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Jim Davis  Apr 2017
Touching
Jim Davis Apr 2017
In the last
three decades,
after we became one,
I touched
amazingly beautiful things,
horribly ugly things,  
unbelievably wondrous things

I touched nature's majesty;
hued walls of the Grand Canyon,              
crusty bark of the
Redwoods and Sequoias,
live corals of the
Great Barrier Reef,
dreamlike sandstone of the Wave

I touched magical and strange;
platypus, koalas and
kangaroos Down Under,
underwater alkali flies and
lacustrine tufa at Mono Lake,
astral glowing worms
in the Kawiti caves

I touched holy places;
Christianity's oldest churches,
the Pope's home in the Vatican,
Hindu and Sikh temples and
Moslem mosques in India,
Anasazi's kivas of Chaco canyon,
Aboriginal rocks of Uluru and Kata Tjuta

I touched glimmers of civilization;
uncovered roads of Pompeii,
fighting arenas of Rome,
terra cotta armies of Xian,
sharp stone points of the Apache,
pottery shards from the Navajo,
petroglyphs by the Jornada Mogollon

I touched fantastical things;
winds blowing on the
steppes of Patagonia,,
playas and craters of Death Valley,  
high peaks of the Continental Divide,
blazing white sands of the  
Land of Enchantment

I touched icons of liberty
and freedom;
the defended Alamo,
a fissured Liberty Bell,
an embracing Statue of Liberty,
the harbor of Checkpoints
Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie

I touched glorious things
made by man;
the monstrous Hoover Dam,
an exquisite Eiffel tower,
a soaring St Louis Arch,
an Art deco Empire State Building,
the sublime Golden Gate Bridge

I touched sparks from history;
the running path of an
Olympic flame just off Bourbon,
the last steps of Mohandas Ghandi
at Birla House before Godse,
******'s Eagle's nest and the
grounds over Der Führerbunker

I touched walls of power;
enclosed rings of the Pentagon,
steep steps of the
Great Wall of China,
untried bastions of
Peter and Paul's fortress,
fitted boulders of Machu Picchu

I touched strong hands;
of those conquering
Rommel's and ******'s hordes,
of cold warriors of
Chosin Reservoir,  
of forgotten soldiers of Vietnam,
of terrorist killers of today

I touched memories of war;
the somber Vietnam memorial,
the glorious Iwo Jima statue,
the cold slabs at Arlington,
the buried tomb of USS Arizonians,
Volgograd's Mother Russia  

I touched ugly things;
shreds of light in
Port Arthur's prison,
horrible smelly dust
in the streets from 9/11,
ash impregnated dirt
in the pits at Auschwitz

I touched oppressed freedom;
open ****** plazas
of Tiananmen Square,
smooth pipe and concrete
of the Berlin Wall,  
tall red brick walls
of the Moscow Kremlin

I touched constrained freedom;
heavy ankle and
wrist slave chains
in the South,
little windows
in Berlin's Stasi prison,
haunted cells in Alcatraz  

I touched remnants of madness;
wire and ovens of Auschwitz,
stacked chimneys and
wooden bunks of Birkenau,        
Ravensbruck, and Dachau,
the tomb of Lenin,
toppled Stalins

I touched hands of survivors;
of Leningrad's siege,
of German POWs and
of Russian fighters
of Stalingrad's battle,
of Cancer's scourges  

I touched grand things;
deep waters of the Pacific and Atlantic,
blue hills of Appalachia,
towering peaks of the Rockies,
high falls of Yosemite Valley,
bursting geysers of Yellowstone,
crashing glaciers of Antarctica and Alaska    

I touched times of adventure;
abseiling and zipping in Costa Rica,
packing Pecos wilds and Padre isles,
flying nap of earth Hueys to Meridian,
breaking arms in JRTC's box,
fighting Abu Sayyaf, and Jemaah
Islami in Zamboanga City

