..................................................................................................................................................
The Poetry Of
Anita Dahlman..........................................
pledge
burnished laurels,
proprietary crests,
benchmarks of station:
these have no spell
for me.
give me muddy shoes,
fresh dirt beneath my nails,
and a yard full of carefree
dandelions and buttercups.
i sprawl in the grass, whistling
at birds who twitter with concern
at the grinning fool rolling
with the weeds.
i'll tumble through manicured
lawns, and tiptoe round the
roseate blooms, so fragile
in their glass houses.
when crashing into hallowed
hall, i'll whisk away the dust
with just a bit of spit
and polish.
brother
in this quiet hour I hear you,
and looking up with a smile,
recognize the boy with tousled
dreams beyond far sight.
life dealt you a breathless punch,
early on when, as a young man,
you gazed at your reflection
in shimmering pools, and laughed,
a cracked and eerie gleeful sound.
years then wound on, spent
in a wrenching quest to become
undeceived, a whole, someone.
and now, as hours unravel
with alarming speed, you stand
at my side, catching up the minute
shreds in big, sure hands
to wink at me and grin, steadily,
with the same far sight that lightened
young days, this time with anchored arms,
saying as you open the heavy door,
welcome.
would you?
who could survive
the intensity of the pounding
heart beats in the throat,
robbing words
from an agitated mind,
and blurring the vision
of witnesses who watched
the young girl in the ditch
at the front of the house
laid down by a sneak
attack from jealous
rivals, who arrived and
departed with a swarm of
punches
intent on one thing only:
to warn away the fool's
dream of a boy who,
having gained access
through her window
raised at midnight,
promising fair returns
of regard
only to leave her
bruised and marked
with a bull's eye shining
from blue eyes, asking
who believed.
