"davidson" poems
I met someone today and he was awesome.
He wore a leather jacket, almost the same as yours.
He had a neat haircut but a funny beard.
Do you remember when
I used to always pester you
About trimming yours?
I did it all the time and you never listened.
Anyway, he told me a joke;
One that I've heard before and that still
Made me laugh like the world was about to end.
I think I know where I heard it the first time.
He also ordered your milkshake, I mean ours.
And smoked the same brand of cigarettes
You always did.
He was awesome because he took me for a ride
On his Harley Davidson and gave me his helmet
The way you always did.
He was awesome because he winked
At random girls and smiled at me
The way you always did.
He was awesome because he listened to the blues
The way you always did.
He was awesome because he reminded me of you.
Baby I think I still love you.
F.Z.N
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
I grew up in South Auckland, Takanini
the only Pakeha in the caravan park,
I learnt how to be tall, smart and skinny
how to raise the end of my sentences in an arc.
At school, we were told words held power;
but for teachers words were flowers,
and my friend Cruz had two brothers
Harley and Davidson - they belonged to Black Power,
their fists tattooed with something like “Smother”.
But there was never violence on our street, gang was family;
I usually never felt more at home around Bourbon,
loud Reggae, bags of **** and men so manly
they’d cry over love, and I wouldn’t get a word in.
Though my Father votes National and thinks Michael Laws is right
so moves us to Dunedin where it’s ninety percent white.
I stopped reading Lenin and picked up Rousseau
became a vegetarian, thought it was so cool you know,
even wrote a blog that discussed rise from below.
But I’ll never know below again
until I’m drunk in an old shed at 3am on a school night
singing along to Bob Marley in Maori,
sunk deep into the mattress propped against the Harley,
the one you and I would cruise on until dawn together
as police took to the streets in riot gear -
we’d get lost in the country and learn to smother
our thoughts in starlight then stagger over,
listen in to the darkness,
and just slowly breathe
the crisp, cool air of the kiwi tundra.
They say New Zealand has two flags,
but in the country, when you’re blazed
on the benefit, ****** on the disdain
for positive discrimination, you can pick out
all the small bright koru unfurling in the stars.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 4:52 AM UTC
Ski Jumping
Leaning forward, body parallel to the skis
arms neatly by the side
hands pressed in tight; flat
down the slope he goes into the unknown
flying free
for a few moments
landing as far as he can
then arms aloft in triumph.
How do you begin such a journey?
Armchair bound we are
never to speed down the icy slope
eyes and goggles peering down and down
ready to fly, see the sky.
Yet in a moment we can be there
down the slope in our minds
unburdened from reality
no years of practice or skis to heft
no chance of failure.
We can fly on the ski slope of the mind
an adventure of the imagination
synapses firing neurons glowing
and so let it be with death and life
down the slope jumping, arms aloft
into tomorrow, into the unknown
alone, down the slope, jumping.
Malcolm F. Davidson October 11th 2013
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 8:09 AM UTC
Custard Tarts
A mouthful of sweetness
yellow;
crust;
chewed slowly, savoring
and the mind goes back
along olfactory pathways
etched long ago
back to turbulent times
of teenage years
and custard tarts, with cinnamon sprinkles
your Dad brought home for Saturday lunch
after working,
trying to keep a bankrupt business afloat
plugging the holes of ineptitude
as the ship sank lower week by week.
A sliver was handed out with the coffee
devoured by all at the table
not much else to remember
except the coldness, the distant demeanor
a start contrast to the warmth of the pies
made with love at the bakers
custard tarts, now and then
sweet!
