Daen Davidson-Couch ≈ Three Poems

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i like to walk where old places live

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nothing seems to disturb the solitude
of ancient stone, takes a really solid sense

of destruction to take down a century of wild blossoms

so i still go there, the stairs may lead nowhere
but i like to watch the wrinkles of riot in wilderness’ disobedience

pressing into a future, that time has no say on
as creeping avenues of haunted scenery dances too cold

and too long for most, but us, still hoofed characters

that were bred in spirit with horses and whales

seem to grow young, in these hallways of histories 
rock gardens, new atoms come there, to interrupt the

courage of victory, a presence still dawns in the grey
blends of broken hearts, that once walk among the walrus

and the rainbow, ancient wisdom left many indications
that among the broken, some strange juice stimulates the heart’s

halo, a place i call home

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Elephant Mountain Sonnet

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how we are washed in the conscious
generosity of nature, viewing you, walking you

and having the time of our lives
anger and confusion evaporates when you

are on the horizon, all your splendid medicinal herbs
the beauty of your seasons  and the great desires

to become, as you, strong, tall in a well way
you tempt us  to be greater then what writ on the

fate-line of human destinies, where the march
and the cry  become too loud, one must go high

limbs must obey  the joy of the climb
elephant mountain has blessed us

we rise with you  dine on you
mountain beings  blessing our journeys

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an appointment with fear

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fear lived somewhere between the middle tracks

never wrong nor right sides of life’s happy side

so dressed up in appropriate garb,   i tell you fear

did not stand out  like a discarded dream

it made it’s way  into the colour of blood

it’s scream so content  with it’s bellows

that even wise people sometimes worry of how

to live  without it, fear

i stand back  on days when sky sings thru the halo

of blue patience, wonder,   but does the night understand

how close the weight of fear, manufactures its treaspassing

in the hum of a personal savior and shrine

in that attachment  heavens are cased in mental reflexes

that hone the delivery of obedience into mere children play

the decaled avenue of sorrys have left glory aside

that is sad  when the man cannot understand the play

that entrenched his meanings in his young joy  a passing thing

not meant to cement his every wish into a return of then and

there, so fear lives on  until you break it like a dream’s

callous heart  dance once more  for the moon’s delight

who taught you to make account of your guilt’s rich hem

who taught you to not allow for the emptiness to take

the illusions of death’s eloquent haughtiness

that should die with the thoughts  that only hold dust

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