DAH is a Pushcart Prize and Best Of The Net nominee, and the lead editor for the poetry critique group, The Lounge. The author of nine books of poetry, DAH lives in Berkeley, California, and has been teaching yoga to children in public and private schools since 2005. His tenth poetry book, Waking Love With A Kiss, is due for publication in September 2020
Fragmented No. 20
Sometimes to slow down inside memory / to skip, like a stone over water / then to sink, like bones of the dead / or how the wind against the redwoods confirms this great forest. If you were an echo with a mantra/ with a full range of intentions and reasons / if then we could build a small boat / to sail against time / to hold it all together for us, again. There are times when I simply cannot feel / clutching my umbrella against the storm / cannot feel your absence nor your presence, or the now that is happening despite yesterday. Sometimes the world is an ocean, people are blunt waves / and I’m sloshing against the undertow / the riptide that slams me down, like a message in a bottle / that has no clear destination.
fragmented no. 18
bizarre foam shapes / absurd faceless / the loneliness somewhere / in every horizon rain latches to the sea without hooks / nor hands / each drop, an eye with a magnified view and seagulls are paper planes impervious and tranquil / like an old dinghy worn to its grain / in hopelessness i knew nothing of your sadness / those long scars in your nerves / your loose body, like an angry toy tightening around me and i’d crumble like old paper / burning from seduction / laughter, for no reason, and your counterfeit love buying me / again
fragmented no. 25
a morning frozen in b-minor long and short streets / a café window / mug of coffee / strings of steam rising / watching dawn … breaking through cypress. there’s a time when / seabirds move at certain hours / above the odor of low tide / close to shore / before the sun’s beautiful prowling … the swift snowy plovers. a woman in yellow and brown like an autumn leaf / naked and dry near a small girl, barefoot, shivering / sunlight’s weightless beams … a lighthouse extends its eye. at a gallop / waves drive the surf kicking mist into the air /pointed rocks like horns sticking up / an old woman with her head bent down, motionless … a moment’s freezing wind. floating pelicans / a ceiling of feathered grey / tiny shells, like lost finger nails / looking at them I see your hands / as if crawling away … this memory’s failing heart.