Malcolm Davidson December 18, 2013
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
1. Go a whole day talking in a western accent
2. write a 5 hour song
3. learn the rapping in "Empire State of Mind" and "Run this Town"
4. Go on a 3 month road trip on a Harley Davidson with only me, my guitar, what I'm wearing, the Harley, and the road
5. learn how to speak Hungarian, Greek, Latin, Hawaiian, Italian, Finnish, and Spanish, maybe some others
6. write a book
7. learn about Native American mythology and rituals
8. Learn how to survive on my own by making my clothing, food, supplies, tools, fire, and shelter
9. Build a yurt up in the mountains to live with wolves
10. Do a hang 10 on a surf board
11. ride a horse with wild horses
12. Paint a scenic picture
13. Protest for anything the government is against
14. Go to Europe and study art
15. Go on a train trip in Europe
16. Go to the Middle East and talk to woman about their rights
17. Go to Israel and West Bank and spray paint on both sides of the wall
18. go paragliding
19. Get or get close to winning a Nobel Peace prize
20. Help out at an orphanage
21. Learn sign language
22. go to help kids with cancer
23. Learn to play roque
24. live one year outside without spending 1 night inside
25. make a cook book
26. teach a African kid to read in English
27. Become a better poet
28. grant 28 people's biggest dreams
(This will be ongoing)
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 3:37 PM UTC
Salvador Dali
Rode a Harley-Davidson
All the way from Bali
To Abu Dhabi
With Charley the Cat
Riding pillion.
Said Charley to Dali
All weathered and gnarly
I get quite incensed
By children's lack of road sense.
When I get back to Britain
I think I'll start
A Road Safety Campaign.
Good idea
Said Dali
To Charley
Who replied
Thanks a million.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
He decided to put it off.
To not tell her how he really felt.
He thought it would change things,
And boy did it, but not how he expected....
He thought she would climb mountains and cross rivers to earn his love.
He thought he was too good for her.
When in reality, she was the one to escape when she didn't get what she wanted.
Her instincts told her he was bad news. But like any other adolescent wreck, she desired a bad boy. Her best friend accused her of insanity as she fell for the motorcycle-riding, cigarette-rolling, tattooed rebel. But she simply ignored it.
You had to give him props: he wasn't all bad:
He made her feel special, made her feel wanted. Held her hand in public, took her for romantic rides, listened to her as she spilled her feelings out to him on top of his garage, gazing longingly at the stars.
But as soon as it came down to the three magic words, he let his opportunity slide right by him.
From then on, he played hard to get, not opening up to her as easily, and the signs were clear as crystal to her.
She left him in a heartbeat.
Now he lies alone, yearning for the days when he has someone to hold.
He was afraid to admit he missed her, but missing her was all that he knew to do.
Now riding her very own Harley Davidson, she rides off into the night, forgetting the boy who refused to admit he loved her..
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 2:42 PM UTC
I'm gonna motivate my love tractor
From the east coast to the west
Feel it's horsepower beneath my ***
The scorching heat from the exhausts
Blistering my legs
Throwing back rock and gravel
Scattering anything in my way
I want to see the ocean before I die
I want to stop at the Grand Canyon on the way
And a dozen greasy spoons
And a dozen more biker bars
It all leads my ***** *** to the beach
Might as well be the Ganges
Baptise me in that great body of water
I love huge bodies of water
Lakes, rivers, seas...but never seen the ocean
I could make it on a Harley
Overcome my fear
Do it by myself
Biker clubs are insane
They're where I need to be
I've been listening to Steppenwolf
All my life
Get that hog out on the road
The highway and the hog is all that exists
It's another of those "becoming One" situations
I can handle it
Stay on the state highways
Avoid interstates
Maybe I should start getting high again every day
Smoking **** at least 3 times a day
Why don't I think that would still make me happy?
