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Best Poems Written by David Holmes

Below are the all-time best David Holmes poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | David Holmes Poem

Sunrise, Thorns

Sunrise, Thorns

Like a sunrise over a frozen lake,
swept by wind, you burst into my life.

The illusion of warmth flowed
over me and filled me until
that day when you left.

Now alone I wander; chilled,
now worse because you
had covered me with warmth.

Where does one go to
hide from conscience-ness -
to hide from dreams?

Where does one go to hide from unwanted reality, 
to try to stitch things back together
into a quilt that makes some 
semblance of sense?

Where does one go to escape the sunshine 
that is remembered so vividly that it pains?
Where does one go to find solace in the cold
emptiness of the wind-swept lake?

That first day when you had left, light faded
and I was impaled on the thorns of the rose 
that I had sought.

Details | David Holmes Poem

My Father's Pen

My Father’s Pen

Drizzle turning sleet.
Window pane cold
as he rests his cheek against it.
Coke fire,
astringent bitter warmth filling the room.
 
On the table
amber in cut glass, no ice,
next to the tablet.
 
An old pen
cradled in the arthritic hand.
From long ago; given
him by his father before him,
to cradle, to write.
 
Now his to make words,
to paint letter pictures,
to fashion the stories.
 
The words swirl and loop,
playing endlessly.
 
Atonal but rich,
they form a trellis
upon which to paint life.

Details | David Holmes Poem

L'Heure Bleue

L’Heure Bleue

Winter comes into early spring,
Patches of grey crusted old snow linger in the shadows under spruce sentinels.
Larches still bare-branches, only for support of their moss beards.
Scraggily aspen limbs silhouetted against the sky
Crossed by airplane signatures of travel above, to far away unknown places.

The wind now laid to rest as day winds down.
On the valley floor surrounded by ancient craggy uplifted mountains
Capped with snow and surrounded by green belts of spruce and fire.  

Winding down, the golden eye of God 
Moves silently, almost drawn by the horizon beyond the mountain ridges.

Welcoming, awaiting, dreaming, of l’heure bleue
As twilight gathers.
Layering of colors -peach, violet, magenta and purple.
Veils never distinct but melting, fusing into the coming darkening,
As light fades and chill comes.
The silence of lambs, the putting up of memories, the opalescent retreat within,
Gathering time and place as a cloak to keep warmth within.

Details | David Holmes Poem

Rivers In Flood

Rivers In Flood

Sprung from headwaters, source hidden in the past or sometimes present,
Starting small, 
To begin the journey downstream to where it may go.

Restless, searching, agitated.
As it sweeps along, building in force, and speed and fullness.

Multiple currents, 
Deep, silent burdens brought up from the depths- old, ancient.
They carry old history as they gather strength and density
From the things that they carry –
Skeleton trees, rocks, detritus.

The upper current layers 
Foam with explosive plume and mists,
Which sometimes obscure the river bed and its jagged rocks
With the wild cacophony of movement.

The force of history, past and present.
The face of rage which carries with it.
Things never changed, never resolved, never acknowledged,
The Rivers in Flood tonight carrying rage.  

D Holmes 9/8/2020

Details | David Holmes Poem

It Only Comes From Within

It Only Comes From Within

While sought eagerly,
mirage like, it vanishes as you approach,
only to move further beyond you.

It does not come from without, 
nothing that you have done,
rather it only wells up and warms and sates from within.

The end of the day-
Camped on the Canadian Shield of the Boundary Waters
overlooking the reach of Saginaw.

Or the closeness of Other Man Lake as
the fire crisps rise to mingle with the stars overhead under a full moon
while loon’s call.

The end of the day-
in a well worn chair in the great log room
before the flowing glow of coals,
as you recycle the memories of the day in silent quietness.

That time of day-
when the young children have been 
put to bed, given their glass of milk, 
prayers given and tucked in,
the driving rain sound drenching the metal roof above.

That time when you are aware
that a deep breath slowly taken in
cleanses and releases you from whatever there was.

