I wrote this wee poem back in late 2008 when things were not so grand in the land of Davis. I found it today by accident while perusing one of my backup drives. It speaks for itself, I think.
I have watched a myriad Of red and green lights reflect In the cloudy rivers edge When night has settled on this city.
I have trod around the broken green And clear glass shards on the asphalt, The flattened blue and silver beer cans And licking smoke trails of spent ciggies.
I have heard the bellow of engines pass, The screak of tyres as they brake, The snares and drums of stereos That blast from cars stopped at lights.
The smell of damp alley-ways, From exhaust and discarded crisps Half drowned in petrol runoff Assault the air on nights like this.
I have felt the vacuum of empty streets Between the buildings, wet and cold With bits of dust and trash and rain From construction cages on new buildings.
I have turned my back and walked away, Peered down at the river from the bridge, Seen amorphous ripple shivers there And favoured them to the literal city.
Wednesday afternoon I was in city centre doing a quick walkabout to stretch my legs. As I sauntered past the white collar littered promenade at lunchtime, a crowd of suits sped past me. One of them pushed me and my camera gear up against a brick building facade.
Normally, I would have brushed him off as an eejit and went on my way. But, I had something eating at my gut, so this little incident sent me slightly over the edge. I have nothing against people in suits. I have a lot of suits. I enjoy looking professional, but being that I’m a country boy, I am much more comfortable in denims and a t-shirt.
“What is your problem?”
He turned around, looked at me, whispered something to a cohort, laughed, and continued on his way.
Just the mere mannerisms and holier than though attitude infuriated me further, so I bit my bottom lip and lectured, “Between me and my family, we pay over a ****** ******* dollars to this state alone every year, so as long as I’m following the laws and mores of our wee society, I’ll walk where, when, and how I want…I’d be more careful of who I knock over, if I were you”.
“Oh Yeah?” He enquired whilst cockily crossing his arms and snickering with his twenty something pals.
“Yeah”, I boldly stated.
“Who’s your father then, tough guy?”
““*** Davis.”
“The *** Davis?”
“The one and only”, I answered whilst sighing.
“You’re kidding me, right?” He jokingly asked whilst destroying a piece of gum.
“No.”
“*** Davis has no son…he has three girls. I know him. My firm, *********, does work for him”, he laughingly hollered as a crowd gathered.
“He has six children, whether you know it or not”, I muttered while turning to walk away.
“If I were you, I’d be more careful about lying to make yourself feel big", the chump yelled whilst pushing his comrades forward.
The English lady from the coffee house that I was standing in front of patted me on the back and told me not to mind him. I had a café noir fuelled walk and went home.
Later that night, I was sitting here at my desk fuming about what the bloke said. As hard as it was to swallow, it was almost the truth. I had not talked to him in months. We had a wee bit of a falling out over a wee money issue. I had called his phone on numerous occasions and left messages trying to rectify the situation, but to no avail.
I went to the kitchen cupboards to fetch some Earl Grey and there peering out of the dark recess was a brand new bottle of a precious beverage from Ireland. I grabbed one of my grandfathers favourite glasses and the green bottle. Humour flowed from a TV show I rarely miss loosely based on the FDNY as well as the bottle.
A crack of thunder rattled the windows, as I searched the darkness for the incoming light show. The rain had lightly been pelting against the office window all night. While trying to grab a ciggy and a light, I stumbled a bit not realising how much I had consumed.
I stood at the back door and gazed out into the blackness of the garden. While smoking that one ciggy, a thought popped into my bevvied head. So, I grabbed my keys and phone and headed out the door.
I ran from one wet street to another until I approached the main thoroughfare. Soaked from head to toe, I stopped and gawped at the quarter moon peering through a gap in the heavy mist. I gazed at the moon, while standing on that sidewalk, enquiring as to why things are the way they are. Then, a suburban whizzed by covering me in road muck.
So, I decided to run to the 24hr bistro, encountering heavy raindrop laden puddles, like broken mirrors illuminated by lightning strikes along my path. When I got to the bistro, one of the waitresses that I know offered me a towel to dry off and brought me a cup of coffee. She asked if I was alright, and of course, I said I was fine. She knew better because I never show up in the middle of the night. She told me to call Red, an off and on again petite amie.
12:30AM Ring…ring…ring…ring
“Hello”, she whispered.
“Hey”, I hollered in a half inebriated manner.
“What time is it?” She pleaded as the ruffling of covers and feathers could be heard over the phone.
“It’s 12:30. I’m at the bistro. I need you to pick me up so we can talk.”
“Are you kiddin’ me?” She enquired with a bit of disdain in her tone.
“No.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Only slightly”, I uttered whilst trying not to laugh.
Click
I reasoned that she was mad at me for waking her up, so I finished my coffee. The kind waitress offered to call me a cab, but I benignantly refused. I took my time walking home. The thunderous storm had passed and a murkiness thick enough to cut through with one’s body had settled in its place.
It was around 1:30 in the morning, when I turned onto my street. I sneakingly walked past the other houses, hoping not to wake my ever alert grandmother that lives two houses down.
