Home » Poems » Best » Darryl Davis » Best Darryl Davis Poems

Best Poems Written by Darryl Davis

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

Details | Darryl Davis Poem

Attitude Adjustment

It is always after days like this one,
of a kind of proverbial snake chasing
its tail, its form flawless, its strength in

numbers of its friends all rolling together
carrying me to the end of a long day,
the end being where I started, just as

dark, my breath as clear on the concrete
platform as it was twelve hours before,
my insides still a Colombian neck tie.

But I am still one hour and at least two
languages away from there, here in the
bar car, my head against the stretch window

as the Norman countryside smears by at
200 kph, a drop of casis stirring towards a
mandarin horizon fuller than my plastic cup of scotch,

tilting with each banking of the train only to
level out sharply seconds later, the minimum
time required - I suspect - for the stubbly 

driver to refresh his senses with a good chuckle,
which would surely be more 
frequent if they let me ride up there with him,

playing "I Spy" with our eyes closed,
testing the emergency brake and
scaring cars at crossings with the horn.

Details | Darryl Davis Poem

Grey's Spectrum -Brussels, Belgium-

I’m greeted by the freshly laundered dawn,
pale slate linen hung to dry above
a stirring city of collective individuals. 
I cherish moments like these,
when I can step out in to the drying day
without forethought or agenda
and imbibe a city  which has squirmed 
beneath the clouds for a millennium.

And what a different place it would be if
the sun shone upon it more often.

What need would there have been for the
gilded Galleries de Saint Hubert
if not to protect the heads of the bourgeoisie?

What drive would there have been for Horta and Blérot 
to duplicate nature’s balance indoors in glass, steel and murals
and sprawl sgraffiti jungles beneath damp eaves?

Why would beer need to warm one’s soul and feet
if one’s shoes were not constantly damp?

Where would have Magritte found his clouds?

How would the cobblestones of the Grand Place
manage to glow brighter than Saint Michel’s spire
if they weren’t slickened by an otherwise uncaring God?

How silent and plain the city would be
without colonial djembe undertones, postmarks
from a search for one’s self in clement Congo.

It is a city of grey
from which all colours run

free, 

sober, 

deep.

Details | Darryl Davis Poem

Recipe For a Sunday Morning

A stirring lilac breeze for an alarm or,
alternatively, a morning dove's song

Minimum one, maximum two people
absolutely no minors

Several medium-firm pillows
a well-fluffed quilt, untucked

Two auto-frying eggs and strips of bacon
and auto-toasting toast, buttered, triangular

A large glass of freshly-squeezed (by someone else)
pink grapefruit juice

Espresso served in tiny cups à la volonté
steamed milk upon request

A stout newspaper, of which no more than 50%
can be composed of actual news

Miles Davis "Kind Of Blue" looping
in the background

One pair of loose fitting boxer shorts with t-shirt
one pair of bare feet, regardless of the season

And absolutely, positively
no planning whatsoever

Details | Darryl Davis Poem

A Bedtime Story

You’re in that special position you crochet yourself into when you hear me
coming up the steps , a whole breath between each plod of my
bare feet as they tackle the stairs with all the energy of an alpine climber,
day weary, the rewarding peak still somewhere beyond the mist.

I know you’ve been thinking of this since dinner, in between ladles of mascarpone,
bacon bits and spaghetti you asked at least 4 times if it was your turn tonight,
to which I always answered with profound insistence and a toothy smile that it was.
I know you only ask to stoke my interest, not that you need to.

And now we’re here, pink and blue sheets beneath us both, a spare pillow folded in half
to support your head as the story rolls out familiar, yet warm like the smell of muffins
from a sunlit kitchen on a cold afternoon, a bare branch dangling outside the window,
not unlike the hand you lean upon, your fingers spooling your hair as we go.

Regularly – when you think I’m not looking – I see you peek up to gather my reactions like
a squirrel gathers seeds put out for the cardinals when they think they’re alone, your eyes
clearly hoping to glean something of my day, even my life which I haven’t chosen to share,
two passengers on a train busy pretending they’re not reading each other’s newspapers.

All the while, the story bubbles on until it ends with a drop of tone and a soft clap
of the cover, you slide it to the edge of the bed where all favorite things live privileged,
kiss me on the forehead and wish me goodnight, switching off the light as you leave,
still mulling a twist or two in the plot which you clearly weren’t expecting.

