Gene Dixon
Man of Many Hats
Gene Dixon
Magician.
Gene Dixon
Voir Dire
 © 2013  Gene Dixon
All rights reserved
The Peaceful Pub Poetry Forum
Wordflair Community of Poets and Writers
Oppenheimer's Lament


Great petals in the sky burst yellow, red.
On stems of fire, mad flowers take their bloom
And in their madness call forth mankind's doom.
In seconds short, all are among the dead.

As far as eyes can see, the land laid waste.
As far as ears can hear, the sounds of pain
And some perceive such frightful loss as gain
Although there's only ashes left to taste.

From smallest seeds this demon giant did grow.
From minds of men comes such an awesome beast
That looks at life as tidbits in a feast
And revels in the worlds that it lays low.

     All life is death, all souls are gone to sod.
     Thus is their fate when men equate with God.

Pens, Poems and Paragraphs


We are the souls who dance on fallow page;
Who hide behind dark droplets from a quill,
Attempting to fit ranting to the rage,
Manipulating ink quite as we will.
We balance paragraphs on thinnest sheet.
Some call us clever verbal acrobats
Who tightrope walk upon iambic feet
While wearing varied anapestic hats.
The thickened plot we ladle out like soup,
Ranging wide from mystery to mirth.
From moon to sun to moon, 'til eyelids droop,
We seek the fullest measure of word's worth.
     For just reward, we ask no more than this:
     A coin, a laurel wreath, a lover's kiss.


Blind Faith


Choose now the quiet moment when you'll stand
And shield your soul from faulty visions sent
To quiet fears, deflect the dread intent
And hold you still. Then will a bold demand
Cause you to stir and stare into the sun;
Seek solace in those blinding shafts of light
That crown the day and drown the fear of night;
Behind whose shield a battle might be won.
The ransom has been paid, you've been set free.
Harsh expiation done and done again.
What has been writ receives a grand amen.
Salvation grew on more than just one tree.
     Fate's purpose is announced on broken bell.
     The message lies within its shallow knell.

Coming Home - The Prodigal


The bridge that spans the river of your tears
Is held in place by thinning strands of faith.
Your eyes display the depths of all the fears
That swirl around you like some evil wraith.
Your life, 'til now, has been a whirlwind race.
You ran with jackals, danced with dying dogs.
You've tossed away full measures of good grace.
You've sung with sinners, dined among the hogs.
The party's over, all the money spent.
The shallow shadows soon will disappear.
You're standing sandal-less, your garments rent.
You'll need the seven seas to scrub the smear.
     But, look, a hand extends in strong belief.
     It only takes a touch to bring relief.


Kafka Commentary


Inspired less by chance than by design,
Attempting to relieve the awesome press
Of deep concern for causing misalign
That strains the sinews past the point of stress,
We watch a simple raindrop try to pass,
In keeping with the laws of gravity,
A convoluted course down pane of glass,
As if evading some depravity.
You wouldn't think a simple drop of rain
In consequence would cause such depth of thought.
We contemplate the levels we attain
And wonder at the worth of what we sought.
     Then deep within our mind a synapse spark
     Is all that saves us from the hollow dark.


Blowin' Smoke


Judgements based on syllables in space
And pictures fed through wires ever crossed
Are recipes for egg upon one's face
Or salad mixed from words so lightly tossed
Some add a two to two and answer, "five"
And claim to know the length and breadth of life
Last week they didn't know I was alive
This week my absence causes them great strife
They say they never knew a brighter star
Nor heard a finer voice sing from the stage
Claims made from empty rooms with doors ajar
Claims writ by inkless pens on empty page
     Remember, then, when sighing all those sighs
     T'was you who blew the smoke that stings your eyes

Chief Joseph's Sonnet


From where the sun now stands, I'll fight no more
My people tire of battle without cease
We do not worship white man's god of war
The old ones sigh, they long for days of peace
You've made a hundred vows, you've kept but few
You took our land and fed the grass with blood
You tell us we must change from ways we knew
Your greed is like the plague beyond the flood
We can no longer hunt the hills of old
Nor search for fish in sparkling silver streams
You've scarred our mountains searching for your gold
Clear water flows now only in our dreams
     We wish to end our time like all men, free
     Long knives, white eyes, only let us be

The Sonnet of the Rose


Now, my Love let night but softly fall
Upon the place where we have chose to rest
And with my head laid gently on your breast
We'll gather dreams from places great and small
We'll gather dreams while nightingales shall sing
A lullabye composed for just our ears
While shafts of moonlight washed by willow's tears
Create upon our hair an angel's ring
Then, my Love, we both shall sleep so warm
Till morning doves do softly call the dawn
And with the summer sunrise sweet alarm
We'll wake with wild abandon like the fawn
     Our love is like the rose, with grace and charm
     Come breathe the rose 'till all our breath is gone

The Sonneteer


My tortured time I toil at keeping bright
What burns intense within my poet's breast
That fearsome fire, that all-consuming light
That ever puts my talents to the test
To seek, to search, to find the proper words
To pave each line with somber intellect
The gauntlet thrown, my pens I wield like swords
I pray no foolish phrase will intersect
Each foot I sculpt to meet demanding scheme
The proven path is where I set my feet
I strive, I spend all strength to reach my dream
I stay the course 'til victory comes sweet
     And when the work is wrought to proper hew
     I trim my quills and start the work anew





The Sean Side
 of Gene
The Sanctity of Lost Souls


Long after sunlight's shining grin has faded,
When only shards of broken stars remain,
At that moot point in time when love comes jaded
And sobbing souls are never judged as sane,
Someone lost may feel the weight of sorrow.
Someone lost may see the fractured moon.
Salvation, then, might come upon the morrow.
(Sometimes salvation comes a bit too soon!)
A paper torn does not deny the hero
Of substance, style or even saving grace.
We move from off the chart toward the zero
That signifies the ending of the race.
     And still, we have no visions, no designs
     Just endless furrows plowed in fragile minds.
Gene Dixon
Man of Many Hats Pg 2
Gene Dixon
Historical Poems