Contentment, fullness,
only comes from within, welling up.
Contentment not with what you have done,
only with the acceptance of your wholeness, with all its richness.
The fullness of who you are, shed of vanity,
shed of desire, only who you are.

David Holmes
May 21, 2021

Details | David Holmes Poem

Arlington

Arlington

Row upon row
as if grown from the green carpet
they stand starkly white at attention.
Mute sentinels in the drenching sunlight.

Although rooted and still,
in martial regiments, they march endlessly
to the joining of blue sky and green grass carpet.

Those who come here
find the etched places, the names;
the beginnings and the endings.
Those who are here
cannot see, but only rest.

At least that is what we who are the living think,
although perhaps those who are here
Turn restlessly at night and dream.

Flag draped, veiled tears,
percussion cap volley,
the little girl sobs
wrapped in the arms of her mother, his wife.

Details | David Holmes Poem

The Orchestra

The Orchestra

Best heard alone in the silence
of blackness pre-dawn.

The hall, redolent of memories,
lighted by a single bulb-
log walls fashioned from old larch;
a metal roof above.

The orchestra of rain, wind.
Initially a hesitant patter;
Almost individual drops, far away, distant, 
then the building crescendo of speed and intensity.

Becoming a persistent cadence
accompanied by the gurgle
of the gutter as the rain courses through it
to splash and echo on the rocks below.

Then decrescendo of sound as the rain 
retreats to the darkness from whence it came.
Finally, the coda:
Intermittent, hesitant sprinkle of drops
punctuating the silence.

David Holmes
December 30, 2021

Details | David Holmes Poem

Home

Home

A one pub village-the Cotswolds
The Totternhoe Chalk Stone
weathered, firm grey and brown co-mingled.
Corner edging buttressed.

The outskirts of hedgerows lined roads
Lawrence and the motor bike
in the sunlight until there was silence.

Set in the green grass
under the blue sky shadowed by clouds,
intermittent rain now cleared,
the Chalk Stone waits.

Grass plot surrounded by close in 
green foliage, trees nurtured by the rain
next to the resting place where they have come.

Stones made of the same Totternhoe Chalk
once labelled, now weathered, indistinct names, dates
decipherable only in parish records.  

Today the family gathers
to bring home to family
dust to dust and ashes to ashes.

Details | David Holmes Poem

Sky Beings

Sky Beings

Present since the day of creation,
They define the firmament
Populating the night sight sky 
In ever changing relationships
As Galileo’s sphere revolves on it axis 
Only to reappear for the same journey each night.

The focus of fascination and the focus of anthropomorphism
They populate Native American myths and legends
Recited around the dancing, leaping fires as they send their sparks skyward
In the otherwise ink black night.  

The above people, sky beings,
Were venerated in those stories which draw us 
Both inward and outward to the wonder suspended above.

One can only imagine and try to recreate the scene, the stories of
“How fisher went to the sky land” (Ojibwe)
“The quillwork girl and her seven brothers” (Cheyenne)
“They that case after the bear” (Fox)
“Women who married star husbands” (Chippewa)
“How Spirit dog made the milky way”.

These among the others,
Give breath and wonder and magic in the silent night darkness
To the sky beings above.

Details | David Holmes Poem

Dreaming

Dreaming

“Dreamlike”, I slipped deeper into an “imaginary” place -
A strange, silent, brooding, “surreal” castle,
Built into the side of a mountain in a land of perpetual snows,
And lighted only by “hazy”, flickering torches.

Deep into the “shadowy”, towering nimbus of
Doubt, depression, despair,
That dogged my every step.

Floating in “unreal” picture frames,
I travelled “trancelike” in search of Taktsang,
And the Tiger’s Nest,
Where I was told serenity and happiness abide. 

Later, awakening to the sound of prayer wheels,
The sun had crested.
A shaven, monk in a saffron, “ethereal” robe,
Who has nothing, but has no need of anything,
Presented me with a chalice of fragrant tea
Infused with peace, that transfigured my soul.  

May 28, 2021

Contest:  Writing Prompt – Dreamlike – Poetry Contest
Sponsor:  Constance La France