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Best Poems Written by Pamela Davison

Below are the all-time best Pamela Davison poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Pamela Davison Poem

Transitory

“Look up,” she cried,
And the rains came swiftly,
Overwhelming her youth
With migrant purpose.

Summer’s demise,
So abrupt,
Interrupted her sound-scape,
Giving her pause.

“Look around,” she said,
And autumn bowed to her,
A colorful character
In shades of golden afternoons.

Sequestered among
Such vividness,
She found solace and comfort
Through the grace of experience.

“Look up,” she laughed,
And silver dusted her hair,
Weighing the diversity
She wore as a crown.

Abstract changes
Became her teacher,
A benevolent
Yet unforgiving presence.

“Look around,” she said,
And spread her arms wide,
Dancing in the perspective
Of winter.

This life is transitory,
Best marked
By the seasoning
Of one’s attitude.

Details | Pamela Davison Poem

Altruistic Ponderings

I wish someone would explain
To me how we can spend
Billions of tax dollars 
On space exploration
When we can’t even figure
Out how to erase hunger
And poverty.

Who sets our priorities anyway?

Could someone please tell me
How it is we have the research dollars
Dedicated solely to the detriment
And destruction of whole cultures
But we’ve no way of curing
AIDS, Cancer, or the common cold?

Who’s in charge here?

Can anyone give me the reason
Why society insists on medical advances
In plastic surgery while so many
Still can’t afford basic healthcare
And die because of it?

Where is our leader?

How is it that we can find Jupiter,
Study its molecular structure,
But still can’t find an answer
For alternative fuel sources?

Is everyone sleeping?

While we continue to battle
For world-wide sovereignty,
Our own people collapse.

What happened to integrity?

Is there hope
For the next seven generations?

God, I hope so.

Details | Pamela Davison Poem

Must It Be So?

We were sleeping
When the dirty water
Came rushing down,
Drowning our arrogance
And releasing our fears
Into the atmosphere.

We were stunned.
Ravaged by consequence
Melting around our feet.
Disorienting panic
Was devoted to the air,
Igniting exhausting anarchy.

Pandemonium ruled
This day
While we were rendered speechless,
Ruined by our own
Inability to escape
Such confounding spoils.

The dirty water rose,
Bringing indignant death
And uniting a new breed,
The best and worst
Humanity has to offer
To this brave, old world.

Voices lifted into the molten sky,
Crying for help
Beyond comprehension,
Catapulting an echo
Even as it occurred 
Around the globe.

Why must it be so
That man’s integrity
Is tested by disaster?
Why must it take
Such extreme devastation
To wake us?

Details | Pamela Davison Poem

A Quarters' Way

Can you hear me?
Can you hear me now?

I’m squeezing out between
Pink Floyd and Willie Nelson,
a generation in the middle
of right and wrong.

Will you call me?
Will you call me now?

I haven’t gone deaf,
even if it seems that way.
I’m just caught in the aftermath
Of everything I can’t control.

Squeeze it now friend.
Squeeze for all it’s worth.

You only have to worry
about today.
Tomorrow’s orange juice
can wait for your arrival.

It’s simply now!
It’s simply today!

Will you challenge me
or leave me to beg
for your leadership?
C’mon you legend!

Can you hear me?
Can you hear me now?

Details | Pamela Davison Poem

Metaphoric Richness

He smiles at me.
As though the weight
Of psychedelic visions
Were insubstantial
And inconsequential;
A trivial thing.

Broad-shouldered emotions
Mushroom through 
Organic momentum
To greet my pain,
A throbbing haze
That is my post-script.

Narcotic serenity
Wraps around my brain,
Slurring everything
In my tilt-a-whirl scene,
Until the funhouse
Sweeps me away.

I feel myself shrinking
Like Alice In Wonderland,
But I am not afraid
Of the beautiful myriad,
Understanding how addictive
Compulsiveness can be.

Opulent pleasure
Invades my space,
Stinging reality
With a new perspective,
Numbing submission
In a morphine choke-hold.

Sound and color bend,
A sensational delight
Of exotic flairs
And pendulums humming;
It’s unlike anything I’ve known
Except for his smile.

Details | Pamela Davison Poem

Fluent

Speak to me
Nimble word-master,
Construct the images
You wish me to possess.
Be fluent in your authority
To command my thoughts,
Motivate this mortal
With your perpetual souvenirs.

Present deliberate challenges,
Enticing and fascinating,
So I may be authored
By your wisdom.
Expose your riches
In stirring tones;
No matter the cost,
I will pay.

Such is your ability
To heighten my experience,
Dear poet,
Dismaying in tremendous form
And awful honesty,
Until I have become
Your slave,
Spent, replete, and supplied.

