NaPoWriMo #3

Dearest Mr. Cohen,

I came to your music quite late in my life,

Pardon me, but this couldn’t be helped,

I was born a little too late for my soul in nineteen sixty-four,

By this time in your life you had already seen,

The stitch, purpose, and the cosmic inseams,

What about life and why we use words,

Having been placed so strategically.

Yes, I am American born, wishing more understood,

The depth and compassion, you’ve given the world,

I guess it is true, as I’ve always been told,

I just have a flower girl’s soul,

For my inner child knew, when first I heard you,

As a poet, as one of the wilde,

You spoke from my heart, so true.

I’ve listened, I’ve learned,

I’ve read and reviewed,

Studies your portrait a million times through,

Held the words you have offered,

The naked soul you shared often,

And, yes, I argue with God too.

You kept it simple so much of the time,

No need to make burdens or bruise,

You made it so hard, you tore it apart,

Just for a reason to use up the glue,

You planted weeds and harvested flowers,

Boquets of glass, caskets for those who choose,

How we live at times, to merely taste the hues.

You’ve taught us of love’s emaculate embrace,

Kissing war of the foot though with distaste,

To sing for our sister’s freedom and grace,

Even though our counting beads are worn,

On hands stealing bread, feeding mouths of babes,

Your strong laughter lives in our pink hallways,

We shant ever forget your face.

You examined all our heros, and the heroins relaced,

Immortalizing these fragile poets promise with your praise,

Others dared not walk that space for lack of courage spent,

You, Leonard, took the dark wood’s path with lampless gallows,

For there is the greatest danger in lighting a smoke,

When your clothes are soaked in your truth and gasoline,

Opening all of the closets at once with no conical of refrain.

With Sharon you’ve breathed life into woman, Glorifying She in the fullness of the Self,

In Her truest beauty, Her sins, Her nakedness, or your word gowns,

Tis how we find our compass all so often, music being all we have,

In the temple, in the bedroom, in the grass or flowing fountain,

The melody seeks the melody hands dancing passion’s play to love,

This seeking ever draws us home in the end if we listen long enough.

To thank you overly, Mr. Cohen, for the songs and poetry,

I know that’s not your particular style, So, I’d like to say I am grateful, friend.

For your journey being such as it has been,

For your sharing, for your great smile, your diligence, and the quest,

The risk you took in searching so deeply, inside your wounded Self,

For Suzanne, Boogie Street, and Master Song, (to barely name a few)

for every drop of yourself you gifted.


Carla Dawn

© cdd All Rights Reserved


Wuxia Honourably Armed

The edge of the bamboo grove is still the eye of the storm spinning roulette in my crown caravan wheels … I sit on Tara’s throne in the cup of a lotus blossom and wait … it has been two thousand years since my oath was taken … it has been only six days since the last battle was waged … my wounds are healing … the rainbow comes each morning to nurture me in the colors given by the master of creation … at times there are seven shades … at others seventy hues of the heavens … yet, more warriors than not can only perceive The Absence or The Light … I soak in the Rain of the Father who brought these children … his Bride nurses my wounds with her herbs and spittle … All is silent in this glimpse beyond witnessing … my construct of sheltered shamelessness … where the voices of the atmosphere are all one hears … until it is time again to listen for the whimpering of battle … to engage … until slightness perceives a wrestling along the lines of demarcation … between peace and those who cannot surrender their slit soaked war … I am honorably armed and thus, I rise to bear the sword of my soul once again … blood thirst emotion not yet mastered … my humans unable to lie down the spear and saber even when the helpless slaughtered can be seen … I seek them beyound the gates of illusion … their Nirvana hidden in the storm clouds the bamboo grove swirls beneath … I face the Void wuxia as was the Buddha.

© C.D.D.AllRightsReserved

#NaPoWriMo 29

Poor Prayer

There is no Saint who can hear an empty heart,

Exists no God who sees a self proclaimed fool,

No Matron Mother bears beliefless children homeward,

If all prayers are whispered on the wings of woe,

This is why we have Angels come into our lives,

To lead us to the light once more, when darkness falls.

