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Best Poems Written by Carol Bowen-Davis

Below are the all-time best Carol Bowen-Davis poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Carol Bowen-Davis Poem

Socialites

Socialites

those was good days.
sneakin' out the bedroom window
tryin' harder not to wrinkle our frocks
than not to wake momma

runnin' down the dusty road
with pointy-toe pumps in tote
hopin' we didn't miss too much
of the party.

greeted at the end of the road
by three cats
in they daddy's shiny black Bonneville
waitin' to give us a ride.
they'd be justa skinnin' and grinnin'
thinkin' they might just get some ass 
before the night was through.

some nights,
if them cats was slick enough,
			they would.

we'd Slide all night at the juke joint.
eatin' pickled pigfeet and
gettin' high off of stump-hole liquor. 
tellin' lies 'bout how
we was gonna go to New York one day
and how we was gonna go to Coney Island 
for hotdogs at Nathan's.
and then go over to Queens
to find us a soul food joint
for a taste of collards and cornbread.

from there, 
we would just follow the crowd to Harlem
and take us a place in line
waitin' our turn to
bow at the feet of Apollo,
god of the Chitlin Circuit.

soon, 
he would entertain us with
his dukes and his queens, and his godfathers
and, boy!
that palace would be smokin'!

'course
all eyes would be on us-
the socialites from the sticks-
all dolled up in our fitted skirts
with can-can slips underneath
and the cats in they pencil suits and wing-tips
and all us thinkin'
if only the niggas back home could see us now-	
snappin' and tappin' in Harlem

with dukes, and queens, and godfathers.

Details | Carol Bowen-Davis Poem

Au Bade To Monogamy

Slipping from the sheets,
her feet touch the carpet with regret.
She tips to the shower.
In, then out.  Leaving last night’s sins
spiraling down the drain.

Dressing quietly and quickly,
she applies her red lipstick.
First, heavy.
Then tissuing off some so
it doesn’t look too fresh.

Her keys are where she left them.
She sweeps them up as she throws
her purse across her shoulder.
Without looking back
she leaves.

Checking herself in the rear-view mirror,
she touches up her hair.
As she pulls away, she catches a glance of
the hotel room door.
210.
And she knows that every number before that
no longer matters.

Details | Carol Bowen-Davis Poem

You

your scent still lingers
long after you've left my heart
my body screams, "stay."

Details | Carol Bowen-Davis Poem

Diplomacy

There will always be wars
and talks of wars
in villages and in the mist.

Men
perpetually hunger for a land of milk and honey.
Empty,
they fill themselves with hatred.

But
we can not be bothered with that for now.
Supper is done.
Come--
sit at the table and eat.

There will be no wars today.

Details | Carol Bowen-Davis Poem

Dirt

Once, she was white--
as crisp and clean as the Sunday linen
which was perfectly spread on the dining room table,
adorned with the “good” dishes, tarnished silverware, and fake crystal glasses.
And there was an abundance of food:  fried chicken, biscuits and gravy,
collards with ham hocks,
and peach cobbler.
Everything was laid out buffet-style,
waiting on the preacher to come and take supper with us.

I watched
as she served the preacher first.
Then, she gave me permission to help myself to
whatever was left on the table.  I ate
while she and the preacher went into the bedroom.
Maybe to pray.

Every Sunday for seven years, it was the same.
He came.   We ate.   They prayed.

Now, 
the preacher has moved
on to a new town, a new table, a new momma.
Our Sunday linens are faded and yellow
						and she is the color of dirt.

Details | Carol Bowen-Davis Poem

Significant

If I told you not to come back,
would you listen--
knowing that to ignore me
would be what I needed most.

To not listen to me when
I say that I want to be free and
not listen 
when I say that I need
time and space and flight--
don't hear me when I say that it doesn't matter

if you pay me no mind--

hear me when I say that it doesn't matter
right now
at this moment--
paying me no mind

is the most significant thing you could ever do.

Details | Carol Bowen-Davis Poem

Imagine

everyday,
i go on a journey
to far away places that 
others can only imagine.

sometimes

i go to darfur
and visit the beautiful ones
who dwell in the land of the blood rivers.

they drink from the waters yet do not become ill.

somedays,
i go to tibet where the quiet ones dwell.
but they will 
talk to me.
we talk about happiness 
and peace 
and love
and all of the things that i lost along with childhood.

we stand on the mountain's edge and shout out the secrets of life.
                                                                                                 no one will hear us.

then
i go to atlantis
and roam about the the palaces of the forgotten ones.
i sit at the feet of poseidon and tell him what it is like
to walk along the beach in the sunshine 
and
       how to build sandcastles.

and yes,
i even go to the place
where the artic ones reside.
i help them catch fish
which 
we take back to their igloos to cook
while their children play about in the snow
with no doubt 
or hate 
or fear.
and i stand outside watching them.

and it is there
at those places
that i can still believe
                                in Santa Claus.

Details | Carol Bowen-Davis Poem

Holy Ground

At night, I often roam around
the so-called shady side of town.
As I blend in, the people flow
in places decent folk don't go.
I've come to know a face or two
and sure some recognize me, too.
I fantasize about their lives,
detecting some hubristic vibes.
I ponder how they came to dwell
in such a place, akin to Hell.
I wonder if they're here to stay.
For surely they weren't born this way.
Perhaps some came intentionally, 
escaping lives of misery.
Too grim was their reality,
so here they found serenity.
They'd rather deal with snotty glares
from folks who don't know why they're there,
than parch in various degrees
of social thoughts and tendencies

to view a dog better than thee,
simply because they're 
black,
like me.

Details | Carol Bowen-Davis Poem

Cherchez La Femme

Beneath her breasts
lies a special place
where the soul and the heart rendezvous.
Between her thighs are the answers
to all of life’s mysteries.

You should have known you’d find them there.

In the palm of her hands is the cure for heartache 
and unrequited love.  Never will she ignore
a distressed spirit.  Calmness is inside her.  
There, she gently fights a war against 
dismal destinies and dilapidated dreams.
With the diligence of a child at task,
she retrieves you from the catacombs and breathes life into you 
so that you can begin again, as if you never knew death.

Look for the woman. 
Omnipotence is there.

Details | Carol Bowen-Davis Poem

Dawn

You ask what my favorite color is.
“Green” I say.   
Green is the color of renewal.

the color of charity
and of challenge.
It is the color of forgiveness
and of faithfulness.
of gratitude
and of grace—of generosity 
and of goodness. 
It is the color of prosperity
and of productiveness—of chance
and of change.
the color of dignity
and of dreams—of destiny
and of desperation.

Green,
is the color of life 
before living taints it.
It is the color that I was...yesterday,	
just before dawn.