Sorrowful unto death
(Ecclesiastes 1:18 KJV)
He that increases true wisdom increases grief...
exposing that the knowledge of serpent did not instruct the dove,
and to know serpent knowledge is to know,
how the house of Love was divided, that sorrow is in learning,
how many there are deceived of themselves….
To be harmless as a dove is to be love,
to be of a serpentine jester is to pester,
to pester life as a jester of strife...
is to be twain in total vain.
Love is oneness of twain in a wedding garment…
The trinity of infinity is the beginning of thee,
opening the sacred heart gives one options to see,
the beauty you see inside is the essence of thee,
tis also the beauty in the nature of a tree…
the nature of life’s tree eternally…
To be is, to be, of the nature of life’s tree,
not to be, is to be, of thine own ciestrine…
Alone in my room...
Bored and hungry
With no food to consume
I look at a corner...
"Hello, Jimmy, it's an honour."
My room became his...
My new room-mate
My heart was filled wit bliss
Day 3, knocked off at five
Jimmy still in my room
"Come on, let's get you a wife."
I offered him to nature
Jimmy hopped with joy
Too bad I can't denature
It is a dangerous world
Lizard caught Jimmy...
I froze in angst as Jimmy twirled
I first met Autumn when I was very, very young,
she was just a shy, quiet girl, but so very bright.
These maple trees were our favorite to play among,
as our laughter faded away with the falling sunlight.
I can still see her brown sweater, and reddish-orange hair,
blowing around her smiling face, like a flickering flame.
Her innocent voice still whispers on October's cool air,
near the place, where our lonely swing remains the same.
As the summer days said goodbye, and welcomed September,
the death of my dear, young friend came all too soon.
Autumn was one of those whom you'd always remember,
her soul was as beautiful as the shining, harvest moon.
She was here, then gone, leaving words that were never spoke,
to this day, I have never understood why Autumn had to leave.
Her presence lingers on the wind, like drifting wood-smoke,
as once a year, her playful spirit arises on All Hallow's Eve.
August, 4th, 2014
A gentle breeze
A luscious glade
Cold under your feet
A rich blue sky
Beautifully arousing aromas
Tasting without touch
Pleasingly soft sand
To bathe yourself in
A sensuous bed of leaves
To wrap yourself in
A pleasurably warm ocean
Stimulating your senses
Depriving your concentration
You lose yourself
In natures tempting ways
Seducing you to stay
of carmine and carnelian
Dying in a sunset’s
The flame of pink,
the smoke of lavender
Grudgingly giving rise…to
Final feeble glowing light
of velvety purple
Then to Ebon soot of night
Super moon last night saw it from my terrace
18% brighter and 20% nearer a meteorologist
On TV said…how dry can one get?
Huge, yellow and beautiful, so close I could
touch it with a broom handle but I felt its pull
for a moment levitated and dared dream big.
Beauty should be shared till it becomes
a memory pooled by lovers, but you were not
there to see this wonder.
This was not a night for sleeping it was one for
nearness with the one you love and restless
I walked on sandy lane thinking of your absence.
Why is it that when we decline and we are dying there is no beauty in our bodies
though there may be nobility in our natures and in our souls, yet when trees in
arboreal arabesque let fly their leaves floating to earth giving all creatures colourful
hope, but we are at our worst in deathly pale and black croaking at the end the
hope of eternity in different many ways, as the leaves do bunker compost go,
or the autumn fires so?
I can feel the clouds moving above me
covering the sun
Just enough to feel the warmth of it
The wind screaming through the trees
Drops of rain trickling down my forehead
As I observe the colors of the rainbow
set upon your stone
The earth above you cool and quiet
As you slowly become embraced
within its soil
Sleep in silence
cry no more
In the circle of life
A new child is born.
We take turns stabbing
with our shovel at rocky clay dirt
until the cut's deep
enough for what little remains
of our family dog.
Warm wet salt drops--
on my tongue as
I sip wine from a fragile glass
Stare through to hawks
swimming in October winds
circling hills full of Diablo
full of still,
FROM HIS BRAIN POETRY FELL,
FROM HIS CREATIVITY EMERGED-
HE WAS YOUNG IN THE POETIC DUEL,
READY TO MAKE HIS PRESENCE FELT.
AND A THOUSAND POEMS READILY DROPPED
AS HIS SWORD BRANDISHED HOT.
HE COULD SING OUT EVERY HIS POEM
AND MAKE NATURE SILENTLY WEEP.
BUT ALAS! WHILE NATURE SLEPT,
DEATH READILY REFUSED TO SLEEP-
FOR IT CAME AROUND READY TO REAP
RIGHT FROM THIS EARTH THIS YOUNG POET'S NAME.
HERE LIE THE REMAINS OF HIS POETIC FAME
AFTER DEATH HAD MURDERED HOT:
WHAT MUST WE DO THAN SILENTLY WEEP
CUZ HE IS GONE TO THE ETERNAL KEEP.
YOUR SOUL WATCHES EVERY TEAR DROP
AS OUR HEARTS PRAY TO HEAVEN'S REALM
TO RECEIVE YOUR SOUL AND BE IT REDEEMED,
SO THAT YOUR POEMS MAY NOT IN HEAVEN SLEEP.
As the summer breeze blows through the air
I can feel your presence, I know you are there
As the summer breeze blows across the sea
I can feel your presence, it overwhelms me
As the summer breeze blows around the earth
I can feel your presence as I did at your birth
As the summer breeze blows through the trees
I can feel your presence from my head to my knees
As the summer breeze blows across my face
I can feel your presence though
You're in another place
As the summer breeze blows half past seven
I can feel your presence even though you're in Heaven
As the summer breeze blows and leaves entangle
I can feel your presence my sweet little Angel
As the summer breeze blows the tears now start
I can feel your presence within my heart
Copyright © 1998 Shari E Davis
a barren desert:
deprived of life,
where one would be sent
only in their worst nightmare.
This is a place
one's body and soul
would surely die
This is a place
has deprived you of tears
- you no longer can cry,
the last hope for thee
is to find some water
- there is none,
No matter how hard you try,
there is no hope for thee
- you are losing your life.
What is left for you
is turning into stone:
- dried to the bone.
There is no help for thee,
you are here alone
willing to return home,
but all hope is gone.
There is nothing left,
but one strength -
thy last resort,
yet it demands
the very last feeling
not letting your life
it is your will of living,
for the people whom you love.
Scalding tears,empty promises,the rejoinder of corruption.
Keep away from the fire, fruit tree, bureaucracy don't scratch your pen on the
Poison somebody's mind,my village has 800 souls.
The murderer boasts again and the fireman goes to an early grave.
I snuff a candle,knelt down and prayed,
......as the moon is beginning to wax.
“I am a song that needs to be sung.”
Words by John Denver inscribed in Aspen.
While walking the path alongside the Rio Grande
A circle of stones in memory of John Denver does stand.
Inscribed on the rocks are the words of his songs.
They moved me deeply as I strolled along.
Realizing that I was in Aspen because I did spy
A tribute to John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High.
It sparked a desire to experience Aspen for myself.
Now here I am encircled with John Denver’s wealth.
I wasn’t a huge fan, but I did enjoy his songs.
His words stand tall beyond being written in stone.
I moved along the trail into an evergreen forest
Dwarfed by the pines as the river flows toward us.
Emotional connectivity with Aspen’s sheer mountain beauty.
Sitting on a rock in the river my only duty.
Feeling inspired to move again on the trail
An energy spoke to me; no words were entailed.
You are a song that needs to be sung
You are a bell that needs to be rung.
You are the newness of fresh mountain air
You are the energy of spring’s budding stare.
You are the eagle resting in its high nest
Ready to soar through the sky when the time is best.
You are the Rocky Mountain High
Colorado is the place for you to sigh.
Heave out the energy that is stored within
Sing your own song with a loving spin.
In gratitude I salute John Denver’s soul.
In the beauty of the Rockies, he continues his role.
Inspiring people to greater heights through his words.
Thank you, John Denver, for my heartfire heard.
He lived there once, he lives there still,
In brook, in valley, in hill.
His flesh and bone you will not see,
But he is there in every tree.
His sweat and tears fed their roots,
His blood runs in their supple shoots.
And if you listen you may hear,
In the babbling brook so near;
The essence of his being.
He is still overseeing.
He lived here once, he lives here still,
In mind, in spirit, in will.
Portugal in September.
Perfect translucent day and I can see the peculiar nature again,
as it is no longer a blur of glaring sunlight. It is like meeting
an old friend, one who was rumored to have died, in a country
I will not see again. Evergreens, carob and olive trees lost in
the mist of time, forever alone in the transience of seasons.
I also see glimpses of the sea it doesn’t interest me, not today
anyway, but I do notice it is deep blue and has white sails on.
On my scooter I drive across a narrow bridge they have been
working on so it can take heavy lorries, a road is being built
somewhere out of sight. Wish I were a painter, fair clouds on
azure sky, could be smoke signals sent by an Indian tribe yet
to be discovered, I see the past and future at the same time.
Bewildering, do I drive in a landscape of ancient dreams?
I better stop find at a café, drink a “Bica” (coffee) before I fade
into the mystery of nature and can’t find my way back home.
Did I hear them cry
For a bossom
Never tender to come.
In the cold dry wind
Against deaf hears
Like dead men alive
The vulture keeps awake
For what was never there.
The lost conscience and patience
Though no one cares to hear
Mother Nature is all ears
She keeps alive
And waits patiently
For greedy heartless vultures
To sleep and wake no more.
Life is,but short.
The golden hue of ringing of leafy bells-
so yellow and orange as the dawning sun-
sings a mellow whispering tune that swells
in the air of the thickest wind who sung.
The air of mist bows to the ground-
and morning fog seeps up to the mourning tree.
Mysterious to the depth of the roots who sleeps just down
the trunk of the sturdy crooked tree.
And so it gently slopes in a mourning tune
just over the decaying flower covered in a winter coat-
just as the colors of Antlantic sun set.
And off the limbs of branches the leaves gently float
unto the moral flower as a blanket to an eternal rest.
I cry out to you; I cannot breathe/
You do not hear, and I die slowly/
You do not care, you are concerned with
You do not feel, but you will die with me.
I choke on your fumes and swim in your muck/
My throat begs out of thirst and my loins quake
As the sun beats upon my face and back/
But no aid will I receive from you.
Have I not given you all that I could have given;
Have I not allowed you to live and prosper?!
And you repay me with this, of all ways,
Raping, plundering, and ravaging ME?!
If only you could feel the pain that invests my spirit/
But no, you can no longer feel,
You can only inflict more and more pain
Until you yourself pass away.
I have given you all that I have,
And have nothing left to give because
You no longer need me, you have been ensnared
By $$$, and greed.
Now bid farewell to your once-dear MOTHER EARTH.
Can you not hear my word?
If what I say fails to hold your interest
They are still of importance
These words are a lifetime defined
My joys and lamentations
They are a brush stroke shadowing
What I was…and am now
They are the songs of my children
The silence of standing graveside
Softly fading with times passing
Always of my voice whispering
Perhaps these words are nonsensical
And you uninterested in them
They are my life both past and present
My gift and legacy…
Yet still living
Flowers of spring, fields and trees of green
roll like waves at high tide across the pasture
but in time the Moon has turned aside Her face,
and the tide recedes to expose a barren plain.
Now midnight, moonless sky, the roaring of the sea
are my friends on a long and lonely beachwalk
soft sand does sift through my toes, cooling
what fires my heart has kindled in another life
yet one smoldering ember inside still, still refuses to die.
Where is the rain, God, you see the smoke!
Do you know what torture does this evil candle to me,
sheltered from wind by the deadwood of memory!
Oh temporal clouds, you are nothing to the
Immortal sea! Never could you douse a flame that will not yield!
Nay! I shall drown it down within Her, the endless Deep,
though the ship sink with it!
and sea of
beauties dancing in the smile of
morn orb. The
sexy posture of
stands afore, yet, her glow cannot
on my cheeks, nor can solve
of my day
by your absence, my love!
…And there’s a naked lady
On a rocky shoreline, I see
Her beauty, a pinkish smile
As I, the lover, pass her by
The jolly rhythm of the sea
Has a great resounding plea
The rain will not fall today
Though, the sky’s real gray
Sweet laughter in the wind
Hers touches my worn skin
I plead thee, O careless tare
O let you not disrespect her
For she, truly, reminds me
Of my ever dearest fantasy
Every time her beauty I see
Whilst I drink my morn tea