Monday, April 1, 2019




Upon the fingers
of my left hand,

I count my wishes:
Peace. Love. Shelter.
Water. Food.

I sing, clearly, vibrating
and expanding my heart
with contentment.

Each day I attempt
to laugh
a little more

while holding smiles
of others
in my arms.

Day after day
I whisper to our injured earth,
apologizing for our human clumsiness.

I live counting the leaves
on all the trees
— every leaf is my cousin.

When autumn’s rain
brings them down
I will bury each leaf,
reciting one word: Love

— only to water them with my beautiful tears
and bless them with my vigorous pulse.

Later I will press a fallen leaf
in between the pages of this book.
Years later I will come back to it
as if an angel sleeping.


This is what I say when light breaks through dark:
O beautiful world, there are light-drops in your eyes
and bird-songs in your ears, and

in morning’s rising waves, creation’s graceful stream
moves her tender sex into first light
where dreams expunge their bedlam. O dawn.

O sweet fragrance. O glittering beams. The vast place
of your mystery, of your body returning to me, is myself
gathered as earth, water, air and spirit:

I see the wondrous green grass, the leaves that are
not alone, a white cloth of clouds, the moon fading
back to its beginning behind the night.

I see insects questioning nothing and shadows forming
themselves. I see the moment in its whole action neither
in a hurry nor moving slowly, and the sky’s blue breast

so easy and calm, so patient and true. I rise
into the stretched-out swells of light, into phase
after phase of truth and passion, of peaceful emotion.

I AM the poet of dawn, the cock that crows hot
and hungry, the blood fibers of fire, of sunrise,
of splendor and beauty. I hear life stretching, whispering,

waking up, grasping and holding me, pulse after pulse,
my body warming up, my eyes filling with colors and shapes,
and longing for the day’s cosmic circuit to flow in and out

of my radiant bones, blood and muscles. I AM everything
dawn is: the chill, the heat, stillness, quietness,
the rising, the pulsing. O climax! I AM all of this.


When the ocean lifts her waves,
standing, as if searching or holding
the smallest molecule of air, I cannot
help my innocence or the wild howl
from my soul

because a part of me, as if lost,
returns or longs for the ocean’s
breath, her leisurely jellyfish or
the chatter of dolphins. And up above
the misted light sees

the wind-streaked salt rising
with a motion that shapes
liquid spirits before me, simple
and eyeless. I sit and watch
the ocean throwing
one wave upon another
at the air, one joint-less
element to another, both
holding then letting go.


DAH: Dah’s seventh poetry collection is Something Else’s Thoughts (Transcendent Zero Press) and his poems have been published by editors from the US, UK, Ireland, Canada, Spain, Singapore, Philippines, Poland, Australia, Africa, and India. He is a Pushcart Prize and  Best Of The Net nominee and the lead editor of the poetry critique group, The Lounge.  Dah lives in Berkeley, California, where he is working on his eighth book of poetry.

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