No one has seen time stop,
not now, not then; the sun
never fails to keep its distance,
daytime crosses over, a colorful
In the eye of this chilled eve
a lump of darkness collapses
and spreads its black weight over
an old bird’s nest, and the wind weaves
the discarded feathers into flight.
Still, there’s me, trembling, a little,
in this frigid air, where this thought-pain
soars to new levels, and, skipping
hours of questions, it flies straight
into my head, like a stabbing beak.
Perched in a tree, a wind chime’s voice
rises into unruffled-like birdsongs,
and still this ache holds its own load,
lodged in my head, tangled with darkness,
and concerned with neither rhyme
nor reason, nor anything else that
Shakespeare has penned.
Somehow, in this overly, head-crowded
condition, I feel closer to the sky.
It’s there that anything can happen,
and it will, after the world cracks.
Dah Helmer’s poetry has been featured most recently in The Sandy River Review, Stone Voices, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Orion headless, Words & Images in Flight, and Miracle, and is forthcoming in Perfume River Poetry Review, and Berkeley Poetry Review. The author of two collections of poetry from Stillpoint Books, his third collection is to be published by Stillpoint in 2014. Dah lives in Berkeley, California where he is working on the manuscript for his fourth book.