But it's cut into my short term memory
It's been cruel and even driven me to my knees
I have a healthy fear of what it's capable of
But if I could ride a Harley cross country
Surely I could handle doing it high as a kite
Biker girls, sorry to break your hearts
I got a respectable old lady who won't sit on the seat of a Harley
We have discussed parameters
But the sum total is you won't be getting what you want
That doesn't mean you might not get something and something valuable and life-changing at that
It's all at my discretion
Because biker girls sweep me off my feet
And the "look but you better not touch" rule is a little too strict
Especially when we make it to the ocean
Our naked bodies like a school of shark in shallow Pacific liquid
Just a **** or two before jumping in the water
Feel in good, like singing with John Kaye
******* the pusher man
My Harley-Davidson's caked with mud and sea salt, dripping gooey red dirt
Watch over 'em for me
Cuz we gonna be here for awhile
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 12:52 AM UTC
Chinese Firecrackers
Celebrate New Year with firecrackers|
lunch time is good
the smell of food mixing with gunpowder|
loud noises
drown out the clack of chopsticks
red paper
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
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
There's a rumor says that Harley Davidson's always leak oil.
Well, -all warriors bleed on the battlefield...don't they?
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 10:39 AM UTC
Interactive poetry: This poem to be read in a stereo-typical Tennessean female drawl
Why Elvis, let me tell you Elvis just loves Cadillac automobiles
And Elvis he is passionate for his sixguns
Why Elvis is simply devoted to his Mama
And don't you know Elvis he idolizes The Colonel
Now Elvis is wild about Harley- Davidson motorcycles
Truth is Elvis worships his fans
Oh Elvis he's quite mad for The Beatles, all four of them!
And naturally Elvis adores animals
I can't begin to tell you how much Elvis dotes over Lisa-Marie
and Elvis just adores animals...Oh heavens to Betsy didn't I just say that already
Oh my oh my Elvis is a peacock for fancy stage wear
Elvis Aaron Presley praises The good Lord Jesus
Oh The President, Elvis truly admires The President
And Elvis reveres The Stars and Stripes
Oh did I mention Elvis is crazy for cheeseburgers
Why Elvis he just loves drugs
Why Elvis just...
Why... Oh Elvis why?
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
Revving engine there you go,
Twisting the throttle of your Harley Davidson
Sunglasses down, a small smirk upon your face
You think you're better than everyone
You stupid mosquito
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
Harley Davidson motorcycle song
By David John Clare
My elektra glide had to find her
Shes got the key to turn it on
Street wheels are spinning
Now were are wining...
When she sez go let's get it on...
Harley love will get you racing the street bike you'll be a chasing
So ride the wind with Harley Davidson
the machine for you...
Now my baby said to me boy now don't be slow let's get over to the Sunday cycle show
our fat boy was still looking the best
Want my advice? Here's what I suggest.
Chorus
Well we don't talk much so to hell with a car
Romping in the country under Texas stars
She rolled out the blanket on the grassy dew
We started drinking Jim beem right out of her shoe...
Chorus
Harley Davidson motorcycle
Milwaukee Wisconsin
David John Clare
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 7:27 AM UTC
He’s a ***** of in-
tellectual acumen. A real conveyor of post-modern acuity.
What he has to say doesn’t make sense to me.
No one understands his esoteric complexity.
He speaks of Aristotelian “virtues”, Platonic Forms, and other
“practical” participation by the particularities.
Part of all that not even he fully understands.
Juxtaposing Quniean “webs of Knowledge” with Davidson Coherantism
He is challenged by McDowells 2nd nature Bildung.
His conventional English is thus un-sung, while meta-physical abstractions are then hung
Out to dry, in the abstract realm sky. What color is that sky?
“Unfair Question” he cries.
“Tell me about God” I ask, “very well” he replies.
My brain is numb after one question, and a few words.
He continues, “Do the God(s) agree upon what is good?”
Yes is my reply. “If so, do they love what is good?” Again yes.
“Then, is the Good whatever the God(s) love, or do the God(s) love what is Good?”
He must be on drugs.
A little philosophy makes a man an atheist.
A lot makes him a believer,
just not in God. He praises Reason, his room is a shrine.
Within four walls one will not find, no not any sign
Of conviction.