Details | Darryl Davis Poem

Writing Buddha

On chilly Tuesdays, I write according to a strict ethos.
Evening light is subdued in a room of primary colors,
heat on medium to ensure balance and the notes

of a piano concerto flicker amongst red and white candles 
encircling two cream-colored half moon chairs which
my mass spans from east to west - never west to east – 

although the manner in which I recline varies.
A fairly upright position is best when writing about truth, faith
or hope as my feet are distanced from my graying head,

keeping things pure, clear and beyond reproach.
For poems about love, sex or death, I find curling
like a tomcat is more conductive, allowing a middle 

to form from the meeting of extremes, that place
our mothers only wanted us to know about in theory,
a page in the Kama Sutra with the corner twice folded.

But  my favorite position beyond a doubt is this one,
the one I reserve for writing about poetry where
I lay on my left side in boxers and a t-shirt,

my length crinkled into separate stanzas, the leg bone of each
connecting to the knee bone of the next, concluding with
a Pictish-looking head bone adorned with a triad

of black periods and a parenthesis on its side,
the traditional depiction of a boat or – sometimes -
a bowl, its contents only visible from above.

Details | Darryl Davis Poem

Saint Jude

Up before the alarm
again, throat dry,
head full of nails


each tagged with
a recipient soul,
keeping it together.


You've never noticed
the pensive man
eyes on the back


of your head as
you window shopped,
cried on a city bus


or tried to pay bills,
chin in soft hand,
the other rummaging a


deep pocket for grains
of hope, fuzzballs,
reasons to go on.


The positive error in
your checking account,
your daughter's smile


and numerous little
micro pleasures,
often discovered


after you've clambered 
off at your stop and
I've rode onwards

Details | Darryl Davis Poem

A Poem About That Person We'Ve All Encountered

T'es Ou?


That's all I heard for 10 minutes straight
one sautéed Brussels morning in the metro
with everyone, their brother, perhaps their dog
peeing on my leg, or at least, it felt that way,
sweat running down inside my trousers

and this one woman who refused to shut up,
pink phone clutched in glittery talons,
cheap earrings swaying in time with her hand
and three offspring exploring the car like raccoons
in my trash, threading through my legs, drooling.

"T'es Où?"
"Where are you?"
as they say in London

Who could say? Possibilities abound.
Prague is nice this time of year.
The local department store had an ad,
two-for-one socks, today only.
North Korea's not half bad.

"T'es Où?"

Not here, obviously, being brighter
and more fortunate than I, who is here,
who can hear you, who wishes he couldn't ,
who wishes North Korean visas
were easier to acquire. 

"T'es Où?"

was the last thing I heard, her voice,
her odour, her brood, trailing out the door
into the baked street above, where she
may still be looking for that person's hiding spot,
her children sniffing trees in her wake.

Details | Darryl Davis Poem

This Poem Sucks

With one foot over the side
of the tub and the other 
stirring the luke warm water,

my big toe inches towards the
busy drain, both my sins and
accomplishments swirling

to a place I can only imagine
my fish would enjoy and I
wonder if this is the sort of

thing Bukowski meant when
he said that we should reward 
ourselves with a candy-ass poem

now and again.

Details | Darryl Davis Poem

This Isn'T a Poem

It suddenly struck me as I sat in my familiar chair 
towards the back of the white buzzing café,
a hazelnut terzetto staring up at me,

it struck me what Magritte was trying to tell us
when he painted “This Is Not A Pipe” below
the dark strokes of a brown bowl and black stem,

a slight glare the only sign of life beyond it.
He wasn’t pointing out what was real and not
with a wave of disdain to the perplexed viewer

but, rather, was underlining what most of us are
too frightened to admit, that everything is what
we make of it – or not – and objects have no

preference as to the labels spectators cook up.
And I will leave you with that slippery nugget,
close the spinach leaf I was scribbling in,

take a last sip of the faded photograph before me
and step out into the foggy rush hour bee hive,
this life vest slipped carefully into my coat pocket.

Details | Darryl Davis Poem

Early Bird

The crows have

                         the guns

the pigeons have

                         the numbers

the parrots have

                         public opinion

and most of

                         the birdseed

we scattered



(previously appeared on Poetry Super Highway, June 6, 2011)