Pitching Pennies Poetry: Gene Dixon ~ Man of Many Hats,

Slate Mountain - A Rite of Passage

Fifty feet - or more - a gash of pure slate
sabered into the hillside by some long-ago tremor.
Shark's eye black, smooth as a slick smile and
awesome, like a cresting tsunami.

All that to ten year old eyes.
Awesome and all that
to the torn-knee, worn seat, blue-jean wrapped
riders of cardboard magic carpets.
All that and then some!

We dared the climb through thorn stemmed bushes,
green as Ireland, purpled with berries
that painted summer-sweet stains
on bravado grins.

We breathed the challenge of top-to-bottom
twenty second plunges into eternity,
jeans to cardoard, cardboard to slate,
eyes to blue sky, souls to God.

It ended like an answered prayer,
a jolting surprise of survival.
The only toll a scuffed sneaker
and a skipped heartbeat or two.
I remember the victory chant
over cheers of challenges met -
"Is that all there is?

Pax Mater -

One Second Less than Morning

Your singular shadows,
faced now by new suns,
slowly fade.
Time opens like a sky.

As if by magic,
a bridgeless canyon bridged,
needing only to touch a hem
to heal the crossing hearts.

Yours now
are the fabled fields of peace,
sparkling in the sweet dew
of this new birthed land.

When the Women Came Out to Dance

Dark burkha hems brush the path
like new brooms.
A balm of silence smooths anxious eyes.

From the east comes a shrouded sunrise,
to the west move shrinking shadows.
Blood still glistens in the gutter.
The soldiers are gone.
no men are in sight.

An old woman, with ageless bravado, sang first,
trilling the birdsong music of morning.
And the women came out to dance.

Like dervishes they spun,
when the women came out to dance.
Like they were the Sultan's daughters,
when the women came out to dance.

In the cleansing rain the children could laugh,
all in the peace of the moment,
when the women came out to dance.

Amalthea,The Unicorn

Are you really light as air? Can you truly fly?
Does your graceful, spiral lance put stars into the sky?
You walk in quiet beauty, your name is world renowned.
Upon what silver pasture can the likes of you be found?

Flowing soft from crown to nape, you wear a cloud-like mane.
Your eyes have captured moonlight, you dance inside the rain.
You move as soft as silence like shadows on the ground.
Upon what misty meadow can the likes of you be found?

You live inside the poet's dreams, a fragile flower, free.
In time you've touched the topaz sky and swum the sapphire sea.
A carousel has been your world with children spinning 'round.
Among what rainbow visions can the likes of you be found?

The mystery of your magic lives in every tale that's told
of princesses in peril, of knights whose hearts are bold.
On the banners of the royal house, your images abound.
Where, in God's creations, can the likes of you be found?

Immortals, frail and delicate, live mostly in our dreams.
Love, like truth and unicorns, is seldom what it seems.
Still we strain to feel its tender touch and tremble at its sound.
Within which lover's laughter can the likes of you be found?

Sarah and the Chess Piece Promenade

The chessmen said in unison,
"We really love to dance
and we will take some drastic steps
just to get the chance

The bishop, most outspoken,
related with a shout
how all would court Terpsichore
when no one was about.

Continuing, the bishop told
of how the lowly pawn
takes one step, two steps at the most,
when someone's looking on.

But when there's no one present,
they dart like dragonflies
with reels and jigs and brand new steps
to everyone's surprise.

The rooks, in silent splendor,
move straightly for the crown
but in moments of pure privacy
they really do get down!

Four knights move quite precisely
while engaged in solemn game.
But left alone they tap their toes,
all dancing just the same.

The king and queen enjoy a waltz
They'll now and then gavotte.
They have been known to jitterbug
when the music got too hot.

"We clergy," spoke the bishop,
"On the bias we do move.
But left to our own devices,
we can really get in a groove!"

One night the house was dimly lit.
Seemed everyone was gone.
The chessmen said, "This is our chance
to really get it on!"

And so they danced across the board.
Square to square and more.
They two-stepped, three-stepped, leapt and spun!
Some fell right to the floor!

They thought no one was looking.
They thought no one could hear.
They thought the house was empty.
They thought the coast was clear.

But Sarah stole up secretly,
keeping close to the wall.
Then, peeking 'round the corner,
Sarah saw it all!

The Woman in the Garden

It was the tree I wished to conquer.
The apple was incidental.
Who knew that justice
flowed to every branch?

The serpent lied.
They always do
and we believe them
in spite of their sibilance.

I will return the apple
minus one bite.
(The man never tasted knowledge,
no matter what he says.)
You shouldn't cast him out.
He will surely
lose his way.

Baudelaire and Rimbaud
in the Late Afternoon

One bright square of sun,
briefly patched into the rug,
holds the sleeping Baudelaire.
A calico in this lifetime,
he has forgotten how to write poetry.
His only link to past postures
is the twitching tail;
an involuntary betrayal of dark thoughts.

Rimbaud,
bristling in orange counterpoint,
studies each tic,
as if trying to resolve the allegory of movement.
He celebrates past lives with frolic,
remembering metaphors, stray similes and
metrical dances.

Together with the dust,
disturbed in late-afternoon sunbeams,
they bring to mind a literature,
lost in too many reincarnations.

The Day the Carnival Left Town

The carnival was closing down,
the roustabouts were taking things apart
The organ-grinder shed a tear
while gentlemen and ladies spoke of art

I was sitting on a bench,
my face and hands all soaked in sweat
Considering the time I spent
as the jester's sweet soubrette

My heart was not yet broken
but things were getting off to a good start

The side-show crew was laughing,
thinking of the money they had made
The bearded lady said again
that she was going into a new trade

I was looking to the east,
watching stars in steadfast stance
I didn't think the day would come
when stars would cease their nightly dance

My heart was not yet broken
but things were just a little bit delayed

The blond illusionist stood still
while visiting policemen came and went
Singing songs and telling lies
while standing near the fortune-teller's tent

I thought about the day before
when everything was bathed in light
I didn't see the setting sun
or contemplate the awesome night

My heart was not yet broken
but I'm not certain that was your intent

The wagons lined up on the street,
everything in sight was taken down
The marching band began to play
conducted by a ragged hobo clown

I hid my face behind my glove,
tears were welling in my eyes
From festive fields to vacant lots
there came a song of sad goodbyes

My heart was not yet broken
but wait until the carnival leaves town.

Her Room

The scent of jasmine,
purple flowers in milk glass.

A canopied four-poster,
two pillows, Grandmother's quilt.

In the corner, a straight backed chair
draped with yesterday's dress.

Casual scarves in dresser drawers,
iridescent vials of perfumes and masquerades

and the mirror,
of course, the mirror.

The Clarity of Clouds
for MSS

There is a longing
found within the finger that writes on walls,
that traces time on dusty glass.
There is a searching,
through volumes of vagrant thought,
for one fast phrase that sees beyond sight.
There is an ache
for the truth of light,
for finding stars among dying planets.
There is a voice,
cleansed of the bitter rasp of desolation,
that speaks, with clouded clarity,
of faith
of hope
of ambivalent love.

In Time

You hid
in the corner of my eye
like a speck of dust
waiting to swim across my sight.

You hid,
in the corner of my mind,
Like some solitary synapse
waiting to connect my thoughts.

I didn't count on you
becoming part of me
so quickly,
so thoroughly that
the taste of you is in every sip,
the feel of you is in every texture,
the look of you is in all my visions.

In time
we became the hands on a clock,
ever moving in the same direction,
ever marking moments
in time.

Pitching Pennies Poetry

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Gene Dixon ~ Man of Many Hats,

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