Home » Poems » Best » Davis Smith » Best Davis Smith Poems

Best Poems Written by Davis Smith

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

Details | Davis Smith Poem

Seeking

Through this barren land I wander,
Down the hills of yonder I fall,
Skies wide hiding treasure
Cast shadows toward the open,
Cleansing my heart 
With power to revive.

Toeing the line of shores of peace and waters of treasure,
My mission tall threatens to fall;
These fields hold the spirit of wander
That threatens to burst open
And fuel my thirst to release and revive
The art of this world; my very own heart.

Down to the shores I tumble; waves lap my face to revive, 
And on I take and plow my vessel measured, on a quest for this richest treasure.
Is this goal to bless my heart, 
Or is it for others that I wander,
Launch my life into peril, leave my ambitions in the open?

As I stroke this mighty craft through earth’s silk blue heart,
Air whistling on my face, sun spreading down to revive,
This calm flushes out worry of others who wander;
My quest is wide open.
What is it, after all, that made me fall
Into dreams of pleasure and finding treasure?

It could have been ceaseless wonder shoving me on to wander;
The place I left has no gleaming gold to revive,
The skies no wide blue heart,
The grounds no fertile soil to shatter and break open
And pull out life-transforming treasure;
Jewels to squash the sorrow of sin and remedy the Fall.

Is this inclination of transfiguration; hunger for transformation, a useless way to wander?
How can I, a chest myself to search and find, try to patch my blemished heart
With nothing but world-laden treasure?
I am but a figment, prone to falter and flat-out fall,
But how can we find new lands to explore, new worlds to open
If we don’t seize the chance to set out and revive?

When I dig up this divine treasure, the fruit of my endeavor,
I’ll leave it open to stuff the hearts of those helpless victims of the Fall,
Those whose beauty it will enliven; those whose wandering wonder it will revive.

Details | Davis Smith Poem

Maturity

It carries us all on the swift tide of truth,
launching us through life on a dime,
spinning us further away from youth.

To experience it is a pantomime,
a never-ending trip through the deep;
some call it a crime.

It forces us to take a leap 
down mountains sheer and places full
of boldness and virtue and other things that don’t come cheap.

It can beat our senses dull,
but it leads us on to take
the heart-transforming fall.

It jolts us clear awake,
whacks us on the head,
reminding us we are but drifting snowflakes.

Once upon a time we fled
and tried in vain to avoid this trip,
we stopped trying when we found we’d end up dead.

Sure, we’re guaranteed to make a slip,
maybe even two or three,
but without them, there is no beauty in the trip.

This is where we’re meant to be,
taking the helm and flying strong,
not forgetting to fall to our knees.

This trek is weary; this journey’s long
and no times can match
when we were young.

But now we form new bonds to attach,
living truly free,
and unlock the love of life beyond the stone-cold latch.

Details | Davis Smith Poem

The Tranquility of This Land

As I sweep my eyes over the terrain starry bright,
I ponder how this place gives me more than I ever would have hoped
to help me soar.
My mind takes flight, even in the chambers of night,
as this mighty roar of hope and healing washes life
into anything but a bore, and cleans my soul pearl-white.
Brushing and rushing of tickled trees
that lift up my feet and aid me on my walk,
the whistling of the winds that wheeze
in a rhythm like a clock,
The frosting of freckled flecks inflicted by a rock-hard freeze.
Give me my state, my surroundings, and their Craftsman, please,
for to Him in all places will I flock.

Details | Davis Smith Poem

Rivers

Love flows down rivers of life,
give haste to the force of its might,
wash away my strife.

Feel, feel its power rife
with divine power bathed in light;
love flows down rivers of life.

Watch as it finds us like a groom to his wife,
sending sin to flight,
wash away my strife.

Ringing clear with its pompous fife
and yet dripping quiet 
love flows down rivers of life.

Slice our senses as a knife, 
blazing lamp fiery bright,
wash away my strife.

I will not be enticed,
for there is redemption rinsed pure white.
Love flows down rivers of life,
wash away my strife.

Details | Davis Smith Poem

Blessings

When at times I feel devoid of pleasantries,
struggling to be wise and cast my eyes toward the skies,
and wonder if being here amidst fear,
I am sheltered by divine care,
I rip through the lies to unmask the joys in disguise,
where I find that staying in my reclusive lair like a grumpy bear
isn’t worth the tears
as I long to be blessed and lifted from stress,
dislodged from pain to live for gain,
and though I think it’s a mess, take heed; it’s not all gloomy as rain.
Rain of remorse is replaced with showers of love,
flowing on our heads with the grace of a dove,
and though this divine refreshment is hard to see,
not many creatures are as stubborn as we, and
ignoring the beauty that God has wove,
we see the lock but can’t find the key.
Embrace the blessings like a diamond ring,
for it’s a shame to deny what’s been gifted from the King.

