Three Poems by Dah

sc june 18

After All, Enough Is Enough

A cat named Gideon
lives in the crud of an alley
with the odor of urine
and decayed scraps
Trashcans are talking to the wind

A skinny drunk named Wily
crawls out of cardboard
and rags
It’s good to sleep it off here
he thought
The chirp of a hidden cricket

At dawn Wily wishes
upon the last star
though convinced he’s unworthy
of such dreams
A blue fly nibbles

I could be lying to myself
not admitting that Wily
is the Idler
lounging inside of me
Woe to idle lives

Sometimes I feel less human
less capable
like an elephant in a circus
with days of chains and locks
or like a head-bobbing marionette

Today will be different
I’ll turn a new leaf
walk the straight and narrow
give a little whistle
do the right thing
With each fib my nose grows

Snow Glass Apple

I am rooted in the secret
of apple trees coddling
scarlet fruit
with strips of light winking
inside summer’s green fiber

If I were Snow
the bluebirds would sing
excitedly lacing the air
with glass ribbons
above this fragrant August

Waving its arms a spider agrees
though too busy to follow her
round and round
I envy the dwarves
coloring her dreams
with white roses and rainbows

I am not pure enough
nor true enough
for a breakable heart like hers
Though never seen nude
I’ve undressed her many times
Eyes glowing at the fruit

She wakes from her sleep
and exclaims
‘Oh, it’s adorable! Just like a doll’s house
with many butterflies as maids!’
I can’t stop looking at her
Then there’s Dopey, he don’t talk none

I am the sensitive Huntsmen
holding excessive compassion
My unbreakable arrows find no thrill
in killing stags
Now what are you
and who are you doin’ here?
Her bloody heart in my hand

A Rustling Imagination

Near the stream’s
soggy edges
thumb-sized toads are trolls
under large green leaves
They fade with each hop

Between summer and autumn
earth marinates her spread
Big white clover scatters
like scented snow
A blindworm’s topical escape

I see a pair of toy eyes
a small whiskered face
a gray coat neatly pressed
cautious field mouse
A large white fly buzzes

In the alleys of fern
a rustling imagination
overloads my logic
I’m sitting on a toadstool
Perhaps myself, perhaps not

Barely beneath the surface
of mulch
a mole of Thumbelina delight
stirs and trembles
A swallow zigzags happily

Bone-tired from the rolling sky
the sun staggers to keep up
I ogle an orange mushroom
the size of a teensy umbrella
The cloudbanks are paunchy

I move to where darkness begins
slightly before rain
There’s a rejoicing wind
with a body’s motion
blowing over small footprints
Perhaps mine, perhaps not

Dah’s sixth poetry collection is The Opening (CTU Publishing Group, 2018) and his poems have been published by editors from the US, UK, Ireland, Canada,  Singapore, Spain, Australia, Africa, Poland, Philippines and India. Dah lives in Berkeley,  California and is working on the manuscript for his ninth poetry book. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee and the lead editor of The Lounge, a poetry critique group. Dah’s seventh  book, Something Else’s Thoughts, is forthcoming in July 2018 from Transcendent Zero Press.




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