The HyperTexts
Jim Dunlap
Jim Dunlap's poetry has been published extensively in print and online in the United States, England, France, India, Australia, Switzerland
and New Zealand. His work has appeared in over 90 publications, including Potpourri, Candelabrum, Mobius and the Paris/Atlantic.
He is the co-editor of Sonnetto Poesia and and is serving as co-editor of a new sonnet anthology currently in production, The Phoenix
Rising from the Ashes. He is also the chief proofreader for the On Viewless Wings Anthologies, published out of Queensland, Australia.
In the past, he was a resident poet on Poetry Life & Times and the newsletter editor for seven years with the Des Moines Area
Writers' Network.
To No Avail
The staccato tap, tap, tap of raindrops,
as they march in multitudes across the roof ...
the vacillating tenor of their starts and stops,
like stampeding, tiny horses on the hoof—
the soothing cadence of the rushing waves
of water pirouetting down the eaves,
to drought-dry, dusty earth that craves
the moisture that caresses and relieves:
yet all these soothing, natural aids to sleep
appear of no avail this winter's night—
the hours and minutes seem to barely creep;
behind clouds the moon is extra bright.
Although the words seem rather lame,
insomnia has won the game.
Reminiscences of a Lost Love
Over a quarter of a Century’s passed,
and still, there’s an ember burning—
the residue of a love I thought couldn’t last,
and now I see, as the millennium’s turning,
that predicting the future’s a canard.
No one can ever anticipate the results
of a lost love, behind a door long barred—
yet the heat radiates through and insults
my senses, brings memories of hot flesh
pressed against me, of long blond hair falling
across my face, the welcoming crèche
of your arms and legs: I hear you calling
even now. And even though you lied,
the pain has only ... only ... intensified.
Frissons d'au revoir *
I've shopped around for something that suits
your natural elegance and style—
something which enhances, not dilutes
your unctuous demeanor and engaging smile.
I've
searched
through
flower shops
by the
score ...
admired
much
variety
in colors
and tints,
but
never
considered
the search
a chore;
though fate was perhaps dropping hints.
The blossoms varied from carmine to mauve,
carnations were gorgeous, but roses passé;
I chose only the best for someone so suave;
in the end, time only still stood in the way.
My eyes fell on an orchid—and then I just knew
it was right. Black as midnight: in the light cobalt blue.
* Mafioso, black orchid
Symbols in Flight: 1941
I'd have loved to see the bluebirds fly
above the white chalk-cliffs of Dover--
and as they were blithely soaring over,
immersed in thought I'd lie
in calm repose upon that beach,
admiring their swooping forms,
evanescent, in fleeting storms,
like ballet ... far beyond my reach.
Frisking, fragile, carefree birds,
symbolic through intrinsic meaning --
like sterling hope and freedom's words
light English springs, forever greening:
while England fought the bitter fight
to hold at bay the 'fall of night.'
Van Gogh: Man of Myth and Mystery
From a peaceful, quiet field in France,
a gunshot echoes down the years--
whether cold precision ... or terrible mischance,
mired in myth, truth fades or disappears.
The gun, the easel and the paints, not there
when the gendarmes arrived on the scene,
tous évoquent un air de mystère *
which Sherlock Holmes might find ... routine.
Yet could even the great Holmes deduce
what truth lies cloaked by misdirection,
or feel his way down winding paths, abstruse,
unravel rumor, myth, prevarication?
No matter -- Vincent's short years, rife with strife,
still render him legend, larger than life.
* all evoke an air of mystery
A Call from the Clouds
A missed phone call, can it redefine life?
It was mid-morning-ish, that fateful day
I was tired, sleepy, missing my wife.
What a price I'd eventually pay.
The phone rang and rang, I covered my head.
Voice messaging could answer the call.
At last, I arose from the clutch of the bed,
And fumbled my way to the john down the hall.
Then I entered the code, put the phone to my ear,
And nearly collapsed from the shock.
Mary's soft voice shrieked, alive with fear,
As I glanced at the time on the clock.
Goodbye, my darling, we'll meet in Heaven.
She died 2001, 9/11.
Sonnetto Poesia, Fall/ Automne, 2005
Just Imagine
It's been some time, but we'll never forget
the man and his lyrics—"Let It Be"
wasn't really his game—the John we met
could "Imagine" much more than we'd see.
He believed in justice and dignity,
fought for the down-trodden poor and oppressed,
worked to eradicate all bigotry,
and brightened his age—we were blessed.
Imagine no religion, hounding men to hell,
no prejudice marring humanity's rest,
no darkness embracing the blasting knell
of evil, destroying our khaki-clad best—
imagine the peace love's practicing yields—
envy John, sleeping in Strawberry Fields,
forever ...
The Pentagon Version of "Onward Christian Soldiers"
Mistletoe and holly, turkey, pumpkin pie,
Candied yams and all the trimmings,
Don't speak to us of Christ's beginnings—
How we've gathered here—and why.
The clouds of evil hover near us,
But we choose to disregard, because
We're anticipating Santa Claus,
And the world has cause to fear us.
Such good people surely can't do wrong—
God is on our side—they'll finally learn;
Or their cities, and their souls, will burn.
So, why not relax, and sing along?
"Onward Christian soldiers, flay them—
If they're not like us, go out and slay them."
Date Rape Dandy
No one would believe a word she said:
the whole school knew the dumb broad was a whore—
he still could not believe how much she'd bled—
he'd been sure that she was "doing it" before.
His hungry lips had smothered her protest;
his ardor grew with every stifled "Please!"
His hands left black and blue marks on her breast—
he thought he'd really fixed the little tease.
He'd never once imagined she'd say no—
he really only gave her what she wanted.
He was hot and shaking, head to toe—
and couldn't bear to feel his manhood taunted.
He'd risked a lot for just a piece of tail—
he'd risk it again—once he got out on bail.
Writer's Digest top 100 rhyming poems, 1994
In Search of a Chalice and a Pentacle
dedicated to Dan Brown
Proud Venus shines on a knight vainly searching
through lonely days of rain, snow and hail—
in desolate wilderland, honor besmirching,
sealed to the trail of a dream, and a Grail.
He knows full well that the end may be dreary,
his hopes unfulfilled, the ending uncertain,
but still he plods on, fatigued and bone-weary—
the future a mystery, a nebulous curtain.
Yet golden light glinting as day draws to close,
beckons him onward, through trials and grief.
He yearns for a taste of the dew on the rose.
and envies his Lord's final words to the thief.
Still he knows, though his plans lie in tatters,
that life is, itself, the journey that matters.
Challenger International Quarterly, June, 2004
The HyperTexts