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Moms View Message Board: Short Stories, Poetry and Articles : More Hippy Poems
Your meanings are always hidden from me. With veiled expressions, you speak A language my mind can never comprehend And tongue can not repeat. So my understanding Never reaches the goals That you have set for me. I follow, Trying to fit my steps Into the footprints You have left Along the path. They are blurred, And sometimes Disappear completely. Like a child In a winding fun-house corridor, I grope with hands outstretched, Hoping that you will reach for me And lead the way, But you are lengths ahead And so in the darkness, I stumble unaided. B. V. Dahlen ©
His spirit dwelled On the borderline Between light And darkness, Self examination, And unawareness, Total empathy, Apathy Inner peace And disillusionment. But he kept on searching Though his contradictions To find himself, And to know Where he was at Someday............ B. V. Dahlen ©
PANDORA'S BOX What is this I see in you? Could it be the self I've hidden for so long? Why do you torture me, Seeking things I wish to bury In the crypt of my secret soul? There is no joy there, No self respect, Only broken dreams And disillusionment. Please don't crack the healing crust. B. V. Dahlen ©
I carved you name Into the already marred Table top. Then, with those That went before you, Your name burned itself Into my memory. It wasn't necessary For like a shell That slowly, after years Of constant clinging, Wears itself Into it's mother rock, You had found your hidden niche Within my heart. B. V. Dahlen ©
When I was younger I'd close my eyes And pretend That I was a princess In a fairy tale, Or the heroine Of a thousand novels The year have passed Now, with open eyes I still pretend. I'm a beatnik A hippy A mod, A folk singer In fringed vest And cowboy boots, A debutante, A biker's moll. The dreams became too real. Somewhere along the way, I lost myself. And now, I know not who I am. B. V. Dahlen ©
Were I blind, I would not see The hurt I caused in someone's eyes. Were I deaf, I'd never hear The wails of hungry masses. Were I to lose my sense of touch I'd never feel the pain Of rags that chafe against my skin. And had I not a way to smell, The rot of mankind's waste would not offend me. But I am whole And I am here. Life at times overwhelms me With hurt and hunger Pain and waste. I must live amidst it all. B. V. Dahlen ©
This shell, What is it? A phony smile, Meaningless conversations Filled with small talk And big words? Deep underneath, A crouching, frightened being, Sensitive to truth and light Is hiding from the mockery Of other shells. Come forth And show the beauty That lies there Under that depthless facade, Or like a flower, Waiting for a brighter day to bloom, You will rot and die, A tightly closed bud, A shell and not a man. B. V. Dahlen ©
Tonight I lay, A phone cradled in my hand, A voice so welcomed Whispered words That should be pondered a lifetime. Without hesitation, He asked me to be his, To share whatever fate would deal. I wept. My soul was soaring. No words could define How much I needed him tonight. Though I was here And he was there, I know Beside him on his pillow Was more of me Than that which occupied this space; An empty husk Who's soul had flown To his side Where it belongs. In the dawn As the shadows Of the night are lifted, I'm there with him, protected. We are far from the world, With all it's grief and discontent. Now evermore, The only pain I'll know Will be of too much loving. B. V. Dahlen ©
Tuesday's child Sits in the Hut And cries for times That are no more And names That throw Grotesque shadows Across her memory. She sits and searches Within the dimensions Of her mind For a key To the timeless riddle "Where did it go My yesterday?" B. V. Dahlen ©
New sunlight on the inner wall Menus bearing inspirations Smeared lipstick-scribbled poetry Heat waves, Cracked reflections, Carved table tops Fish nets Love, Free? Oh Lord I'm here again. Where can Soggy Bottoms be? B. V. Dahlen ©
Is it worth it all, Rejection, Poor service, Hostile glances? All in all the price we pay For being what we are, Unconformed, Amidst mass conformity. Should we submit, And be overwhelmed By numbers, Teeming multitudes, One with humanity's shame, Uniformity. B. V. Dahlen ©
It was our night to freak out, Sing the Mickey Mouse Song, Harmonize to honky tonk. The Hut was wild and full and moving, And everyone kept Blowing their cool. The Truck Stop was there. "Great hair, Man". The Flowers of Evil Sat and played chess At a side table. We improvised with Zappa, And then went home To crash or sleep it off. B. V. Dahlen ©
I stood. The wind blistered my cheeks and the cold numbed me through. My breath clouded the air and made a smoke screen to hide my features. People passed shivering under weighty layers, hands in pockets, collars turned against the wind. Cars, warm islands in an icy sea, sped by without a backward glance from the passengers within. I stamped my feet. I could not feel them anymore. The wind spoke. It's deep throated moan crept down alleyways and side streets, accompanied by the chatter of my teeth. I stood... for endless hours watching, hoping, waiting, and then at last the bus came. B. V. Dahlen ©
How or why we met, I know not. Perhaps fate, Or some good angel, Sent you my way, With your laughing Brown eyes, And contagious smile, Or I your way, With my Phony accent And pigtails. I only know that I, With all my heart, Thank those nameless fates Or angels Who helped to shape My destiny. For on that night, Fortune smiled on me. B. V. Dahlen ©
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