Danika Dinsmore

Storyteller / Activist

love poem

Monday Potes on Tuesday: Retro-Pome

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I’ve been wanting to write about the birds for weeks. We have character birds in the neighborhood. They are my confidants. But alas, the poem has not unwound itself from the glue-sticky of fresh wordness. So, I am posting a retro poem.

If you can call the early 90’s retro.

I was flipping through an old poetry chapbook I printed 16 years ago and found this funny little piece.

The idea of the poem was to write 3 stanzas using all the the same words, but in a different order each time. I notice that I stayed with the same 4 commas, semi-colon and tab space, too.

But I did take one small liberty. Can anyone spot it? It’s not as hard as you might think. If you do, I will mail this chapbook to you. It feels like freshman Danika Dinsmore poetry, but at the same time, I am surprised at my own young poet mind.

I.
the day is you, is meat
not feet, you are up my what: hunger
take a poem offering, a blood poem,
because it’s what keeps my appetite
at your parade      this is a love been
so full of moves you are always
its table

II.
my appetite keeps because it’s blood
at your feet      this parade moves up
a poem that is love, not
a full table you are offering, it’s
always you what my hunger is, you
are of a poem meat, so take
what the day is: been

III.
this is not a love poem, it’s a
blood poem because that moves,
my offering is what it’s always
been: appetite      you are
so full you take up the day,
you are a parade of meat
is what keeps, hunger
my feet at your table

Dropped Pages – Whale Calls

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Late for the train. Let’s blame it on the time change, shall we?

This was a poem dropped from Every Day Angels and Other Near Death Experiences.

whale calls

clouds in two separate directions
     move overhead
skink on rock, copper head
world a smooth glass
the largeness
     of your palm on my ribs
I was going to sleep

before in the jungle your smile
I couldn’t help
but love that
every step gentle
     the way it should be
each stop equal to the last or next
balancing at the base or edge of something
I understand you

hanakapai beach milky way fired from pink
you take pictures of a young couple
celebrating by the shore
          like out of travel magazines
where the girl is perfect and the
boy so careful in her presence

I lost the shell I picked from the beach the one
you blew as a miniature instrument in the
rental car where I think I dropped it
nothing was coming home with me
not even you

and I knew this before we left for the journey
I was unstuck in time
and saw our parting as one
continuous moment
as I dreamt it always but kept
under a spell

your footprints in the sand I walk inside of
     forward     and backward
I watch you read or pick lemons

the way your feet turn in as you walk
the breath at which you
     confidently blow     sweet low music
whale calls

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

da train!  da train!

Dropped Pages – No One Home

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Dropped Pages is a series of poems that were originally dropped from my books or chapbooks. I have reclaimed them here.

This poem was dropped from Everyday Angels and Other Near Death Experiences.

no one home

among the letters one pressed daisy
a sweet tattoo like crayon marks on the wall
everyone has witnessed at least one miracle

the cat came home with me after
the divorce, as did the piano

even if you never write back
even if you think of me as a sliver
I love my love it is what I have
when your heart is missing the point

Monday Poetry Train – Dropped Pages – August in America

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Dropped Pages is a series of poems that were originally dropped from my books and chapbooks. I have reclaimed them here.

This poem was dropped from Everyday Angels and Other Near Death Experiences.

I will mail a copy of the book to the first person who can tell me what famous affair had I just learned about (had just been confessed to the public) when I wrote this poem.

August in America

were you lonely
was the music crisp
was her skin soft and welcoming
curves of an angel             falling like a friend
did you close your eyes
slow down a
moment
no where to go             no sin
no voices          no death

did you hold her in that end of time
forgetting          forgotten           and full

is there space for tantra in the new millennium
is dancing      far away as birth

is your face feeling old              do you look there often
gaze at the mirror in stranger
your skin             notice something there
a mark not there before
and it’s not going away

did you want to be good
did you miss you mother
did you crawl into her               go away and come back
with more than you left              becoming less
turning in on itself
leaving a hole to gaze into
thinking of
how much less time
there is to love

Ride the TRAIN.

Poetry Train – Dropped Pages – On the Day of Silhouettes

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Dropped Pages is a series of poems that were originally dropped from my books and chapbooks. I have reclaimed them here.

left out of Her Red Book


On the Day of Silhouettes

Out the train window she sees cut-outs
mountains gulls
Man in rowboat fishing water like
something one can touch     but not hold
defiantly
on the still lake she hears
the word “moon”     from a child’s lips
and there it is
she practices looking w/out
naming now that love has surprised her
once again
she goes to church and sings
grateful for the roundness
of the choir

she picks this future
a calm fortress against the long hours of drive
ambition
the release tastes like a careless trip
honey

sunsets always remind her of sunsets
they replace each other that way
like the speed of conversation
between black cut-outs
kisses on the neck

preoccupied with the fragile
blood vein and the question of what is real
she stands guard beyond expectation
a kind of cross-check
like a night-light
like a raincoat

ride the train. it will vibrate your bum.