#NaPoWriMo 29
© 2015 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Right Reserved

#NaPoWriMo 24

You pass through my body in moments of which I feel need … the sheet of your shadow creasing into my bones … as is you are in this very room … motioning the air about in rub tickle tones of molecular slow and salty tangos … the way someone might on a train caught in the sliver shot of a fall rush … people pass hiding they felt a spark … hand brushing the back, a wool coat … that back leaning into a woman’s breast, grazing her into a soft silence … I look up from my work searching the room for your coffee brown eyes … seeking some spark of synaptic contact we wove in voice overs on the phone when winter was brutal … shut in and shouting out for some humanity to hear and claim us … If I can’t have your hands I’d settle for your eyes on me  … in resting moments I lay the blanket of your Self upon me … tucking your head under my chin, your arms encompassing me … I listen to the changing rhythms of my heartbeat and I sleep … you whisper there will be cooked beans when I awaken and leave the kindest parts of you behind to keep me warm … my eyes close as you leave the room… the door cracked only a little bit … You pass through me at times …

#NaPoWriMo 24

  © 2015 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Right Reserved

#NaPoWriMo 23

I am the needle … said Soul and you my magnet … Let me thread you with the silk of my aching desires … I will dead pan plumb the gravity line of your afflictions … Roll the lacing thusly thrice, the Knot of Wisdom catching in blessed assurance the tatter edge of mend~less muscle … Between the stippled patterns inquire, where the cog line binds … Bathe me in myrrh, wine, and Balms of Gilead … that I shall be suchered into your heart … We becoming as One burning engorged vessel …polarized by the spiritual compass of the Holy Ghost and the fire of mechanistic mystics …

 #NaPoWriMo 23

  © 2015 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Right Reserved

Un~Forgiven #NaPoWriMo 17

It was you, dark glint of Love’s light, who asked to see my palm … who read it , sight unseen, through the fiddle back fronds of forever after … the razor edge of your finger nail slicing my fate line in two … it bled like a fermented pomegranate eager to burst from it’s rind … becoming shell in the eons it had waited for you to sky blind seek and find me … to love even at the risk of one’s own life is to coin change purse the soul, my love … Baba will only laugh as my coins tumble glinting in the noonday’s sun … gold, silver, and copper chiming the song of the universe on their dancing down the stairs … “Truth, Love, and Simplicity ” alone … how could I have forgotten myself so easily ? … to relinquish my vogel of protection and hand my wings to you tied with pretty ribbons … the grey spade you gave me and requested I start digging … I knew it was a grave even then, yet for whom? … My Self or My Sister … she has eyes who hold a hundred hollow horrors … oh, the displeasure of being my sister’s keeper … either way we are un~forgiven by you … for not handing over the keys to some Verita’s phantom maze … I fall short of a feather gaining passage on your barge tonight … Thus, I shall run with the dog men at the river come dusk … and bleeding blue from the canker and the bramble dust … sham shackle home to beat the dawn, to greet the dead in soul, in heart, and in dread.

#NaPoWriMo 17
  © 2015 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Right Reserved

If Not for Technology #NaPoWriMo 10

It was in a dream somewhere I saw your face … “like an ad in the old fashioned news”, you’d say … I watched you and read the posts on your page … saw the pictures from your life … listened to the tunes you would post … I learned about what you did as a trade … where you live, even saw the food that you ate … One day I got bold and reposted a poem … some whirling and twirling round something someone wrote … truth is I forget the words or even the rhyme … I just knew I couldn’t waste any more time … my heart was reaching inside of your walls, down the corridors, and hanging out in the halls … I knocked on the door and when you opened it wide … I fumbled and lost it and I dropped my pride … I broke down and  choked up, yeah I spilled all the beans … confessed and addressed and oh hell, I made a mess of everything … too many phone conversations … too many late nights burnt out … so many things mistaken … now we will never sort it out … had our eyes met … or we ever held hands … had a simple good night kiss … happened unplanned … but things aren’t done that way anymore … there’s no old fashioned love in store … for dreamers like me who are caught in the belief … if not for technology … we might have been … Mail Order Annie and her Handsome Dan.

 #NaPoWriMo 10

© 2015 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Right Reserved