I touched through you;
wet sand beaches of  Mexico and Jamaica,
mysterious energy of the monoliths of Stonehenge,
rarefied air in front of the
Louvre's Mona Lisa,
ancient wonders of Giza,
Egypt's tombs and pyramids

We shared soft touches;
drifting in Bora Bora's
surreal waters,
joining hands camel trekking the
Outback's dry sands,
strolling along Tasmania's
eucalyptus forest trails

basking in swinging hammocks
under Fiji's bright sun,
scrambling in
Las Vegas' glittering and
red rock canyons,
kissing under the
Taj Mahal's symphony of arches

We shared touching deep waters;
propelled in gondolas
through the city of canals,
Drifting atop Uru cat boats on Lake Titticaca,
Swooping in jet boats
up a wild river in Talkeetna

Racing in speed boats
around Sydney's great harbour,
skimming in pangas in Puerto Ayora,
paddling the Kennebec for
East's best petroglyphs,
cruising Salzbergwerk's underwater lake

We touched scrumptious things;
Beignets and chicory coffee at DuMonde's in the Big Easy,
Hot *** with sesame sauce
in the walled city of Xian,
Peking duck, dimsum, scorpions,
snake and starfish on Wangfujing Snack Street

We touched delicious things
Crawfish heads and tails at JuJu's shack
and ten years at Jeanette's,
Langoustine at Poinciana's, Fjöruborðinus and Galapagos,
Cream cheese and loch bagels
at Ess-a' s in the Big Apple

I touched your hand riding;
hang loose waves of Waikiki,
a big green bus in Denali's awesomeness,
clip clopping carriages of Vienna, Paris,
Prague, New Orleans, Krakow,
Quebec City, and Zakopane,
the acapella sugar train of St Kitts

We shared touching on paths;
the highway 1 of Big Sur,
the Road of the Great Ocean,
the bahn to Buda and Pest,
the path to the North of Maine,
the trail of the Hoh rainforest,
and time after time, the way home

Yet,
I could spend
the next three decades,
in simple bliss,
having need for
touching nothing,
other than you!

©  2016 Jim Davis
A poem I wrote last year for my wife!  Posted now since it matches the HP' theme for today - "Places"
Moon Humor  Apr 2014
Ansel Adams
Moon Humor Apr 2014
My body burns to rove far from man-made
buildings, prisons for the modern soul.
I need to traverse the frontiers white man stole
from those who made it their home.

I've been down to the Everglades of Florida.
Fan boats flew through the estuary lines with roots
of mangroves. I've been to the Hoh Rain Forest of
Washington where fog descended on the shoreline
and married the sulfur smell rising from hot springs.

I must experience America's coast to coast beauty.

Every spare seconds I spend luxuriating in the
sun, thinking of all the places untouched.
My list of desires grows as the glaciers
of Glacier recede in Montana, beckoning
me to the Rocky Mountain Peaks.

Old Faithful gushes, surrounded by wolves and grizzlies.
Someday I'll cross Yellowstone's expansive mountain ranges.
from Idaho to Montana to Wyoming. On the arches of
Utah I'll face my fear of heights and find solace at
the tops of time-layered sandstone towers.

Descending the Grand Canyon I'll study beautiful
colors exposed by years of erosion. In winter
Death Valley will be braved. The lowest and direst point
will exhilarate me with scaled creatures as sand
dunes whisper my name with every hot breath.

The Badlands of South Dakota will hope I come
backpacking through prairies to watch precious bison roam.
California Redwood trees and I will stand side by side
as friends. Yosemite will call me to her cliffs and I will chase
waterfalls and sequoia groves until I've seen it all.