What? All this time thinking, reflecting, meditating, abstracting, observing, weaving grand tapestries of thought and still he does not find a foot hold in reality?
What the hell were you thinking about?
He responds.
A stream of consciousness is all that is,
past is a referent future is a predicate.
I am not the “me” I refer to when I say “my book.”
No sir, I have never spoken to you any knowledge of me.
For that I have none of, but knowledge I am not without.
If it is one thing I know, it is that I know nothing.
I tell him certainly my English teacher would know something to defeat him,
I am soon disenchanted, for he has ammunition for her.
“Ask her”, he says “to ascertain the truth value to this grammatically perfect declarative Sentence.”
Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 11:29 PM UTC
When I was younger I had an elder friend of mine
Named Denise Davidson
I asked her “why do some older folks
Like to put down younger people
She dropped a knowledge bomb on me
She said that adults have been torn down
By life and that’s why they try to tear you down sometimes
She also told me that I shouldn’t allow anyone to put me down
No matter whom it is, even if it is the President of the United States
Those words are forever tattooed on my heart
Even in my late twenties I still deal with haters
Trying to sabotage my blessings
They try to use me like I’m a slave
And when I confront them about an issue
They talk to me: condescendingly like I’m stupid,
Or say that I’m crazy, or they blame me for their shortcomings
But now instead of me acting ignorant by: cussing people out,
Hold my anger in till I blackout and forgot what I did, or threaten to **** somebody
I get even by doing better - by proving myself right
My mentor told me when people show you trash you show them class
So I get even by having integrity in my actions
Cause all those negative people want is to see me stuck in the same place
Stuck in a worse situation than them
Because it makes them feel good about themselves
And it makes their life look better than mine
Because misery isn’t happy unless it has company
By Shannon Pollard
©Summer 2013
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
Snow Melt
Long winter snow gives way to warming sun
a slow melt as temperatures struggle upward
weak sun nudges in some heat
as car and driver head to work
still bundled up, eager for Springtime.
Cars nervously round the curves
black ice, a dark shadow on the black tarmac
the banked snow recedes
revealing the yesterday’s of nature
frozen tree branches, a wind’s detritus
become exposed
a couple of crosses
left in memorandum
for teens driving too fast
killed in their prime
party time brought to an abrupt end
a family ripped apart
possibly never to recover.
Snow finally gone, melted
ice hard brittle molecules,
soften to be swept away
taken to the rivers and on to the sea
crosses bare, await new flowers
to be quietly tended
a mother’s grieving continued
snow melt in your heart
see the crosses of the past
and let them go
washed away with the snow and slush
cold hearted no more.
Malcolm F. Davidson March 27th 2015
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
Today, I miss,
The gunslinger in your stride,
Toting a bootfall, swagger laugh.
The plump of a whiskered cheek
Turned sunny side up
Harley Davidson pony tail,
Leathered up decorum,
Wild Child riding in on a heart of gold
Every now and then
When the cowboys seem so small
I think of you
Long shadowed against the platform of my childhood
Hear the faint whistle of John Wayne on the wind
Calling the memories up like
An Ole Spice bear hug
And the loss
Hits like a gunshot
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
We follow the bridleway that dissects the growing field of wheat, now dark green and vigorous after it's Spring dose of nitrogen. Pass the smouldering ruin of a bonfire which has been awaiting the torch for weeks. Charred black are two big sections of oak trunk which I considered purloining every time I passed, but decided they looked too heavy to move.
Reach the road, rein in the dog's lead, turn right. The thatch I renewed a few years back is definitely not looking new any more. Past the houses, past the one where the whistler lives. All the way across the wide East Anglian field I often hear him trilling, when we are both pottering in our gardens. He has a brick outhouse, probably a former loo or wash house. A thrush is sitting on top of the chimney and a blackbird on the weather vane, they look about four feet apart. I pick up a lager can, crush it and slip it in my back pocket. A pigeon climbs, claps its wings and glides back down. Jogger's footsteps catch up from behind. It's the chap who owns a Harley Davidson.