By the time I approached my front yard, the audaciousness and silliness had wavered. I discovered a glint of something on my front stoop. Scared, I drew closer. A figure came into view through the vapours. I got closer and realised it was…
It was her. She walked up to me shivering, her countenance filled with rage and worry.
Slap
“Don’t you ever scare me like that again”, she whispered in my ear.
I had never been prouder than at that moment. It was not my intention to worry her or anyone else, but it was nice to know that she cares.
For Her:
Freckles is a savage word.
How about dapples of lust,
Honey sisters,
Blunders of the Sun,
Love in lace,
Damsel’s shivers,
Silent baubles,
Caramel kisses,
Blotch of arcs,
Or a serene flock?
To Pops: Happy Fathers Day, dude! You’ll always be my pops, and I hope to make you proud one day. A little bit of time is all I’m asking for.
P.S.: Drinking and smoking are not things that I condone or would suggest that anyone start. I don’t have an addictive personality, so I can get away with the occasional drink or gasper.
P.P.S.: Most of us have father issues in one form or another. Our fathers are our fathers no matter what. Tis best to love them, because we never know when we or them may not wake up one morning.
Nature will always triumph over mans lust for money and power. We are a strange species, indeed. The very premise that we would destroy our own habitat without giving thought to future generations is insane!
I’m not on about global warming, just your average eefit that doesn’t see anything wrong with pouring motor oil into a stream. And, the arses that know better but just don’t care. Yeah, I’m a tree hugger but not a hippy. Although, I was raised by ‘em.
Fresh, tall and colourful, they arise,
Dominating an ancient horizon,
Merely forgettable monuments
To the modern virtues of this land
Speculation is abundant,
Yet even more sprout,
All scramble; transfixed,
By their raw splendour.
Finally the wild brents have returned,
Perhaps weary and spent by foreign toils,
But, easily caught in the superb daze,
Of such a noble narcosis.
Politicians, lobbyist; the masses too,
Race to appease an insatiable craving;
Strive to conceive, produce and build ever more,
For pretentious opulence is their life’s pursuit.
However, the last days draw nigh,
When the harsh winter will engulf all,
And the unforgiving world, will,
Eventually destroy the wee tulip.
At least until the next season of exuberance,
When the ridiculous game will be reborn,
And eagerly embraced with revitalised mirth,
By the infinitely wiser sons of fortunate fools.
-Jefferson Davis-
It is a natural occurrence as Homo sapiens to protect ourselves. Some of us go far and beyond what is required in self-defence. We build barriers around our hearts, souls, and minds to protect ourselves against being hurt. I’m as guilty as anyone. I’m always on the defensive. I’ve always had to guard against those that would gleefully have me six feet under. But, I have realised through experience that the only way to make friends and build relationships is to let down my guard and powerful defenses. Tis a hard task.
When a person builds said barriers and refuses to lower them for any reason, he or she could very well turn into a vile and self loathing person. I’ve seen it happen. People are so afraid of getting hurt that they end up only hurting themselves. Getting hurt by someone you love and trust is unspeakable. When people are hurt in whatever way as children, it makes it that much harder to let down his or her fortifications.
There’s a lass that I know all too well that is loving and kind but evil as hell in the same instance. She had a very hard childhood. She was treated very badly. I’ll just leave it at that. Anyway, she’s very skeptical of men, especially moi. I wonder why? It took me months to chip away her impenetrable (so she thought) wall that conceals a good heart. On the surface, she is vile witch with piss and vinegar running through her veins. We have a lot in common. I saw what was behind that wall the other day. Tis quite warm and picturesque back there. But, as I have explained to her, I don’t have all the time in the world to play games. To say that she has a temper would be an understatement to the highest degree. Those sparkling emerald eyes of hers can glaze over in an instance! She trust me more than most. That means a lot! She knows how to push me buttons!
Anyhow, I scribed this poem ’bout her. Perhaps I was a bit hard on her. What say you?
It’s not angst, it’s accentuated
A decimal point away from being read
Cold, left vacuous and underrated
A deafening shower for a beat head
The sort of rage that’s strangulated
Nearly liquefied, simmering and resolute
A glimmering vanguard that’s underestimated
Designed to defend, conceptualised to be astute
She obstinates, never content
To concede would be curt
It lies in witty comments
But she is often hurt
And it’s a fault
It’s cunning, narking
Not troubling
But it’s a fault
And it’s devised
It’s uncivilised, favourable
It’s not fables
But it’s devised
And she’s just a dame
She’s mad, insane
It’s such a game
But she’s just a dame
And nowt less
But serene blitheness
Would mend this mess
But nowt less
-Jefferson Davis-
It took me months to chip away her impenetrable (so she thought) wall that conceals a good heart. On the surface, she is vile witch with piss and vinegar running through her veins. We have a lot in common. I saw what was behind that wall the other day. Tis quite warm and picturesque back there. But, as I have explained to her, I don’t have all the time in the world to play games. To say that she has a temper would be an understatement to the highest degree. Those sparkling emerald eyes of hers can glaze over in an instance! She trust me more than most. That means a lot! She knows how to push me buttons!