I ache to explore the terrain that bears
my name, the country I call home.
Aztec Warrior  Jan 2016
POEM 115
Aztec Warrior Jan 2016
Spirit Ghost**

I was listening to
Guns N Roses yesterday;
to Axl’s “Sweet Child O Mine”.
It’s funny cause
I always thought he was singing
“Oh oh, sweet Caroline”.
HA!
Ever have that
fantasy meets reality, or
is it reality’s fantasy feeling?
Can’t answer that one
and my guess is that
some mountains should never be climbed.
But Slash’s guitar riffs
pull me in and I start to sing,
“Oh hoh oh sweet child o mine”,
oh hoh oh sweet Caroline
as dark hair carries the wind
spiraling me into the fragrance
of moon soaked lavender,
lilies and a hint of wild sage.

“Where do we go now”?
I do not know
but there are Juniper trees on the horizon,
and dust mingles with sweat
as the sun rises to calm skies.
Walking this path
brings me face to face
with a dancing voice in the wind,
a ghost spirit seeing
present and past,
a sweet voice of healing, she sings
just when I needed it most.

I would love to dance you under the moon,
braid and feather your hair
in the old style of soft caring
and sing of the moon’s shadow
smiling in your eyes.
The music shifts,
moving more gently
into a song of renewal,
into the circle dance, into
“Ly-o lay Ale Loya”.
Come, dance,
circle, counter-circle;
let me show you the friendship,
the spirit in the ghost
you have shown me.

Aztec Warrior 1.22.16
I hope this small poem shows the respect and admiration
I have for a friend who has shown me her strength and
calmness and treated me as a human being.
She is a more than special.
‘Hah-ha-heh-he-hoh-**' is a legend
A classic drug of wiping up yesterdays.

I settled to clean a virus before closing eyes
Like a duel core machine with latest software.

A bell rang my welfare on the upset table
While noon laughed and I didn't see anything.

I on that Thursday perceived a camouflage
Of Bonsai putting on master-blue wings.




Poem 04
Book 'Beckoning Jade-Dreams' April 2007
Copyright Musharrat Mahjabeen
Mizan Publishers, Dhaka, Bangladesh
ISBN 984-8700-82-X
I am the sad child.
I cry and when I cry,
No tears fall.
Cry, Cry, Cry, I go.
My sad, little eyes
cry and cry.

I am the sad child.
I smile, and when I smile...
I can't smile.
Smile, Smile, Smile, I try.
But all I can manage is
A pathetic cry.

I am the sad child.
I laugh, and when I laugh,
It is hollow.
Hoh, Hoh, Hoh, I go.
I am cold, and hollow,
and empty inside.

I am the sad child,
I wonder, and when I wonder.
This is what I wonder.

Why can't I be the happy bunny?
Others are happy, yet I am not.
Must this loneliness forever be my lot?
On the surface, I appear to be sunny
But I am nothing, not even a happy bunny.
g clair  Nov 2015
HOH
g clair Nov 2015
HOH
Holding out hope
Hardness of hearing
Hardness of heart
Celia Alexandros Sep 2017
Oh I dreamt of him my special someone
The one I'm supposed to be with for the rest of my life
Is it finally him?
He looks at me with that dazzling eyes
That perfect make up
He is far prettier than most girls
He is like a model oh hoh
When he moves with that long high heels
I cannot keep my eyes away

Uh. It seems like there is no need for explanation
it seems like he knew me already that charming smile
That melt an awkward and lame girl like I am
He said something but I could not hear as I focused my attention to him
But all I could hear is the word love
Oh hoh is it the one I'm gonna spend my life with?
He is so beautiful and when he transform back to his true self
He is too handsome and so hot
That black silky hair
Is it the one?
The man who is prettier than most girls
Robert C Howard Jul 2020
A purple veil enveloped the peaks and ridges
      along the mystical divide
           where snowpack and summer rains
      chart opposite courses toward distant seas.

Born of the ancient heave and shudder
       of oceanic and continental plates,
             the Rockies transfix our wondering eyes
        by the spell of their arcane mysteries.

So it has been for those who carved our trails
       and called their mountians by name:
             Arapaho - hoh'enii
                  Hopi - tuukwe
                        Ute – Kåib

All of these good fellow journey folk
      have listened to the same timeless airs
            chanted by murmuring streams and cataracts
       and seen hope reflected in an alpine lake.

