparition

A cantilever of darkness balances

the ornate moon

 

We are fire and sea, undulant

floating driftwood, lyrical,

something of a hymn 

Dune grass rises between our thighs

 

She curls beneath me like waves

that come one after another

Saltwater trickles down the dune

White-hot

Marrow-hot

I burst

poem 2: 

Everyday Motion

 

Perfection and imperfection

a storytelling favorite

the fable

of yes and no, good and bad

 

We spin in between

sometimes dominated by one more than the other

the gravitational pull

wants to bury us

the ego wants to move forward

 

In everyday motion

we attempt to implement perfection

as standard existence, the perfect body

the perfect mind

to hold life at its most everlasting

 

Dark light in its perfection

Bright light in its perfection

both imperfect to the other

 

Tonight I feel imperfect

tossing and turning near the surface

of discomfort

because perfection is a con

a phony

a shopkeeper for the misinformed

poem 3:

Imperfection

 

My head is filled with last night’s dreams

or memories or both

At times I want to forget

that with most opposites

there is a gray line between them

 

which creates a reason for me

to not believe in anything

 

If memories and dreams are voiceless

then what is it I’m hearing

 

In a dream stars rose from the ocean

In the midst of that

a bodiless voice 

a mute voice

with memories seeking moments

that had vanished

 

At times I feel nobody’s home

that my body is soulless

and everything’s a dead dream

 

and having not fulfilled its life

a dead dream is imperfection

a dog-eared page

that nobody returns to

 

Along the way

I’ve lost my guardian angel

and between life and death

the gray line expands