Dan Campbell's Poetry Blog

DREAM: A PROSE POEM

2010-03-16T17:54:00.000-04:00

We were kayaking in a library. I kept bouncing
my oar on bookshelves that hooted like owls
with each bump. Albino otters, like ideas, popped
in and out of the water to examine us with question
mark eyes. And then, they turned into torpedoes,
shot upstairs over a waterfall and exploded like
fireworks by the Astronony shelves. We paddled
into the History section and red water oozed like
molasses from cracks in the shelves. It seemed
that we paddled for centuries to escape History.
And then we floated into Philosophy and could
feel the weight of thick volumes shading the deep,
still water. Finally we reached the white waters of
Poetry. We plunged our oars into churning couplets
flowing over jagged verses and rode a rhyming
rollercoaster current for days.

-------------------------------------

Copyright 2010

BAGHDAD STREET PATROL

2010-03-16T17:52:00.000-04:00

Gunfire in the afternoons may be weddings or
maybe it is meant for you

"O-guf!" means "Stop!" but it never stops
the suicide bombers hell-bent for you

Foogas, a gel of homemade napalm
is a sticky ornament worn for you

"Kell America!" scribbled on the overpass
is graffiti sentiment for you

Bombs packed into car trunks and under
trashpiles are ticking surprise presents for you

This poem, scrawled in blood, is a gift, mister
president, especially for you

--------------------------------

Copyright 2010

MOMENTS

2010-03-16T17:48:00.001-04:00

Lucky are those for whom
time does not scatter like

cockroaches running from light
but flutters from bud to

bud savoring the sips
of that first Spring breeze

floating through the window
or now, sipping cool notes

that flow from the fountain
of a bubbling banjo melody

--------------------------

Dan Campbell Copyright 2010

CALENDAR

2009-08-04T15:50:00.000-04:00

CALENDAR

It's a daily, often sad, memoir
of what I did or did not do.
It stares from my desk, the calendar.

As glaring as a falling star,
It forces the chore of a daily review.
It's a sad, often sad, memoir.

A lost day is another scar,
Another promise to begin anew.
It stares from my desk, the calendar.

Today is one less in the reservoir,
Flip the calendar and say adieu.
It's a daily, often sad, memoir.

Time is a swirling scimitar,
Hissing today may be my Waterloo.
It stares from my desk, the calendar.

Keeping me awake, this bitter brew
Has the smell and taste of vinegar
It's a daily, often sad, memoir
And it stares from my desk, the calendar.

ICEMAN

2009-07-27T18:25:00.001-04:00

I am ice.
You can't see me
forming on your wings,
lurking on your bridge.
Never think I'm tame
kneeling in freezers
to cool your beer.
No, I shatter trees
and splinter boulders.
Beneath the surface
I'm sharp as steel.
I prowl frigid seas
hunting your ships.
Silent and cold,
I am ice.
Look down,
see your heavy boots
walking on me. I'm
cracking in places, waiting.
Keep Walking.

RAIN

2009-07-27T18:24:00.001-04:00

RAIN

Is one fine maestro,
even before taking the stage
its cloudy score knocks at the door
like a musical invitation
to listen, yes, L-I-S-T-E-N
as raindrops perform an allegro
melody upon the roof, which stills,
for a moment, the noise in our
jackhammer minds and quenches
the parched riverbed of today

MOMENTS

2009-07-27T18:22:00.000-04:00

MOMENTS

Lucky are those for whom
time does not scatter like

cockroaches running from light
but flutters from bud to

bud savoring the sips --
of that first Spring breeze

floating through the window
or now, sipping cool notes

that flow from the fountain
of a bubbling banjo melody

Old Coyote published in Origami Condom

2007-09-10T11:49:00.000-04:00

Old Coyote was just published in the Evolving Issue of
Origami Condom. This issue has a great artwork for the cover.

OLD COYOTE

He’s now at the age where
his wobbling howl uses a walker
to hobble over the mountains,
the spark in his eyes is so dim
it’s only seen on moonless nights.
But still, he waits for the full moon
and howls a dark tune on a rocky slope
reading the stars of the Milky Way
like jazz notes scribbled on a napkin.

Copyright Dan Campbell 2007

The Afterlife - published in VISIONS, June 2007

2007-07-17T17:52:00.000-04:00

It's a hundred degrees in the shade;
walls are splattered with grafitti
in a foreign tongue, a trio of blind
angels tap their crooked sticks
down the dirt road, gaunt saints
roast mangy corn on an open
fire in tin roof shacks and silent,
scowling cherubs juggle cinders
and cobs. Then finally, above us,
the blare of trumpets, we think
at first, but it's the horn from
a rust-coated bus stacked with
chickens and iguanas in cages
driving us forward into a cloud
of dust.

Copyright 2007 Dan Campbell

Dan's Digital Art Blog

2006-05-20T09:19:00.000-04:00

I welcome any comments and suggestions on my Digital Art Blog

5 Short Shorts Published in "In Posse Review"

2006-02-19T14:42:00.000-05:00

These short shorts were published in the 10th anniversary issue of "In Posse Review," and here is the link.

Poems in "Exquisite Corpse"

2005-04-21T17:11:00.000-04:00

3 poems were recently published in a 2004 issue of Andrei Codrescu's Exquisite Corpse

Sleeper Car Reflections

2005-04-21T17:09:00.000-04:00

My book of poetry, Sleeper Car Reflections, is available from Publish America.

