Poetry

April 11, 2016 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

By

Rick Davis

 

 

WRITING A POEM

 

 

With

Rose water sweat

 

I spill

The earth

 

And exchange glances

With nothingness.

 

The moon

Lights my words.

 

Each day

Is bridgeless

 

In the back

Of mourning.

 

In my

Favorite chair

 

I find a

Crowd of sorrows

 

Illuminated

By water.

 

At times

The forest is bare

 

And the

Garden’s day lilies

 

Are apocryphal,

Crafting

 

Reflective

Conversations.

 

I observe

Lost planets

 

And dead stars.

There are stones

 

In the churchyard,

But also

 

Leaps of light

In which

 

I catch

Glimpses of

 

Myself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HOPE

 

 

I feel

Comfortable,

Serene

 

Like acres

Of books

In rows.

 

Thinking of

My love

 

There is

Enough feathers

For seventy

Pillows

 

At the

Blush of

Dawn.

 

But having

Taken a

Morning walk

 

It is clear

That my happiness

 

Is a mind

Museum

 

As I

Noticed

Class consciousness

 

And serpentine

Greed

 

In the

Muffled conversations

Of “business-minded”

Men,

 

And the

Oak trees

Nodded in

Agreement

With me.

 

In the

Dry eyes

Of a

Homeless woman

 

I heard

A generous

Storm of anger

 

And seeds

Of death

 

Where

Human dignity

 

Is extinct

As memory

With the loss

Of habitat

 

And as

This woman

Spoke through

Me

 

Her voice

Wept

 

And her

Breadth

Spoke with

Rust.

 

But, headed

Back home

In silvery

Rain

 

I thought

Of a community

Meeting last night

 

Where

People spoke

For this woman

 

Which

Warmed my body

Under cool

Moon,

 

And once

Again,

 

I feel

Hopeful,

Dressed in

 

Bright

New blue

 

Under lavender

Sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rick Davis

I am a Poet and life-long Chicagoan, married, and am a graduate of Northeastern Illinois University.

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