At the end of the yard neath an old oak tree
There's a bench where you used to sit with me
We'd bring our dolls and dream up dreams
And drink fake tea with sweets and creams
As I sit there now in the warm Spring air
I'll dream up dreams of when we were a pair
At the end of the yard neath an old oak tree
There's a bench where you used to sit with me
We'd bring our dolls and dream up dreams
And drink fake tea with sweets and creams
As I sit there now in the warm Spring air
I'll dream up dreams of when we were a pair
At the end of the yard neath an old oak tree
There's a bench where you used to sit with me
We'd bring our dolls and dream up dreams
And drink fake tea with sweets and creams
As I sit there now in the warm Spring air
I'll dream up dreams of when we were a pair
For All My Firsts
Kevin Davis 2024
You gave me my first kiss,
soft as a feather light.
You gave me my first hug,
that made the world feel right.
You dried away my teardrops,
you chased away my fears.
You showed me how to giggle,
and smiled between my tears.
You knew just when I needed
a cuddle or a song.
You taught me to be gentle,
you taught me right from wrong.
You cheered for all my first steps,
you clapped for all my tries.
You helped me find my courage,
and dream up to the skies.
For every “first” I’ve ever had,
from morning until night—
It’s always you, dear Mom,
who made my world so bright.
Give me a cozy armchair and my pajamas said Gee
He liked sitting on the savannah, pretending he had a TV
Why not get one? Asked the meercats, who wanted to watch.
Gee decided to turn his dream up a notch.
Maybe I’ll get a studio, with paints and such.
I could become a famous painter like Vermeer, a Dutch.
Or a space capsule, he said. I could be an astronaut.
The meercats sighed; but the TV was never bought.
She’s awake, though, wide awake, her mind miles away, spinning stories she knows aren’t true, dreams she knows will never come to life. She imagines, with a kind of detached satisfaction, what it would be like to touch someone else. Not him. Never him, but someone else. Maybe the neighbor’s wife, his her golden hair and too-long lashes, always standing by the door, ready to smile, but not really seeing anyone.
She imagines it, the way his hand would feel tangled in the hair of someone else’s husband, someone who’s more than a man, someone shaped by her mind and her desires, someone customized to every inch of fantasy she could dream up. She’d be touching him, in a room far away from here, somewhere in a world where the sheets don’t smell like stale promises, where the blanket doesn’t suffocate.
An ant
never says
“I can’t”
Grasshoppers
dream up
whoppers
Two lured hearts intertwine,
dream up life’s tapestry with lattice of desire
on cloud nine.
Two paths diverge,
master courage to defy her
spat surge.
At night
lovers ceasefire
fight.
Two lured hearts intertwine,
master courage to defy her
fight.
April was the koolest month
we walked in the green uprising,
to gather berries,
would eat them as we trekked
the crunching woods.
It was1999 and the sky was clear
for months after;
we had time to can the berries
and preserve them.
Thus when the TV conjectured
the possibility of a global plague
all the channels began to
reprogram themselves;
to electronically dream-up
the year 2020 into our reality.
We had to look away from the screen,
had to ponder our relationship
if perhaps one day
one of us ever went missing.
In a recycling pantomime of motion,
we watched the untimely dying
being pushed on gurneys
out into the deserted streets.
Later we trashed all the uneaten berries
scrubbing our hands
as if they would be forever stained.
When I die
will the sky be rhetorical,
will it still turn red at eventide
or shall the world die with me?
I think it may become
a hypothetical fur-ball,
just an idea
I had been anxious about
for neigh on 74 years...
...a theory now caught within a dying throat;
just a little furry representation of the world
that will pass away with me
into the next imaginative realm...
...all of which would be convincing evidence
of an afterlife ---- except
that I will have left all my earth memories
in a leather suitcase full to the brim
with assorted junk
that I had lost, mislaid, or discarded
over a lifetime
and so ----- theoretically
I may have to dream-up a new red sunset sky
and begin again.
Satanic is in
Christianity's out
Jesus, man
What's THIS all about
Oh, it's this year's trend in after-school clubs
I'm sure it'll pass by this Spring
If not, just text me to let me know
and we'll dream up the latest new thing
Listen
To the sigh
Snowflake, breathing
Brilliant joy
Through the thoughts
Into the sparkling
Blue skies
Listen
To the leaves
Crackling, coloring
Autumn peace
With amber, gold
And scarlet dreams
Sweet serenity
Listen
To the grace
Reassuring, enchanting
Each soft moment
With light,
Flavored by music
Chorus of love
Listen
To the wonder
Full of praise, promises
Soothing away
The pain, fading
From the feelings
Revealing contentment
Listen
To the stars
Stunning the night
Twinkling bright
Like a candle
Awakening hearts
Blessing the thoughts
Listen
To the summer
Abiding inside
Where never is not
Even thought of
Grace – real hope
Invites the Sonlight
Listen
To the words
Spoken by God
Who knows us
Better than we know
Ourselves, our spark
Forever glows
Listen
To the faith
Who shimmers
With inspirational
Poetry, prose, poems
Blending blessings
Breaking through doubt…
Perfection – listens
To the screams of a belief
Far truer than any conviction
A belief that reminds us all
He is with us, there in the heart
Forever abiding – peace
Like nothing on earth can dream up
Listen – and believe!
when autumn’s last but long exhale
left mists of winter in its trail
her thoughts turned to the past to look
at greenway and the paths she took
where reading signs inside her skies
she'd dream up deaths and alibis
along the short cuts through the wood
with thoughts of stabbings and of blood
while hemlock often made her think
of slipping coniine inside drink
then with the breathless views behind
a choking often came to mind
though with the river dart in view
her thoughts would turn to drowning too
and passing by the greenway bell
she'd sound out bludgeoning as well
then muse once at the greenway gates
of ordeals, follies, pigs and fêtes
before she'd vanish through her door
to ‘kill’ some time and write some more.
My astral body plays dumb when I work everyday,
Sometimes instead of exploring or having powers,
I dream up work by the hour,
I wake up without any type of calling or reason,
Just a job no completion,
I mean it makes perfect sense,
When creating a self that continues on after mortality,
It exists indefinitely without correction or need,
Copying exactly what you were before you had to leave,
So if work is all you see it might be,
I tell people jesus returned in three days,
3 days to yourself and you might be back in ways,
You might imagine different or distant lives,
...I still remember a poem I wrote,
It's from a higher power when I learned to float,
Remarkable what you can bring here,
When this becomes the Dreamworld.
This place works but deep down inside,
I want to imagine places that don't make sense and abide,
In this few steps I find a way to believe,
Methods of contacting other lives to be free,
Money does a lot but space and time does more,
As step one comes from a place we choose to ignore,
In place is an object to make sure you're still here,
Could be television hard to dream up that that clear,
Step two belongs to you imagine a place in mind,
Travel there before sleep and it's like waking up to find,
I've woken up in places just like this,
only with less friction and a lot more of a wish,
Step three is the hardest part of all,
acknowledge that it's feeding off this life and your ego be bested by its walls,
When you're dead you'll have no ability to change your traits,
So it's best to choose them feeding off this life,
Don't wait.
Sleep.... dream.... hold on to life in all its ways and means. Going dark especially in sleep,
Means you are to pessimistic to live on,
No faith to leap.
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