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.