Gene Dixon
Sonneteer
Gene Dixon
Magician.
Gene Dixon
Man of Many Hats
 © 2013  Gene Dixon
All rights reserved
The Peaceful Pub Poetry Forum
Wordflair Community of Poets and Writers
In the Halls of Justice


"...there's a crack in everything...that's how the light gets in..."                                                                          Leonard Cohen 

It's not without fear 
that the prophet predicts heavy rain 
after six months of sunshine 
and three weeks of physical pain 

Pale women sing at the dawn 
waking everybody in town 
children wonder at what they've become 
and they're not alone 

In the building's cold windows 
signs of a midnight increase 
One name is murmurred 
as if one name alone could bring peace 

In the hallways the doors were all closed 
Mannequins would not hold a pose 
Someone sang, holding one thornless rose 
choosing poems over prose 

At the end of the hallway 
stood a man whose eyes were cast down 
the marshal was silent 
in spite of white gloves and a frown 

Traders smiled behind cold vacant eyes 
knowing failures are followed by sighs 
until someone finally tries 
to pretend they are wise 

Off in the distance 
everyone chose a new stance 
there were signals and semaphores 
some thought they should learn how to dance 

You might say it all was a game 
Nothing ever turns out the same 
No one would accept any blame 
or admit any shame 

The judge and the jester 
each spoke at the end of the trial 
saying justice was served 
with a nod, a wink and a smile 

Everyone stopped by to see 
if the gathering would be set free 
and they were, including the three 
they left chained to a tree 




The Quisling


Like as not, you won't remember this,
dismissing in that offhand way of yours
a touch that might be termed a Judas kiss;
betrayal that conveniently occurs.
Through all the fog, most people would agree
that though souls sing they seldom sound the same.
Some choose a gallows, some a savior's tree.
The way we die at times reveals our name.
Harlequins will hide behind a mask
and speak of love to angels and to imps.
Their eyes are thin. A question one might ask:
Who are the whores and who might be the pimps?
Some men are sold without a conscious thought
and some, quite conscientiously, are bought.

Superficial Street


Do you remember the night he bought us?
There was little we could do
We were touching all the rooftops
and painting the lightbulbs blue

Somewhere a rooster was crowing
His comb had missing teeth
And everyone just laughed at him
On Superficial Street

The pavement was cracked and groaning
The stairways sighed in pain
The traffic lights were smiling
They said, "Don't come back again"

The watchman sang the 23rd psalm
While the preacher washed his feet
And all the bills were overdue
On Superficial Street

At midnight, a paper salesman
Brought a package filled with holes
The nighttime clerk was moaning.
"I'm too busy saving souls"

The upstairs maid refused to talk
She was bitter, she was sweet
She flew her flag at sundown
On Superficial Street

Down the road was a silent factory
Filled with leprechauns and gnomes
Who traveled around the country
Eating other people's homes

You could hear them through the lightning
Their speech was incomplete
And half of them were skeptical
About Superficial Street

Now and then a barefoot woman
Shined her shoes and modeled clothes
She spoke in silent confidence
About nothing, I suppose

Nearby there stood a spokesman
Who whistled through his teeth
While she danced behind the windows
On Superficial Street

There were four itinerant ministers
Who prayed the night away
Their hands were in their pockets
There was little they would say

Their collars were on the sofa
While they sifted through the wheat
And they wore their cufflinks on their belts
On Superficial Street

Fifteen carried baskets
Thirteen just played the game
Someone turned the lights on
Shouting, "I think I know your name!"

His friends, in a fit of laughter
Chained the jester to the minister's feet
And they ran three-legged races
On Superficial Street

Across the road, the fallen idol
Turned his back into the night
And muttered to the growing crowd,
"I can't believe this sight!"

After teaching professors lessons
About victory and defeat
He found that they knew nothing
About Superficial Street

The Sean Side of Gene
Gene Dixon
Man of Many Hats Pg 2
Gene Dixon 
Historical Poems