Perhaps you’ve met my husband David as a photographer ~ his photos are featured on Shelly Davis Books. Now I introduce to you, David Kimball Davis, the poet.
One day was filling me
with anxious curiosity
so I gathered up my thoughts
pack-rat like into a box
which had no hinges, handles, locks
I tucked it tight beneath my arm
made my way around with charm
found an open mind – walked in
and dared to share my box with them.
Why did the poet die?
You know his words are yet unsolved.
Will the where and why ever be resolved?
And some hearts will hear
what that heart was meant to know.
It’s the magic in one’s ear
the poets leave before they go.
A vail of watery lace ribbons down,
hides a frown that sad embrace had found.
And a memory of you finds a rift
forms a pool wherein a gift is held within me.
And you shall always pass as water fresh and pure
but sure bound for sea.
We watched colors dance around
in fashioned places where they found
significance for our eye.
The pigments lay a fragrant face
on canvas stretched at corners brace
now blooming on some wall nearby.
If only you knew
what sweeps the hand through
the hour
and keeps
the spring taut
Who pulls the weight
and minds the gait
of pendulum
and of passing.
A wrinkled brow marked me sad
as deeply etched lines bore the weight of a broken heart
and did add to the pain of finding you away – on the very day
I chose to say I love you, you were gone. So I left my love a rose
and it wilted in an awkward pose as if saying hurry home
and tend your garden there, so love and flowers
won’t die in despair.
When crimson skies
share both our eyes,
and holding hands is rushed surprise,
blends with our walks and long poignant talks
will thus bring us closer still.
And –
as always will.
And I’ll take this risk
to offer a gentle kiss
and watch our eyes close
and so…
is how I hope it goes.
“When Stars Die”
Light is sometimes deceiving
though shining seems
but only beams
are reaching my eye
In light of night’s believing
there was something real
that I sought to feel
once came reaching from the sky
It was merely an image
of something that burned
so long ago.
Love is the moon
waxing and waning
cycling through phases
yet always returning
to full.
Of the tides that I recall
none so gently imprint the image
of love and laughter
as do those we’ve shared together.
waves now breaking in.
washing prints that we left then,
yet leaving undisturbed all our fond
recollections,
and those impressions will last
forever.
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