Details | Davis Smith Poem

Lessons From the Season

When December drops its load,
as the season starts its march in spite,
I find myself enraptured
 by the ice of time.

That was the time for loving,
as our hearts in bliss were plump and ripe,
and life was passed through the lens
of innocent smiles.

The time for strapping on boots,
as the frost released our minds from strife,
and it was nothing but fuel
for pure rejoicing.

That dazzling powder puffs dreams,
of a place where time stopped in spirit,
and signs of sentimental
giving floated free.

Today I’m here and flying
on the wings of the past and soak up
joy as before, but is there
more than just this rush? 

After all, pleasure is here
but for a spell and the bell chimes loud
for reality to break
loose in our worn bones.

True, we often ignore plans
which have been spread out for us with care,
but lessons are treasured as
years of childhood prove. 

And though we’re figments in dust,
death itself is trampled in its grave,
so pack your heart with this peace;
embrace time’s wisdom.

Details | Davis Smith Poem

Late Winter

Here I stand and take it in, 
this field stacked high with fiercest white,
dim ground flecked with pools of moonlight,
or clouds of noon pile despair unending,
and cords of buttery sun dance off the prospect of light.

A world locked in teeth of peace-starved time;
fog of despair shrouds those who thrust
their minds toward warm air
and walks over dreams of life
stripped bare by winter’s knife.

Hope flutters to reality as homeless birds to the wrong nest; 
rays of radiance peak and drop on wings of fertile crest.
Why winter and its whitewashed walls which wring
the wonder of life so dry, and snuff the flow of blazes
that glow in mortals’ eyes?

 We are wanderers all, lacing lands, dragging our souls: 
 sheer survival satisfies the pangs of sorrows full,
 but might we look around and see this shell of bondage that even we
 run the mighty course just to be
 surrounded with things from which we beg to flee? Be still.

The wind knocks snow upon my face,
the cold plummets spirits low as a grinding, brooding bass.
I stand in fear, yet know what’s clear: 
revival shall come on wings of joy to this time-forsaken place;
come to sweep the chains and bind the air of times unkind.

Details | Davis Smith Poem

What Is Ahead

There is a time when we,
pressed by burden and distress,
long to escape from this land,
drifting away and feeling the spray
of the current of relief.

There comes a moment when we,
as darkness pours into us 
cry out for light and joy and try to summon beauty,
but miss the point
as an arrow off its course.

There is a wave of temptation,
fueled by lures of bliss that sweep us from the shore,
checking us out of what matters
and drawing us from what’s real.

Yes, this is a jam-packed place,
and often it's willed by us to erase.
Yet grace in its majesty shows its form,
and proves it’s not all mourning; look, I see the morning!

Though the choice is murky, there’s only one for me.
I can’t dwell in the darkness, for the ocean of love hauls me away.
And granted, this world can batter us,
but thank goodness we’re not here to stay.

Details | Davis Smith Poem

Trails

Facing this road ahead,
I turn my face to the light’s warm spread,
And wonder why my feet are here to grace
This trail well-worn.

Snaking in a white twist
Through woods that whisper and air turned crisp,
to whisk me away to lands far beyond 
And skies of joy.

Boots splitting the branches,
Heaving footsteps on terrain used much,
This thoroughfare has no life nor love nor
fresh comfort wise.

Treading along, hearing
deep songs of promise beyond that fill 
My bag of hope with bounty and plod towards
My lofty goal.

Suddenly, my feet cease 
In a crease of the grove where roads cross,
Where heart’s desires meet noble choices
and eyes lift high. 

And I know that my world 
Can never seize the power that shaped
me strong, and the journey belongs to Him
who says, “I Am.” 

Shifting my load to this 
New road, I glance behind to glimpse the past,
The land is His; the choice is mine, in this
Beauty-packed woods.

Details | Davis Smith Poem

Elegy For a Poet

Once you sailed upon the dawn 
to grace the eaves of Pomona's verdant lawn,
but now in splendor you have drooped;
no longer shall you unleash torrents from your tongue.

Oh, white-hot zephyr of the morning,
How I wish your fall had come with warning!
Now your incandescent train is gloom;
no more will you water the thirsty orchards and summer-famished corn.

When you trawled the horizon with golden voice,
and with your sickle sliced the noise,
I never thought your time might be curtailed,
cut down by blade sharper than the one you hoisted.

Pluck Apollo's lyre: scatter drops of pearlescent dew,
Once your music winged over tangles of elm and yew,
yet never shall the harmonies of eternity be dampened:
or so I thought before the sapphire goblet was drained to the lees.

Words are immortal beings: spinning, flailing, sinning, wailing:
We cannot taste fluttering rose-buds but we can send language tailing,
to hoop, bedeck with gilt the firmament
and shoot rays of opalescent ecstasy to blind rogues into submission.

Yet far more and far higher is life than words can tell:
What more can be said? Strike the ages-worn bell.
Let it shoot its brawny waves over the seas,
and whip its well-worn message to the stars.