I turn back into our lane, a skylark is singing loud and clear above us to the left. A rabbit dashes across the lane a few yards ahead, disappears. The dog's ears go straight up and he eagerly sniffs its trail. Back home.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 4:58 PM UTC
From a kind North Alabama family
Traveling north across the Appalachia hills to settle in neighborhood built for Mr. Dupont's industry.
Your mother - the child of a sharecropper,
Father - a soldier and a baker.
Raised on Sears catalogues and baseball fields.
Instilled with a obvious desire for peace.
Fell in love with my sister,
Treat her like a queen.
Always taking good care of my mama and my wife.
You have searched for wallets in the rain,
Gave your winnings to my mother for a set of new tires.
Always casting a net to the lost who are in some pain.
There was many times you are the spine that held the pages of this families strength together.
The silent voice that calms the wild,
Your actions are worth a million words.
Thank you for the plane tickets home,
Thank you for the bed to sleep,
Thank you for the food on our plate,
Thank you for picking me up as I was stranded on the side of the road.
Thank you for your punch to the lip when I had stepped over the line.
Thank you for the calming of a family that sometimes is out of control.
I admire your selflessness.
I aspire for your faithfulness.
We all endure through your peacefulness.
In the end, when all ideas have alluded me,
I sometimes think of what your action would be.
An amazing father you are to your daughters.
A father you have been by action to your honorary son.
Some say a pictures worth a thousand words -
I hope these words are a picture of appreciation from me.
Thank you! I am honored to have known you Mr. Davidson.
Happy Fathers Day.
Ben
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
Knock knock goes the ego
as I sit floating in a calm sea of being
knock knock again; I remain in the chair
“Ignore it” says the voice of inner knowing
quiet whispers, quiet whispers.
Knock knock again insistent is this ego
wanting to come in, join the party
Louder still and the door vibrates
oh to shut it up
this banging this intrusion in my life.
A pause and silence is restored
I regain my equilibrium, feel calm again
a mellowing acceptance in this room of old age
laugh lines on the ceiling, evermore threadbare
windows to the soul misty, dust laden.
Walls less sturdy than before
the room cluttered with memories
some easier to find than others
in the boxes of the past
piled high one on top of the other.
Knock knock again the sound fills the room
stubborn, urgent ego sounds, anxious to be heard
Let me in, I want to be heard, I must be heard
Walk to the door, and reach for the handle
No says the spirit, no says the soul
Leave it, keep the door closed.
Open Up calls the Ego, knocking knocking
spirit says closed, do not answer.
I am trapped, pulled in two
voices in my head, open, close, open, close
knocking, knocking
where to go, where to go
surely there must be another door
for me here.
Knock knock, “May I come in?”
and the door of death creaks, begins to open
welcoming, welcoming.
Malcolm Davidson March 14th 2014
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
the sheer irony kicking pounding slapping biting
from the 19th century, a book entitled the gay science
sits pretty now, pretty with an ironic glee of puffed cheeks
and teeth showing, pretty enough to be a daffodil
smile, and why? why?! but of course the book looks
at 21st century and says: not much gaiety around here,
in the dirge dungeons of expression, maybe i should
be called episteme eulogia / επιστημη ευλογια,
i.e. the science of eulogy, praise indeed,
praised as if dead or dying; where the dionysian madness?
where the randomised polychromatic kandinsky moment
of frenzy? it's all written like vectors of cradle
unto the grave: (a) happend, (b) happened, (c) too
and follow on through to (d, e, f, g)... but where was (a2)
and (a3) a quick moment of (c) but actually following
through into the sub-plot no. 3 tier of (b)?