The Conversation

2005-04-03T15:39:00.000-04:00

Published in Facets: A Literary Magazine, Oct 2002.

Poems in Open Wide Magazine, United Kingdom

2005-03-21T07:52:00.000-05:00

2 poems, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackboard" and "Miracle Man" were published in Open Wide Magazine in the United Kingdom.

A Postcard from Ghata

2005-03-19T17:36:00.000-05:00

Having a wonderful time; wish
you were here; took a tour
yesterday, saw cyclops children
peering thru windows of doorless
houses; the natives worship the moon,
it controls the flow of their urges and
their blood; women carry baskets of fog
all morning; there are twenty-one verbs
for different ways to spit; one must bow
before three-legged dogs to show respect;
packs of wolves make the forests dark with
their black sweat; shadows are lined up
against a wall at noon and shot; faces are
painted blue to ward off a moth's evil eyes
and on odd-numbered days handfuls of
hummingbirds are released with dreams strapped
to their beaks. but no one here slits the
throats of rivers and a homeless day can
beg for alms without a license; tomorrow
we leave on a cruise to pull up salt
by its roots and to the place where storks
are shaped like letters of the alphabet.

Copyright 2005 - Dan Campbell

Be My Valentine

2005-03-19T17:32:00.000-05:00

Once it was a rose
now i give you an onion
a bulb wrapped in papyrus
it wanted to give you light
but blinds your eyes with tears
darkens your hands with grief
once it was candy
now i give you a jalapeno
its taste will singe your lips
a burn that smolders
as we do
as we always will
take it it's yours
its scent will wrap around your fingers
cling to the blade of your knife

Copyright 2005 - Dan Campbell

Portrait of Adam

2005-03-19T17:28:00.000-05:00

At first, it's just a swirling dust storm
that covers the wall, but there,
in the lower left corner, he stands.
He's nude, head shaved to bone,
twisted nail veins flow into raised fists.
Between the flap of overhead fans,
the distant sound of pounding on a forge.
A snake with sentry eyes cords
around his neck like a crucifix.
By chance, a ray of light thru the window
lands upon the apple, making its core
glow through the dust.

Copyright 2005-Dan Campbell

Office Hallway

2005-03-19T17:13:00.000-05:00

It connects two busy suites.
A cocoon between law firms
and in it neck-tied drones
march back and forth, dragging files,
breathing stale recycled air,
their faces drained, cracked and sore,
each hoping his stiff black shell
will crack and wings will unfold.

Copyright 2005-Dan Campbell

National Geographic

2005-03-17T22:54:00.000-05:00

National Geographic - July Issue

I'm tired of stale
bedridden words,
tired of using
this drooling, limp pen.

I need a new pen; I need
a Costa Rican wasp pen.
Her stinger stabs a spider
and then her babes emerge
and devour the stiff spider
like starving children sucking
marrow from old soup bones.

I want a pen this cold-blooded.
I want words that sting and devour.
I want to write with this wasp.
I want her to conjugate me a swarm.

Copyright 2005-Dan Campbell

Weed Poem

2005-03-17T22:46:00.000-05:00

Weeds
* dieback - death of plant stems, starting at tips

In only a few months
the first weeds appear
in what we remember.
Within a year or two
memories are infested,
hidden from each other,
then begin to wilt
into a dieback past.
And after many years
even a blue ribbon memory
all to itself
perfectly detailed
with even her red hair
blooming in the wind
is covered in tendrils
by climber vines that
slowly strangle the heart.

Copyright 2005-Dan Campbell

Bike Poem

2005-03-15T20:26:00.000-05:00

Bike Ride

Richard Petty should see me now
riding this souped-up Chevy
zipping around the asphalt raceway.

I'm not a NASCAR legend like Petty,
not yet. The stands
by the bike path are nearly bare.
As I lean into the curve
I see only the puzzled stare
of an albino squirrel.

Two hundred laps later I see
the checkered flag at Daytona 500.
In the zone, I am one with my bike.
Watch me pass the sputtering joggers.
Smiling now, the firehose roar
of cicadas greets me. Jubilation
gushes through my raised fists
as I cross the finish line!

Copyright 2005 - Dan Campbell

Bird Poem

2005-03-14T12:08:00.001-05:00

Avian Mid-life Crisis

* dedicated to sister Nita and her parakeet

I don't need much room to sing
said the bird in search of a cage.
This world is just too large for wings.

I'm tired of flying from Winter to Spring,
who needs this mindless pilgrimage?
I don't need much room to sing.

And all those hours spent scavenging
for worms are too much in middle-age.
This world is just too large for wings.

Don't you preach that I'm forfeiting
my bird heritage; I'm sick of your outrage.
I don't need much room to sing.

I've sown my bird seed, had my fling.
Clipped feathers serve as lovely foliage.
This world is just too large for wings.

Behind bars, I can chirp all evening.
A cage is not a prison, but a stage.
I don't need much room to sing.
This world is just too large for wings.

Copyright 2005 - Dan Campbell
--------------------------------------

(This poem is a villanelle. The villanelle has been around for about 300 years, and has origins in Italian and French poetry. It has a complex rhymed pattern, which makes it challenging by rewarding to write. What makes a villanelle unique is the repetition of rhymes, and the order in which they fall. The pattern is five triplets followed by a quatrain, and the first line of the first stanza is repeated in its entirety three more times in the poem, in Line 6, Line 12, and Line 18. The third line of the first stanza is repeated in Line 9, Line 15, and Line 19.)