.
ooh
i'll settle
for that
'pon thuh settle
Alone, I could see the lights
strung on top of Mercy Hospital
from anywhere
in the northside of Davenport
the reds and blues and greens
and I believed there was magic.
I was a senior in high school
out for a drive
in my mom’s Mustang at night
and A Kind of Hush
played on the radio.
A Kind of Hush
played on the radio
a hit for the season
a song about love.
I dated someone one year ago
and knew the touch of a kiss
but didn’t know love—
I could only imagine.
I passed the house
where Marcia, a classmate, lived.
Her dark blue Vega was parked in the driveway,
and I thought it was so cool.
I’d seen her in the hallway
by the cafeteria at school
many times, but I never found a way
to talk to her.
I looked to the skies
and could still see those lights
as I found my way.
When the song ended
I turned off the radio
but the song resonated
as the tires sung.
"Tightropes of the Three Graces"
Tightropes
for hanging clothes
on a line
each piece
pegged wooden
held between closed fences
misfortune's breeze lifts
sleeves like covers
pointing the way home
books and their pages
for The Davenport dancers
all's well that ends well
scene perfect
imperfect fortunes
throughout their ages
the balancing act
seeking Life’s rhyme
saving fates in stages
odd numbers
are never easy,
never graceful
the balancing acts,
tightropes
of the Graces
saving fates in 3 stages
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
mlb, klb, llb
Édouard Bisson , French Pre-Raphaelite
“Die drei Grazien”, 1899
Hans Baldung, German Renaissance and Mannerism
“Three Ages of Man”, 1541 -1544
“Three Graces”, 1539
Sandro Botticelli, Italian Renaissance
“The Three Graces”, 1485 - 1487
Mind trap wanderings
davenport differentials
childhood solitudes
garner teen tentacles
enlivening adult adventures
can we make Peace within ourselves?
nomenclatures not included
avoid advanced actuals
advance to GO!
The Gypsy jumped from car to car,
never getting off the train
In Davenport through morning fog,
the old town looked the same
The prairies waited in the dark,
the Rockies far beyond
In Denver’s wind he heard the words
to an oft-forgotten psalm
The engine roared, the distance called,
the rails went on and on
The desert lit the night on fire,
to burn the right from wrong
A Reno stop to take on water,
drowning in the past
Through farms and fields and countryside,
to Stockton now at last
His feet stepped down to touch the earth,
and genuflect once more
Before reboarding, headed East
—perdition his true lord
(Bryn Mawr Pennsylvania: April, 2020)
Davenport Tomorrow
by Michael R. Burch
Davenport tomorrow ...
all the trees stand stark-naked in the sun.
Now it is always summer
and the bees buzz in cesspools,
adapted to a new life.
There are no flowers,
but the weeds, being hardier,
have survived.
The small town has become
a city of millions;
there is no longer a sea,
only a huge sewer,
but the children don't mind.
They still study
rocks and stars,
but biology is a forgotten science ...
after all, what is life?
Davenport tomorrow ...
all the children murmur through vein-streaked gills
whispered wonders of long-ago.
Part 2 - " Lily" / Kate Bush https://youtu.be/MWaqPOnR5wU
"The Red Shoes"
3
Pieces of Paper
A Line, A Cross, A Curve
HOME
Davenport
Ascot
…
3
Clotho
Lachesis
Atropos
Fate
or
Destiny
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
llb, klb, mlb
"The Red Shoes" / Kate Bush
https://youtu.be/rbbPPy_bNM4
"Lily" / Kate Bush
https://youtu.be/MWaqPOnR5wU
Dear Marshfield,
Your song is in the wind
sweeping over the woods,
marshes and fields.
The marshes this December
are green, and life stirs
under cloudy skies and sun,
but you still know your seasons.
You cut new trails in my dreams
during long nights
when the sun sets early.
Tonight a bar is empty,
and the bartender shoots pool
to pass the time.
Tonight I sleep in my motel room
for a spirited night.
Davenport
October is Pastor Appreciation Month. So here is a poem I am writing for my pastor, Jeff Davenport of Calvary Baptist Church in Covington, KY
INSTRUMENTS OF GOD
It is the mouth that speaks the truth
From the pulpit ev'ry week.
It delivers words of wisdom
That all his followers seek.
