LOVE IN SPRING

pond in spring copy

 

Urgency is consumed

By beauty

    Nature dressing

    Slowly leafing

   Nether parts

Forcing the urgent

   Lover to work

    Peeling her petals

    For nectar

That which

   Keeps the world

   On its axis

    Even as he is still,

    Cradled

    In her arms

    Face up

   Under downy-warm skies

 He dreams

    Youth tangled in nights

    And limbs

 Images

Impossible to share

Who will understand

    In light of fear?

 Consider:

 The world is no more

    A fearful place

    Than before

 Rather:

     We have grown

    More fearful.

Still he dreams

     Fearless

Nature laughs

Slipping into something

    More comfortable

    The mornings after

                                                                                                                                                                   G. Davis-Feldman 6/1/2014

STUTTERING JUSTICE

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My dream disturbing:

Grand black pianos dropping from the sky

Missing bodies frolicking in an otherwise calm, moonlit ocean

Black men still being killed with impunity

I awake Channeling E.B. White:

“I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.”

It is hard to plan a day when civility is aligned along

A white fence facing down the barrels

Of hatred, ignorance and a blind lady justice

Hard to enjoy a world when one does not believe

In an organized God

Armed with the biggest guns

Millions of magazines spitting volleys of pain and grief

Days of drought, drones, and death

If I believed

I could commit the supreme act of

Cowardice by putting it all in

His (not Hers?) hands

Walk away ‘enjoy the world’ in a

Disney fog of happiness

I would have around my neck

That talisman

That password

That should admit me to the club of believers

If I believed

If I believed I wouldn’t be naked

But (just the same) I would have no clothes

I know the difference – now

If I believed I would not have to scramble

In my silver rage through the

Glove of darkness

This faux life wearing the liar’s smile

Fingering the cross

Idiot grinning

At other Xanaxed smilers who wonder

Why I am so nakedly angry

And I wonder what my last words will be?

Pleas for help?

Declarations of love?

Regret?

Will it matter?

Who will be the last to hear my voice?

THURSDAY NIGHTS

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Formerly my Fridays

With “the girls”

Now, part-time

Poet

Teacher

Vain fool

 Driving home still

The same

Wine-happy two glasses on

The edge a lonesome reality

Truck cab filled with

Some inane tune

Not Aretha, Stones, or Hendrix

Those here-to-fore

Post-cultural anthems

Not even Motown’s

Grooved soul strong invoking

Memories of sweaty

California nights

Dancing on perdition’s

Edge  – no

This impractical

Tune made me glad

For winter  & windows

 Up sparing others

The sound of my voice

Emboldened with spirits

Singing from a seat on the

Fringe of bedraggled dreams

Twenty-two miles

Before I engage

Sobering cold

Doors

Reality’s reluctant usher

 

Night Dreams

Night comes

Easing an orange sun

Over earth’s dreary edge

Cares drown on the horizon

Yet return in the day’s catch

Some slipping through the wide

Knit of net

Forgotten

Others left unsorted

On the pillow

Of dreams

Caste,  unremembered

Dismembered chunks

Until the slow insurrection

Of a pink and purple daubed

Day break forces fear

To organize and

We remember