I would be forever grateful
If you’d only lend me
A breadth of your time,
Ripening my observations.
Speak to me
Sweet word-master,
And I’ll be the resolution
To your question.

Details | Pamela Davison Poem

Grandmother Moon

Grandmother Moon cherishes me, 
kisses my forehead with her light. 
She reigns supreme over her kingdom, 
smiling down upon this humble spirit. 

I whisper to her of my dreams, hopes 
prevailing in spite of the odds. 
A tear forms in the corner of my eye 
as I challenge her to answer my prayers. 

I extend my hand, longing to touch her, 
to soak up her ancient wisdom and beauty. 
I can feel her gentle smile, she embraces me, 
bringing me comfort, her radiance guiding. 

She has been witness to the cruelties 
of man, more than I could ever imagine. 
Broken dreams scattered into the night 
her children gather around her, wink at me. 

Nissa, Nissa, I cry out to her. Is all lost? 
Is there no more hope for my people? 
A voice softly answers in my mind, 
there is always a glimmer of hope. 

Grandmother Moon watches over me, 
ruling the tides of my heart, my spirit. 
She is listening to me, tasting my tears, 
caressing the delicate tendrils of my soul.

Details | Pamela Davison Poem

Dixieland Wordpad

Way down here
In the swamps of Dixie,
Where I learned to dance
With gators grinning,
There’s music like none
You’ve ever heard.
It laces the bayous
In passionate tones,
Enough to make you
Want to move your feet.

There’s more history
In this place
Than you might imagine,
Alive and burning
On the edges 
Of modern civility.
It refuses to die,
Won’t settle for living
In the past,
As though it didn’t matter.

This is where 
I studied life and love,
Knowing my neighbor,
Sharing the burden
Of cottonmouth dreams
And moss-hidden nights
Beneath sweltering pines.
This is who I am,
As salty as the sweat
Upon your brow. 

But the music 
Has been silenced,
My people no longer sway
In the humid breeze,
Muted by ravaging winds
And torrent tides.
Drowning in the madness
Of hopelessness,
We don’t feel 
Our narrated past anymore.

Now we count 
The changes of hours
Marked by saturating grief;
There is only today.
No human should have to bear
These ravages
Polluting our memory,
Yet we are helpless
To prevent 
The scars for generations.

Credence Clearwater Revival,
Tennessee Williams,
Affects my blood,
And I cannot forget
Louis Armstrong
Or B.B. King.
Jimmy Buffett,
Harry Connick, Jr.,
And scores of others
Will help them survive.

Till I once again
Find myself
In the House of the Rising Sun,
Until a Streetcar Named Desire
Fills my senses,
I shall mourn,
My tears flooding
The mighty Mississippi River,
To overflowing.

Way down here
In the swamps of Dixie,
Where I learned to dance
With voodoo grinning,
I remember the music,
Taste the brackish waters,
Before Katrina knew me,
And standing below an American Flag,
I think the South 
Shall rise again.

Details | Pamela Davison Poem

Devoured

I don't know how to abandon 
This maniacal world 
Where electric words stalk my nights, 
Devouring my mind. 

Volcanic images appear 
As uninvited guests, 
Wrestling atrophied concepts 
Into structured rhythm. 

Metaphors tease unrelenting 
As sounds tickle my heart, 
Disowning my need for respite 
From red saturation. 

Yet I feast upon each moment 
Of inspired reverie, 
Count each hour of sanity 
An insulated gift. 

I fall into meek thanksgiving 
For voice of expression 
Even as I hear the approach 
Of mystified ideas. 

For what would I be without art 
Conveyed in written form 
But an aching, unfulfilled soul; 
Derelict and deprived?

Details | Pamela Davison Poem

Southern Exposure

Y'all c'mon down 
any ole' time, 
we'll be awaitin' 
with watermelon wine. 

Y'all are welcome 
to come define 
our red-neckedness 
among the graceful pine. 

We'll say, "Hey Y'all," 
and be inclined 
by our southern-ness 
to rip it up, divine. 

So bring it on, 
you raw moonshine, 
let yourself be red 
in the southern design. 

There's nothin' like 
fresh off the vine 
for a sweeter night, 
so poised and unrefined. 

Y'all c'mon down, 
form a headline, 
make newsworthy noise, 
along the coastal line. 

We're awaitin' 
the joyous sign 
you ain't forgotten 
our infamous dateline. 

We are still here, 
a fresh resign 
of America's 
disheartened central spine. 

Y'all c'mon down 
any ole' time, 
we'll be awaitin' 
with watermelon wine. 

Y'all are welcome 
to come define 
our red-neckedness 
among the graceful pine.