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* Some Early Poems by Russ Dodson *
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a triolet on unicorns and virgins
the unicorn is very hard to find
although a few of them are still around
most all of them have left this world behind
the unicorn is very hard to find
for every virgin with an open mind
there is a unicorn that may be found
the unicorn is very hard to find
although a few of them are still around
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an elizabethan sonnet
right now I'm going to sit me down and write
a form of the elizabethan sonnet
if it proves good enough for public sight
then I will surely put my name upon it
then I suppose I'll have to make the rounds
of all my friends to see if they will read it
to tell me how it feels or how it sounds
(and if they critisize I'll try to heed it)
then when the poem's as good as it should be
and all agree it needs no alteration
perhaps in time I'll even try and see
if it is good enough for publication
but should this poem the publishers deny
well then another one I'll have to try
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an amber dream of Loraine
have you ever had a lovely dream
that was a gently pulsing tide
of gold - as if some amber beam
had caused your very soul to gleam
with golden bonds that held inside
the long lost hopes you would redeem?
oh! once I dreamed that dream - in vain
the golden glow filled me within
an angel's song was loves refrain
an angel's love released my pain
an angel's kiss relieved my sin
an angel whom the gods named 'Rain
when I awoke I still could feel
the golden glow that filled my heart
until the grim, cold naked truth
caused gold to dim from dreams of youth
and tore my love and me apart
sometimes I wonder - was it real?
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miffed
yesterday I read a poem
'twas written by a friend of mine
the form and style were excellent
the subject of the poem - divine
but as I read resentment grew
although I tried to fight it
how dare he pen that poem
before I had a chance
to write it!
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on reading Taylor Caldwell's "A Pillar of Iron"
from dismal bloody pages of the past
out of the gloomy shroud that covers all
the words of long dead men of ancient wisdom ring
and echoing their prophesies I sing
the tyrant's old and soon must surely fall
and we will win to freedom then - at last
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http://www.mozilla.org/start/
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my love in candlelight
The burning candle flickers low
and in the dancing darting flame
I see your face and now I know
what longing is - I call your name.
I know you hear but you don't heed
my plaintive cry and all the while
my heart cries out it's greatest need
you do not speak - you only smile.
I tell myself that you're not here
you're but an image in my mind.
I reach to touch but do not dare
not wanting what I know I'll find.
Now the candle flickers, dieing,
shedding one small waxen tear.
Could it be that you are crying,
sorry that the end is near?
The candle now gives up the fight.
The feeble flame begins to wane
and then goes out and I was right
for with the dark you're gone again
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a tiny poem
a poem is running 'round my head
and if I ever catch it
it's such a little tiny one
I fear I'll have to stretch it
then when I get it written down
so it can tell it's story
for all the big, wide world to hear
I'll revel in it's glory
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eco-rape (a ballade)
dark green against a blue that's oh-so pale
the trees that stand against the winter skies
remind me of some ancient maiden's veil
occluding naked breast from prying eyes
regardless of her suitors' passioned sighs
earth tries to keep her veil of trees and air
resisting every scheme they might devise
and still her suitors try to lay her bare
there was a time - once - when she could prevail
against her childrens' weak and feeble tries
when all the tricks they knew were no avail
she would not let them see beneath her guise
too soon these bullies learned and grew less wise
for with this learning grew their lack of care
they cannot help but hear her plaintive cries
and still her suitors try to lay her bare
with hardened hearts still heedless of her wail
in massive force they took her by surprise
upon her naked breast do they regale
they make a wasteland out of paradise
they do not yield - they will not compromise
they rape and ravage her beyond repair
then try to justify their wrong with lies
and still her suitors try to lay her bare
- envoy -
in retrospect man may - someday - surmise
the damage he has done to one so fair
but as I write these charges he denies
and still her suitors try to lay her bare
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The Fire Next Time
sinners
of the world
bow down before the
gods you have created
for they are mighty gods
indeed
prostrate yourselves in supplication
denounce these your most grievous sins
lest reprimands come in blinding flashes
of unholy terror with voices of thunder
punctuated with
mushroom-shaped clouds
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The Lesson
A crippled robin came today to feast outside my cell.
He hopped around on one good leg and did it very well.
And every other hop or so he'd stop and pluck a worm
and happily he'd swallow it regardless of it's squirm.
Then he would ruffle up his coat and turn his head and stare
up at my cell, as if to say 'So I'm crippled; I don't care.
For I still have the will to live; to face life on life's terms
I have two wings to get around, I get my share of worms.'
A lesson I've learned from that robin;
I harked to those words never said.
No more will I dwell on misfortune -
I'll dwell on my blessings instead.
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Amber
No sleep tonight.
I sit on my bed and think
or try to write
or just sit at my window
staring out through the bars,
staring out through the night,
beyond the fences and towers,
beyond the fields and road
at the steady spot of amber light that marks...
what? A warning?
It is a lonely - oh! so lonely - light,
there are no other lights around it.
It is alone.
Sometimes I become the light,
become one with the light
but mostly it's my friend.
Misery loves company.
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!FREEDOM!
FREEDOM!
Loving country, not the system,
can I be for a thing
that is not for me?
I can't. That is not for me.
And you?
Freedom!
Where have 'we the people' gone?
I seem to remember somewhere,
some not-so-long-ago:
the right to life, liberty,
pursuit of happiness?
Going, going, gone!
Who has stolen this birthright?
Held it for ransom -
Sold it for profit!
Freedom.
Where lie the greatest profits?
In contraband.
The more illegal the thing
the greater the demand.
The more illegal things
the greater the profits.
Who reaps these profits?
What law governs those who reap?
Which laws do they govern?
Freedom?
Where have
'we the people' gone?
Politics - campaigns
shadow plays
performed by strutting puppets
upon the stage of democracy
before fleeced eyed patrons of the arts
of delusion - deceit.
Who pulls the strings
also pulls the wool.
Who pulls the strings?
Where have 'we the people'
left to go?
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Flamenco
Flashing fingers rise and fall
with rythmic grace upon the strings.
Unerringly they find the notes
and send them forth on silvery wings.
The fingers move so skillfully
across the strings so sure and bold,
they tell a tale of times gone by,
of life and love in days of old.
That haunting melody flows on
and how the silken, sad refrain
recalls the joys of love - and yet -
reminds me gently of love's pain.
Swiftly then the tempo changes -
blurring fingers strum and roll
telling of unleashed emotion -
moving my impassioned soul.
Now the pounding tempo breaks -
again I hear that sad refrain
singing of my soul's fulfillment -
of my heart - at peace again.
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