D. Garcia-Wahl Sampler


‘Tis only by humble cherish
that I make my way to your fount
The writhing of my essence in the hands that I clasp
make into this hollow of mine, a performance of grace.
The words of my confession, the trial of my days
lent to your forgiveness.
For you,
I shed myself of my flesh,
of my calling, of my sins
before your waters darkened by candlelight
to seek redemption
to ignite a purity
to deepen my bow
and fall to the within you.


Voices Welled

Emparadis’d in your reaching spirit, delicate
there is a sky that does not pass above you,
a second that is not made a moment without you,
and a beauty etched to carols of the heart.
For there is something naked in your voice.
Innocent not – sometimes a weakness
when the heartened flesh trembles pale
brightened by a moon of continuum Spring
who’s breath does birth the belief of ecstasy
kept to union in nestled bodies
weeping for immortality.
For in each whisper, a catharsis.
An echo for to surround
with the sigh of your quiver.
All senses toward you.
And always
moving alone within invited crowds.
Always you
stopping breaths
and dressing desire.
Always you
haunting the hours of man
with an image of beauty
that justifies their loneliness.
And always you,
only you,
hearing my voice
falling silent
in hesitation
of your soliloquy
in fear of its touching


As In Benediction

You, Madonn’ of my desires,
each dream is coiled to your caress
as is the solstice of my needs.
My love, when the world covets flesh
mine very words shall covet love.
For answers come before questions.
And now only thy flesh is the
lasting want of antiquity
come immaculate. Soft, I scream
my past and my sins into you.
Palm to my chest, these delicate
flushings of wish are beyond me.
The dark refracts as a single
wonder passes from you to me.


Gates of Rodin

Whereas Ghirberti had bronzed paradise
The unfathomable can be found more explicit
By the doorwell as much mirror as it is plaster,
A question posed: By what sins is there a rising in Hell?
As declension must have a counter balance
Avarice is brought in holy quantities
The expulsion of shades that have drowned in spirit are still
The Biblical myths pray in their falling
And incomplete as is all sin
In vignettes of lamentation
Never has the human form been more naked
Never have beliefs passed by so rapidly
Even if discord is not visible to you
Face your sorrow and it is sculpted in portal


The Bequeathing of Jealousy

I have wakened hardest to thine love
and understood man is made of regrets
The council of my senses is a weighty one
in this nightmare which does breathe nightmares
Yet to move beyond you is not winsome
What frights do come of your sanity
lacing violence with beauty
What insomnia does come of my asking
Oh awake or asleep
to be alive and touch the rich meanderings of my memories
to be alive and encircle my own grave
Sad Sad applause
Merciful tarnish
for the allusions my quiet dreaming forsakes
All to insure a love
you would have my face
the face of Iago’s victims,
my frustrated fists to be bloodied at the floor
with rantings that would have walls at my knees
and this emotion stained to my flesh
You would have this of me?

Yet, again, to move beyond you is not winsome

The emotion you have me covet
can bear but ill
leaving me alone to ensnare what was sacrified
promising myself, even if by starvation, to end the stamp of this woe
to not make autumn’s night prayer
a winter tale as well
But alas,
the eye the eye
the unseen eye
here words sheath memory
and unless each eye is holied
this curse,
your curse,
threatens to de-resurrect

Oh, my love of colored Spain,
settle this night to what is never questioned
as I remain
where the worship of the heart is bottomless


of dark, of Wychwood

The moment was carpentered that he should be alone
where his confessions trail like the seasons
and the essence of his remorse
is the fullness of its silence
Like a shadow
‘less he paces
he is no more than a stain
It is the riddle of conclusion,
It is the obviousness for rebuttal
keeping waves dry to his face
Conjuring images in a bay
just shallow of such depths:
The grave of the way she watches him
with a sin that divides form from flesh
The devouring of her memory
The whisper of her words to water
In a horror the ebb will not denounce

If Heaven cannot promise more of a dream
than promises a dream makes
How can he?
Better to name this lake
as you would this man
and leave it to nightmares
to right themselves

The story of man is man

D. Garcia-Wahl wrote his first novel at the age of 13. He began an intense and unending study of poetry shortly thereafter. His first poems surfaced in his late teens and publications began after that. His entire life is devoted to writing. He has written, directed, and produced several small, independent films; has done multiple radio and television interviews as well. He has three small collections of poetry published and sold in North America and Europe: Restless, the night burns, Dive!, and In each whisper, a catharsis. His poetry has been published in nearly 100 periodicals in North America and Europe. A full length collection of his poetry has been completed under the title, All that comes of Madden'd Days. Another collection, Primrose, is in the works. Garcia-Wahl recently published the novel, Ashes of Mid Autumn; he is now putting the finishing touches on 5 other novels. Most recent publications of his poetry on the web appear in http://www.minneapolisunderground.com, http://www.cosmoetica.com, www.circlemagazine.com, and www.whistlingshade.com. Find out more about the many interests and capacities of D. Garcia-Wahl at http://dgarciawahl.tripod.com.