We have heard the soaring calls of the Rockies
      on either side of the great divide
         We have heard the mountains’ healing presence
      softly whispering us to our homes.
Across the Divide is the first in a cycle of poems called Echoes from Colorado which will open my new book called From the Mountains to the Sea.

This cycle will constitute the opening my new poetry book called From the Mountains to the sea.  Should be out in a month or two
The law man, he’s a comin.
A comin, ta go on get ya gone.
You better best be, goin.
Go on, get ya gone. Go on, get ya gone.

O he aight no low man,
He’s high high above the law.

Go on, get ya gone, go on get ya gone.
O that law man! He’s a comin,
Ta go on get ya gone.

O hoh, don’t feel so low,
That lowly law man!
Just sees a wild dog.
youcancallmesierra  Nov 2020
hoh
hoh
i dont wanna be a pastime
a distraction for the nighttime
feels like a waste of time
if not yours at least mine
im too sensitive for you to just say
the words you do without shame
melt at the sound of your voice mumbling my name
i love you the most beautiful kind of pain
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
love, at best, is something to be made into
an ideal: with the help of memory,
or rather: love should only be given the
theatre of memory -
it can never become this platonic hierarchy
of madness associated:
lovers come first, poets come second,
prophets come third...
i have grown to appreciate love...
i managed to invest an idealism in it...
experienced its empirical default:
i.e. at fault... and left with...
a a cinema of memories...
minute details of perfection that will
never be, or will ever be replicated...
i'm not a woman, after all...
widower swan that i am...
i loved once... and that once is no longer
a future... or a today...
a tomorrow... love has passed me
and it remains in the past...
perhaps that's why i cling to german
idealism and nothing associated
with: well... perhaps the tender licking
of french existentialism:
but not islander... nothing english focused...
nothing isiolationist...
nothing: quick to the mob!
slow on the individual harangue!
i see violins succumb to the congregation
of sparrows...
i see drums echoing and bellowing
from disgruntled indigestion
like tectonic shifts...
and the sly barons of base...
pacing out a subtle rhythm section
that's half-wit-air and half-borrowed
time of the earth's composition in
the symphony of geology...
and all that is, or ever will be beautiful...
will never be the married man...
or will ever be:
the woman who has met being served her
whim to... all that she wasn't required...
was be ugly and write a book...
perhaps a poem would have sufficed...
"ugly"? as in: unappealing
to the majority of the digest (i.e. readers)...
alternatively?
there was that ms. amber and ginger ale...
ginger ale? we've run out...
what's the alternative?
lemonade!
well then, we'll be having our ms. amber
whiskers and lemonade upon
a chance hoisin plum (not prune)
sunset... and of all those sunsets prior
to this being written...
and those genesis sunrises...
i still only feel in love with
the thunderstorms... the plush pulp
of those snow-ridden-bulge-weight of clouds...
the atari-purple signatures...
current retro-wave-80s pop & disco...

the sunrise with a fishing trip with
my grandfather...
the 5am wake up call to sight-see
Cracow...
and never, ever, ever, visit any of
the concentration camps...
i guessed he was wrong...
i subsequently praised the hebrew...
i smoked a cigarette...
and used my hand as an ash-tray...
after i finished the cigarette...
and licked the cusp...
i had enough ash on my tongue...
to later signature the deed
unlike some eucharist *******-yourself
silly in Tel Aviv...
licked the ash...
shot of ***** to signature the new
eucharist...

because i'll be ****** if i'm not already
****** that germany...
is something that only **** germany is allowed
to persist for!
15th century medieval songs!
i'm tired of juggling both elvis and ****
germany... i'm tired of this anglophile gloating...
i'm tired of juggling both
jefferson airplane and... **** germany...
i'm tired of: it!
i'm so tired that i wonder why my handmaidens
of "my people's party" never figured a way
out a handsome past always
banging on about the reperations intended
from germany
or the russian war guilt et al...
look!
the jews received their war reperations...
some jews still receive it to this day!

