I read eulogies from time to time
to pass the time, I find in some rejected newspaper.
The language is foreign, for I am
alive and in two hundred or so words I am to know,
who this person was and that
they were loved or respected or validated in two
dimensions plus words and a
picture, when not so long ago they were three
dimensions that filled voids in
other peoples lives, striving to make the world
around them a better place,
battled hard in a war, and fell its only victim.
Swallow the bitter pill,
there ain't no better place,
than where you are right
now, with words written
as plain as the pain on
your face, so listen and
I will try to take you to
a better place maybe I
will transport you to
a ephoric utopia but
that will take opiates,
for my words will just
make you dizzy, Gillespie,
get off that computer and
go to bed, and then you
will dream dreams of us
meeting instead, where I
will be humble and you
will be dapper unless you
are a girl then you will
be "a beautiful rendition of the Mona Lisa"
pray what is behind that
smile and how do your
whites stay so pearly and
your hair, so light and curly,
like the clouds over head,
with a background of blue
sky that holds that daystar,
and reflects off the water in
the duck pond and blinds
my eyes and makes the tear
oft fall, salty on my sleeve,
as I hold one up to wipe
a tear, I feel your hanky
brush my eye lash and I blush with unabashed charm,
but if we were manly men
walking under the trees,
along a pathway of asphalt,
walking sticks pressed into palms
of hands, not those topical trees,
along side us grass, dotted with Canada geese,
oh do watch your step dear
boy, or you might grease your
soul, which would be a helluva
a way to let this perfect day
slip away and take us from
this better place.
It matters not who I am with, for when I am with you, whom ever you are,
I am away from here, therefore found in a better place.
In the world where we are together,
the rivers have hands that pray.
the birds have learned how to cry
and worms have hearts and a central nervous system.
everything is human here.
spiders pay rent to stay in the corners
of our ceilings.
trees sing folk songs about their fallen
brothers and sisters.
the wind is their mother, swaying
them to sleep, trying to quiet the grief.
the rocks write poems about the ocean
but never show them to her.
they cry erosion and she
does not know how to
give back what she has taken.
I kiss you in front of the bruised face
of the moon
and can hear the blood pooling
underneath the silver skin.
there is no shame here.
the grass begs for our bodies and we oblige.
the crickets tune their strings and
start playing their symphony.
we are never alone, but we are free.
the earth has a pulse that we
check with our bare feet.
even the concrete hums
Celebrate New Year with firecrackers|
lunch time is good
the smell of food mixing with gunpowder|
drown out the clack of chopsticks
strewn around is all that's left
apart from the ringing in the ears
Malcolm Davidson Feb 12th 2013
Chinese New Year
Chinese New Year is all around
red lanterns hanging from the trees
people laughing, boisterous
everyone goes home for the holidays
to share rice together
one big family
you can feel it in the air.
Malcolm Davidson Feb 1st 2013
colorful blanket of autumn leaves
covered the clearings between the trees
the sound of crackling under my steps
broke the silence in my mind
cold air and a puddle along the road
reminded me of a last night's storm
I walked towards the shallow lake
whose calm surface reflected azure sky
embellished with few translucent clouds
I was amazed by its surreal beauty;
so persistent in its existence
and yet, so deceptively comprehensible,
a thought about the transience of all
suddenly overcame me;
a thought, so profoundly insightful
and sublimely unclear, at the same time
awoke dormant memories
of what has passed and is forever gone...
I threw pebbles in the lake, defiantly,
and watched the ripples distort
almost perfect reflection of reality,
to diminish the overwhelming feeling
In my years,
I have noticed,
writing about the birds and the trees
comes with great ease,
but an ordinary day with pale grey skies,
and flat stale air
is a subject as to which not many care.
A day when birds are too bored to fly;
people drearily roam outside.
When there are too many clouds for the sun to shine.
On such days, us wallflowers seem to thrive.
Baptized in death incarnate, shown the worlds reality at a age of inspiration, with dreams dance upon the wings of butterflies in fields of daisy's, sucking the nectar of life, to sustain the biological imperative, that everything is connected beyond life and death.
Merge pen and ink, upon the fallen trees, show the world, the vulnerabilities of a soul lost in the shadows, were light fights the darkness to escape to another day, beyond the pages you write, beyond internal dialogue of devils and angels upon your shoulders.
Shower your soul, in the tears of angels, who have lost their wings and laid to rest upon the battleground, the lives of men, to stain sacred ground with life sustenance, every breath a battle you must tell now, so they are remembered in the pages of history
Purify this ground, with the ink within your veins, poet, rise from the ashes of reality, sprinkle the air with stardust, of fallen souls, in languid waves of desperation to live again, beyond the tragedy of death you've witnessed, here today. entitle, designate and cleanse this world a new, so every heart may know, deep within the recess of darkness within your eyes, incandescent flames burn the birth of a poet
It's been a long time.
Fields of orange trees are torn
from their roots
to make room for
a thousand empty wooden boxes to be
planted in their place
There these empty boxes wait
for the warmth of a family
To be furnished
How it longs
To watch kids play
safely in its living room
To have the dog trample
neatly cared for lawn
To smell dads cooking
fill every square foot
To see moms face
when she finally returns
from a long day of work
To have love absorbed into its fibers
and stand out amongst the rest
To be decorated for the passing seasons
with other things besides
rust and snow
It dreams of these
It knows it could be more than
just a box
So there it sits
It's been a long time.
Somewhere the path turned from forest, to brush, to tundra
Then to the breaching pink granite of yesterday.
The features are familiar and the scrub trees fill the same crevices
The glacial radicals, still sentinels that are always watching.
I can still gather together the sticks to light a fire
And it warms me against the northern chill air
The swell of rock is cold beneath me,
And my body is a poor reservoir from which to warm it.
Already the moon of November is here
Though the calendar hasn't yet announced it.
It comes unbidden with piercing icy tendrils through ancient trees
All silver and platinum and stainless steel.
An inky lake laps at the base of the granite whale's back
An intimacy born quietly over the millennia.
Of a petrified swelling-surface relaxing under the pressure,
Of jack-pine root fingers snaking through ancient seams.
Poetry, the place I'd hide in,
High trees full of pink and orange leaves,
No sound to be heard,
Only traces of words,
Now I've spend reading poems for nights
There you go, I have dark eye circles
My mind is dry,
no more thoughts to be revealed,
My heart is pure,
the pain is out to the world,
It's the moment comments pop out,
and my core beats faster as a smile start to sign
and I make friends,
from another continent,
that seems too far to be true,
but hey, my words to them have got through
up to their mind, twirling
straight to their veins, running
on the surface of their skin, itching
to their hearts, tickling
she welcomes my energy inside and gives me tea
calms my busy light without a single word
smiles at my bright aura
a tabby ginger cat purrs on a gingham cloth
blue Delft plates in a row
this was a time with no fuzzy
dimming of all goodness
a woman’s head rolls on the fine sifting sand
dry and warm
a rapier juts forward, pierces the guts of an old man
who carries a child on his back
there’s a red blanket what flies on the line
soggy and now, it’s hard to tell whose blood drips so
an elongated horn is blown from a desert hill
nobody lives in the mountains of Miranda anymore
her ghost has found voice in the echo of the brambles
her secrets still buzz in heavy hives of long ago
discovered and ravaged by trusted traitors
now hanging in clusters, newly unfound
dried corpses also hang (unmolested) in bloodwood trees
where every trace of gall is let flow in kino
the blood of Miranda flows on
she of terminalis
lives on eternal
in brook and vale and bush
in veins of progeny bee
in the crickets of the field