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
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
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
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,
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
Jazz musician Alan Davie
an artist also was he
Known as very prolific
no easy favourite to pick
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
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
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