daen davidson-couch ≈ two poems




poets throw away what is most abundant

in the universe


love in words, gathered by the

hungers that call our names

by the seasons that pierce our hearts

and their we banquet knowing each other’s

heart, we have sublimed life, to serve love

love in words, that are wired

to the mechanism of speech patterns

a free for-all, hum of meanings dwelling

colors wheels raging in sweet caress from

suns that live and die, give and take

on the abandoned streets of the mind’s

sensate experiences, we are collectors

of cold dreams, and mean phrases

that we architect into a flow of

tones spewing them across a line of

the plains arriving at innumerable cities

that dance thru long nights calling distant

stars to give birth openings to the light ignited

in the poet’s distillation for all to drink

long and deep for us the physical world is not

enough and passions are too beautiful to shun

to slight, word-smithers work all night repairing

roads to the heart thru heated days tasting the water

in the love’s parade

words far too meaningful to resist we are also

the garbage-poets pulling over allegories left

frozen or rotting in a book’s closet

recycled mirrors untouched for centuries

the poet pulls and pushes till every single

pearl has found a home has been heard by the souls

that look beyond and raise themselves in their solitudes

to laugh at a dark treason to giggle cause the cruel can’t

dancing in our naked dress called year, we will strip it

down to size as midnight nears, and throw it into a wind

laughing thru and thru knowing how hard and far we

have tried to love the word our selves in each other

in the bliss of fine poetry



this cold, passionate moment in time


when the cold dart of a fading sun, mirrors the wanted rest of

young oak trees; a blanket of calm for a season

the white winds of time’s charm strengthen the bark

from within, in a motionless dance, necessities` sisters

will spin webs of charity thru the

insects’ symphonies; whoa to the beetle and spider


the clouds form as if in, service; to the young oaks;

if you have noticed; the grey rose-blue of the winter

skies lay gentle patterned shadows of sweet white

light; for me to feast my spirit.

in the morning, slowsleeped ragged light

like a beggar clothed in a poet’s dream

young oaks shake off the black-buttered

solitude; sucking like piglets, or young

owls the milk of the day from the sun’s

opal nippled glories.

i rise, and walk among these young oaks

not yet forcing rhymes of wood art into

my soul’s afternoon; or gleaming tools

of intricate beauty; to house my memories

and eternity’s cry

still young oaks are climbing grounds for

young children and squirrels nibble, like

deer; the soft beginning; which will

develop into scars on the chest of

the barked elder oaks; that poets

and painters, will delight in.



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