i'm langing... tired of the 20th century...
the 20th century is a paradox in that...
the good is overshadowed by the bad...
the 21st century is becoming a welcome break...
implying that: some of us will be allowed
to explore tongue and tongue in cheek...
but not really...
it's not like some stupendous Stendhal will
be: brisk and loitering!

i'm tired of the 20th century...
not it a way that will be a tiredness associated
with midnight in paris and a reminiscene
of paris with hemingway...
f . s. fitzgerland: always...
always: the never too great a gatsby...
if you're going to write a novella...
marquis de sade's: ******...

to have not inherited the 20th century...
to have been born in 1986...
but to only have... two focus points
that are to be borrowed from that century?
****** was an Austrian...
Stalin was a Georgian...
"thank ****" that Mao wasn't a Mongol!
it's also called the habsburg-heimlich:
subversion...

currently? turkey-fodder-bulimic-eating-disorder:
shove those ******* piles of dough
where they should come out of!
savvy?
20th century and the most democratic
history lesson in all of time...
so many people to keep a ref. of...
no wonder the mirror escapism is:
being relegated to an instagram profile...
nonetheless: of this i am certain...
this is no formal language usage...
and if, even if this is given an informal
language use-status?
it's not going to be used...
not outside the cerebral domain...
not outside the shy constricts...

not when rap is waging "war" on...
what could otherwise be said with the same
sense of importance but no necessity to exhibit
bombast to attract an audience...
i'm tired of the 20th century because...
well... since 2001...
there might have been a war in iraq...
there might have been a war in the graveyard
of nations: afghanistan...
but there's only been...
pepper bind bidding of a life in London...
as there's an irrelevant south London Croydon...

there has been a history but...
outside of the rubric of learning...
there's this... god-awful journalistic amnesia!
journalism as a "history" is no history
to begin with...
why even Aristotle or Copernicus or...
Li Bai are remotely used as memory-jolts...

i guess some pursuits just come with
a prerequisite of temporal territory:
since they are not appreciated
by a contemporary presence...

poets, philosophers, pickle-farmers...
as i could have been the best plumber
of a generation and i would never require...
a lag of praise...
perhaps i don't need that either: right now...
but there's always a "post-mortem hindsight
conundrum"...

given, chances are...
there will be someone akin to me...
a necromancer...
who has a lovely library of books...
that outstrips the wealth of a local library...
but... all the writers in the collection
are dead...
and every time he reads a book...
he's resurrecting someone from:
"sleep"...

why don't i own books by my contemporaries?
the newspaper review sections
come saturday and sundway are filled!
filled to the brimful! with living people
reading books by living authors!
perhaps i am of the lower caste...
the Aghori...

contigent of the categorical impetus for:
what is required as a measurement...
what is required of "filling the void"...
also the H is a surd in this Raj of an: afternoon tea...

but as one is best equipped...
i'm waiting for the coinage... Charlie III
on the sly copper flip...
and the newly insurrected banknote plasta-masta...
since Lizzy Shingles 2nd-ture will be outs...
and outed...
but no no...
of course all the glamour of:
when the frost settles and you take a walk...
the frost on concrete...
is like paparazzi flashes of eager cameras...
but there's no red carpet...

like craps blinking come the midnight
harvest in the north sea...
lazy god examples... Zeus, Poseidon...
always eager-fucky-fucky-adventurers...
of the shallow **** of: begone tomorrow!

come the 3rd hour of the morning...
i'm still scribbling like a chicken is cought scratching...
if only, i, a variation of a butterfly...
and... concerns for...
concerns for... fashion...
and the agriculture of leisure having
to allow a yacht to plough the seas...
where the horse?! where the earth?!
where the ******* potato...
among the popping bottle of prosecco?!
where, is, d'ah... *******...
sun-tan... oiled up fwench hoh-nion soup-ah?!

— The End —