through and through, i think i'll have to lose all the airy
fairy ******** and dig in, from england all the way
to china, and speak with mao tse tung and emperor puyi
in māori, or sign language, for a bit of a foxtrot,
for a bit of a laugh - should i find any gaiety here,
it would probably sound as dumb as spike milligan's
ning nang nong nim com ****
(shh... they'll discover you're feeding a young angry man persona),
it comes with the face and the age, by the time i'm fifty
i'll just be a cranky old man persona: angry at my bladder,
angry at my legs, my wrinkles my half-witty jests,
i'll be angry at my wife, at my mid-life crisis in the form
of a harley davidson only ridden once, you name it,
anger will turn to crankiness, and it'll be too late to then
poetically confess.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
Born of blood
and raised on violence,
the life of a rider
it was all that he knew.
He was an outlaw of course.
The rabid son
of Harley Davidson,
living life faster than the law allowed.
Death had begot him
and he begets ****** in turn.
A temper hot as the sun,
a mind cool as the breeze.
Forearms like timbers.
Crisscrossed with train tracks
in and out of tunnels
drilled through tattooed flesh.
Cigarette smoke mingles
with the fumes of exhaust.
He drinks this aroma,
exhaling gun-smoke.
The law comes for him,
but he shakes them from his jacket like dust.
He is a wisp of vapor
escaping their clutch.
His days are unfocused.
And endless and brutal cycle.
Shots of tequila blur the faces
of the women of the night.
When he looks at his life,
the beginning is unclear.
When he looks at the future,
it is as certain as the tide.
Born of blood
and raised on violence.
To ride into the sunset,
was not in his stars.
His life was to be
no more than a pothole,
A nameless bump in the road.
Barely felt, then forgotten in time.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
Oh serpent, what cross you bear
catalyst to human frailties
a snake in the grass
tempting Adam and Eve
to eat from the tree of knowledge.
Fast forward to now
forked tongue hissing
quiet words spoken, speaking ill of others
cowardly tones, sotto voce, afraid to speak a truth
snake in the flesh we think
no trust, cold eyes
a shadow slithering amongst the crowds
bully skin snake
pushing your weight around
when you do speak, hypocrite
a church going southern boy
snake in the flesh
buying the girls for a night.
Serpent we do you an injustice
for honest you are, venom and fanged teeth
a rattle warning sometimes
we know where we stand
we keep our distance, safe
separate from
snake in the grass.
Your kin folks back home
they have no choice
holding you hugging you
the only fangs they see
or choose to see
are the ones tattooed on your arm
a snake biting, poisonous, a slow death
snake in the flesh
if only you would look in the mirror
slither into your truth
then the snake, the snake bite of your illusions
might perish,
a snake in the grass
a snake in the flesh no more.
Malcolm Davidson Feb 15th 2014
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC
Ma side-cariste,
comme un cerf-volant flotte
Rattaché à un fil,
Tu roules dans ta caisse sur chassis Tomahawk
Attelée à ton prototype, moi sur ma Cheftaine Indienne
D'origine,
Moi ta prothèse, ton calumet de la paix.
Et rallye après rallye,
Cascade après cascade,
Escale après escale,
Notre route à deux
Emprunte les chemins escarpés
Les canyons
au sens propre
comme au figuré
J'enfile mon casque coloré rouge blanc et bleu,
Je me signe d'un shot de Wild Turkey
Je me sens des ailes d'aigle,
Je me sens Evel Knievel ex machina
Ford Davidson et Harley Mustang
Je m'élance sur la rampe
Je franchis le mur de ton son en flammes
au dessus d'une rangée de quatorze comètes écrasées et amassées
Dans les eaux de ton Grand Canyon sidéral
D'où saillit la fontaine de Caesar Palace
Saturée de mille requins affamés qui crient :
"Color me lucky !
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 5:37 AM UTC
despite Davidson's decision,
Donald didn't dawdle during
daunting duties delightfully
dilapidated dwarfs don't do
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC