Best Davie Poems
The Flag of the British Merchant Navy
The Battle of the Atlantic
We’ve heard of the famous Mighty Hood that was sunk by a Bismarck shell
We know how many men were lost and the Skippers name as well
We’ve seen the Battleship Barham rolling on her side
before the huge explosion in which so many died
The Repulse and Prince of Wales on rout to the Singapore post
Both lost to the Jap torpedo planes off the Malaya coast
There’s a film about the Kelly sunk in the battle of Crete
And of the famous River Plate where we inflicted defeat
Yet who knows the names of the merchant ships sunk almost every day
Who knew that as these ships went down seamen were put off pay
Shipping Companies all did this to cut down on the cost
They lost one of their freighters, but how many lives were lost
What of the men on the Arctic run ferrying Russian supplies
The ocean full of U-boats and Bombers filling the skies
Sailing a gas filled Tanker some only in their teens
Wondering if they’ll freeze to death or be blown to smithereens
Wallowing along in a rusting tramp to save the Russian Nation
Struggling to make eight knots whilst trying to keep station
Should a seaman stay topside or should he seek his bunk
Knowing if you fall astern your certain to be sunk
Many a merchant ship now lies under the Barents Sea
Lost in a desperate struggle to set the Russians free
The ocean bed is littered with merchant seaman’s bones
Now to lay forever at peace with Davie Jones
As a Nation we are rightly proud of our Navy in World War Two
Likewise of the R.A.F and what we owe to the few
To the men who fought at Arhnem and Monty’s Desert Rats
To those who fought the Japanese to all we raise our hats
From the Home Guard to the S.O.E in it from the start
All of our Armed Services were keen to play their part
Each had lost so many when they counted the final muster
But the greatest loss was those who sailed under the Old Red Duster
I comprehend the days when rays do shine and Ra does set
When inner soul and façade connect, 24 hours in one day gave me breathe, that’s 1,440
seconds closer to death rather than oxygen left. Aspire to build that dream shape that
atmosphere, win a Nobel peace prize, become Man of the Year
Build homes in the smog inner city ghettoes, where blocks and countenance of lost souls
decay and rust, maybe spread poetry and love as well as a monumental philanthropist,
raise seeds that spread, root, bud fruit, then trees, then yield juice to saturate the Earth
with only sweet organic humanity
Turn impossible into “Can it be” then push shriveling raisons of doubt into the fathoms
of Davie Jones’s locker, to the depths of no man’s land where oxidation and sea level
pressure crush submarines into aluminum cans, cans where can’t conforms to can,
starve doubt and feed your faith, slow and steady wins the race, but more than
anything,, remember without tree-shaking fear, find that passion and equilibrium, killing
opposition and the antagonizing meniscus, swiftly remember that life through birth is not
a boomeranging discus, life never comes back so dream, execute, relax and become
life’s subtle screenplay until the script and its cast wilt into debris of cremated urns
holding dreams, aspirations, and the well worked remains of me.
Kindheartedness
Ellen had a lot of experience in washing nappies, six bairns in less than eight years. William
Chapman had a lot to answer for. Everyone knew, or thought they knew, what poor Ellen had
to put up with. His drinking, his womanizing, and, some said, his violent behaviour towards his
uncomplaining wife.
The other women in the village tried to lighten her load without appearing to pity her. That
would never do.
Grace, Isobel, and even Nancy left bits of worn soap and washing soda by the scrubbing
board, and with Ellen being fourth in line, very often there was a good full boiler already
warmed with her neighbour’s coal. Most miners’ wives had plenty coal, but Chappie was not
above selling his allowance for beer money.
The van men from the local co-op store were also heroes in this respect. Davie the butcher
always made sure that the soup bones Ellen bought had more than the required amount of
meat still clinging to them. Her half pound of mince got another dollop after it had been
weighed and the odd sausage found its way into her meagre purchases. Then there was
Jimmy the baker who... accidentally... squashed some bread so it was not fit to sell. Ellen’s
brood did not mind squashed bread, it went well with the very slightly overripe bananas from
Ben McCabe the fruit man.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Not sure if this will qualify as a poem on kindheartedness but kindheartedness is what it was
in the 1940s
Lost in the forest,
I don't know which way to turn.
Very soon it begins to darken
every tree, and bush is alive.
Listen to the sounds.
Are they near, are they far?
Do they sound friendly?
Scared I simply wait.
Hunger sets in quickly.
My bag, I still have a sandwich.
Oh, cookies too, good old Mom.
Soon I'm waiting again.
Something is coming, I'll hide!
"Davie, Davie are you in there?"
"Mom, is Dad ever coming out.
I was lost and he wouldn't come"
"Right after the ball game, Sweetie"
"you do some more pretend"
I went back into my cave to wait.
"Dad will be out to the tent soon"
© December 8, 2016
Sad mourners packed the church today.
Poor Davie had passed away.
A Christian and a family man.
His life never went astray.
As a boy he joined the Boys Brigade.
Twas the makings of this lad.
Still youthful nearing 70.
Which makes his passing sad.
My dad knew Davie very well.
He worked with him for years.
Talked motor cars and caravans.
Great memories bathed in tears.
We sang him favourite hymn today.
Twas "Will Your Anchor Hold"
The minister did shed a tear.
As Davie's life was told.
That strong storm of death.
Has battered on Davie's door.
The family gathered round poor Grace.
Like anchors on the floor.
They stand "Steadfast And Sure"
In these wretched days to come.
Dark days of utter hopelessness.
Will blacken out their sun.
When these anchors slowly lift.
Their lives will carry on.
They will hear him,they will see him.
They just cant believe he's gone
Cavernous
I do not believe !, nor do I want to believe
that the delineations you pain upon the canvass’
of our, oh so brief time upon this plane together
represents the true you, the real you, the spiritual soul of you.
I wanted, so much for you to stand by me,
so much for you – upon this earth – to stand with me,
to walk with me upon the raging waters of this sea,
this life of ours, to be with me in calming these waters
these storms, storms drowning emotions, feelings, desires,
sending them into the depths, into Davie Jones’s locker.
Down, down, down to the bottom – of our hearts, our souls.
Me - my spirit has slipped into the mouth of this great Cave,
the caves within – deep, dark, dangerous, opened mouth –
where a Carcharondon Carchanis, an Orcinus Orca, awaits,
it’s stalactites downward force, piercing the upper regions
of my heart, causing great geysers of blood to fly,
it’s stalagmite stilettos, thrusting upwards
into the lower, nether regions of my bleeding heart,
piercing every fiber, every beat that vibrates to the songs
that love’s composers lay at the feet of us hopeless romantics,
songs that have become deafeningly silent to these old ears and the light of their sounds, penetrates not these old eyes
as life’s blood, drips in vain, like tear drops through a vein’s
aneurism – the wounds inflicted by these predators,
wounds ripped into the living flesh of a stilled, beating heart
as it tries to navigate a coarse between Black Shadows,
between the teeth ( stalagmites, stalactites ) of this Cavern,
I have chosen to explore – once more - for Life’s, sake.
The deeper I travelled into the interior of this Cave,
The more I realized, my feeling became even more grave.
The question became, how do I avoid the sting, the bite, stave off the inevitable, – never to love / be loved – to the grave
with all I shared, all I desired, all that I gave !
From the mists of uncertainty, from the fogs of doubts
come numerous ( hundreds ?, ) pages of enlightenment
( for the blind and the blinded ) that project, that question,
that are, even, living statements.
B. J. “A” 2
January 30th 2009
Jazz musician Alan Davie
an artist also was he
Known as very prolific
no easy favourite to pick
Little Davie wants to pray like a pro
Too bad for Davie that he doesn’t know
His mentor is a fraud
His conduct deeply flawed
Every night, to the peep-shows he does go
Cobalt swaggers in
hair pushed back
a trip over from Victoria
to check out the scene on Davie
to visit the doctor
and rush back to the safety that is victoria-
Cobalt lives in a jaded world
of ups and downs and somewhere in between
her homostasis
is rooted
Cobalt drives a mustang
one can hear the muffler shudder with the newly engaged engine
she knows she's lookin good
all wrapped up in cologne, leather, and a big white smile
that extendes from one ear to the next
she looks so cool that
one might want to take a deep refreshing drink-
Cobalt
my o my
The Rustic Crusts of Manna
Davie J Walker
I am the one who stripped the
Sponsor from my jersey
And the number meaning nothing
But an identity recorded in a dry book
Making me invisible to the
Odd gods of your reality
You speak my own language
In ways that defy life or death
Or the direction of the Sun's path
In the aftermath of its
Examination with the
Illusions of reality strewn in the
Branches of Stone Pine on the
Appian Way to Rome
Here we may pick our own
Venders of the streets
And eat the sweet ideal on
The rustic crusts of manna
It is here that we should speak freely
For who will interpret our intentions
From separate graves
this is Davie and Caroline's podcasting story, this is not for fame nor for glory,
this is the chance to give you the shout, telling people what its all about,
your the voice that we want to hear, whither its about theft drugs or even beer,
your the one that has the voice, we are hear to give you that choice,
we will listen to every word, opening the mike and you sing like a bird,
if your story is sad and blue, we want to hear what's happened to you,
your pain in the world or good fortune to, we want to hear and listen to you,
we may ask questions that may seem right or wrong,
we want to hear what's really going on,
so come on over and give us a shout,
we will tell you what our podcasting's about,
your the voice and we are your ears,
even if something happened back a many a years,
so this is Caroline's and Davies tune,
all our listeners want to hear what's happened to you,
so take your time, and say it loud, no shame on what your life's about,
I’ve knocked on every door of medicine men—
doors painted with hope.
Swallowed pills of every size and colour.
Been told,
“This one never fails.”
Another promise—
fulfilled only in disappointment.
The body that once felt mine
now feels like a stranger’s—
still wearing my name tag.
I sleep early,
trying to rinse myself from pain,
but wake up
still dressed in it.
The coat I wear?
Pain-stitched—
by a tailor who graduated
from the school of suffering.
The smiles you see are plastic.
Built to trick the pain.
To reassure the guardian
sitting quietly in the corner
pretending not to notice
the storm I’m in.
My calendar?
Full of appointments...
and disappointments.
The Cost They Don’t Count
Medical bills grow
like small hills in the valley—
but never heal.
Budgets collapse
while symptoms stack.
And Then… the Silence
Friends fade.
Even those that once loved loud—
go quiet.
Even the ones at my bedside
steal a gaze,
but say nothing.
To the Caregiver—
I see you.
You give without asking back.
Your strength—
irreplaceable.
Your love—
unmatched.
Your smile—
illuminating.
And yet,
I know…
your silence carries
its own invisible scars.
And Still… I Carry Hope
Hope—
that married faith
and gave birth to victory.
So if you see me—
don’t just see the illness.
See the war I fight
just to exist.
By Davie Kaliu
I walked where the trees don’t speak—
yet somehow, I heard everything.
The wind and the trees held secret meetings,
and the leaves nodded in agreement,
like spectators dressed in green.
The waters didn’t rush—
they marched steadily down the riverbank,
telling stories in ripples—
of rain that once fell,
and mountains they had kissed on the way.
The sun appeared,
golden and gentle.
Snakes and lizards lay still,
watching its every move,
careful not to miss a single step
that warmed every corner of the land.
And the birds—
they sang and danced
to the rhythm of the wind,
and to the slow ripening
of wheat and corn.
Even the silent waters grew bold—
I could hear their rhythm
as they carried a message
toward the sea.
A message sent
by the kings of the mountains
to the queen of the tides:
"Remind the man
who rides the wooden boat—
to plant more trees.
For when the last tree falls,
there will be no boat
strong enough
to ride the rising tide."
— By Davie Kaliu
There is a silent visitor inside you now —
softer than fresh-baked bread,
more precious than gifts from wise men of the East.
A second heartbeat,
gently echoing beneath your own.
You carry more than a name.
You carry memories yet to be made,
a mirror of past souls,
a vessel for tomorrow’s joy.
So walk gently,
eat wisely,
rest fully.
That bottle of cider —
it whispers lies.
That puff of smoke —
it scorches what is still becoming.
Feed this life with love,
with hope,
not with chemicals that dilute beautiful expectations.
Go.
Sit with those women in white —
the ones who read charts like oracles,
plotting the rise of a king or queen within your womb.
Let them weigh the weeks,
count your months like blessings.
Endure the prick of needles —
not just for you,
but for the strength of the life to come.
And when the countdown draws near,
remember:
Swollen feet will give way
to first smiles.
Too much sleep
will surrender to sleepless nights.
And sleepless nights
will bloom into stories —
told by the very angel
you now carry.
by Davie Kaliu
Why does the sky keep falling —
but never fall?
Each dusk a slow descent,
yet it never shatters.
How do planets remember
the path their fathers walked?
No traffic signs, whatsoever!
yet still, none collides with the other.
Why do clouds — swollen and quiet —
give birth to rain,
already full-grown,
ready to kiss the earth?
Who whispers to the raindrops
which road to take?
Which village to visit,
which river to fill?
How do babies breathe underwater,
in secret wombs,
wrapped in fluid,
unafraid, untouched by drowning?
Who painted the sky blue —
and not red, or pink,
or gold like morning fires?
Why does it never peel?
Where do plants sew their green?
And who assigned them
a uniform so consistent,
a badge of life?
Who taught the birds
to weave with twigs and time,
to shape cradles from wind,
to fold shelter from nothing?
And the sun —
who tells it when to burn,
and when to blink?
So many questions,
so few answers.
But still,
the earth turns.
The sky holds.
And I —
I stand in awe.
by Davie Kaliu