They are the hands that raise God's word
Up high for all to see
As he brings us ev'ry sermon
And leads the victory.
They are the feet that walk the path
Of righteousness and grace
As he goes out to all the world,
Each big and tiny place.
It is the heart that answered when
A call from God went out.
He decided he would follow
And did without a doubt.
They are the eyes that see a need,
The heart that wants to help.
It is the mind that puts God first.
Oh yes, above all else.
These are the instruments of God.
He uses ev'ry one
To introduce the lonely, lost
To Jesus Christ, His Son.
He uses all these instruments
To make a lovely tune
So all of those who hear it may
Come running to Him soon.
I thank God for my pastor, yes,
He is so dear to me.
There'll never be another one
That's quite like him, you see.
Magazines in every corner
Rubber bands on lids of jars
Silk ribbons and dried flowers
Glossy brochures from afar.
Mantle, desk, and table
Piled high with worn out books.
Long forgotten potpourri
ticked away in tiny nooks.
Faded quilts across the bed,
Davenport, and tattered chair
Decorated by a lazy cat
Gently grooming her gray hair.
Dusty must moldy air
Timelessly suspended
Ages past, lives once lived
Forgotten and now ended.
Dear Cold Springs,
Men build empires from granite
facades taken from the ground you keep.
Most people on Minnesota Highway 23
pass without knowing the history
you keep to yourself. Most think you’re only
a small town with a brewery and a stadium
for a local baseball team, where people
from farmlands go after the last hay bale thrown.
Some pass you on the way to Saint Cloud,
industry and fortunes sought, but a few stay.
It is the solitude they seek, quiet conversations,
a pastoral land where your son is destined
to marry the girl down the street.
In the local bakery familiar conversations are shared,
and without a word, the baker knows
what you will order when you walk through the door.
Your children complain, and when grown
go seek a life in the city to act smart
and feign forgetfulness of country ways,
but in conversation and memory,
a part of them stays.
Let the children come back to you,
Davenport
*Cold Springs, Minnesota
Thank you God for being in my heart. Without you I don't know where I would be. I
know you can see!
My faith in you means so much to me. My heart you have touched. Your love makes
me strong. I want to get to where you want me to be. Where I belong. You have A
plan for me I can see! I know as long as I try you will be right by my side.
Without your love in my heart. I would have fallen a part. All my hope would have
died. You knew just what to do. You gave me strength. To help me cope. Through all
the tears I cried you stayed by my side and gave me hope.
I am looking forward to the day. When the time comes and I get to see you face to
face and thank you. In that beautiful place.
Beverly Davenport
Harvesting Pumpkins
From villages in Iowa,
Indiana, Minnesota and Nebraska
and from towns in the Dakotas,
Wisconsin and Michigan,
there stream to Chicago in spring
parades of lithe girls
looking for boys
who will look at them
but who find instead
men who will wine them
through summer,
who will wait until fall
to thresh in the fields
one summer can ripen,
men who will watch
till a pumpkin falls from the vine.
This is the courtship
village girls dream of,
laugh about, hope for.
Come fall, these are the men
who fill silos of girls
from Elkhart and Davenport,
Ely and other small places,
lithe girls who in spring
come to Chicago
looking for boys
who will look at them
but who find instead
the reapers, the men.
Donal Mahoney
I had a sibling,
but now he only exists as an eidolon on the
flat glossy surface of a couple of photographs;
that I have placed upon this ancient davenport;
that I am using to create this elegy.
I look into his eyes and try to remember
their sparkel and glow, but I can not.
Instead it's only the dreadful image of his inantimate
body encased in a metal pall,
that has been etched upon my heart, mind and soul.
In the same manner as the myopic code,
that was placed with such conamore,
upon his ledger.
So here am I, are we, sit us,
a chair, a chair, a davenport.
White; blue; floral; bright;
we linger, and are never used.
Soft carpet: plush, divine.
So clean, untouched,
we wait for a miscreant.
'So you,' said I,
'how long, sat here
have you?'
'Too long,' said she,
'years too long
it seems.'
That chair, so soft,
she has eyes for me.
Yet here, away,
I may merely gape.
'Davenport,' said she,
'look away, have
some courtesy.'
'I'm blind!' said he,
to she, then I.
'Fifty years, seven
months sat here, have I.'
And there we sat, for
years, for months.
And never sat in that
room did they-- humans.
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