Tag Archives: poetry

Soft Sod

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It was such a lovely warm day out that I decided to go for a walk in city centre and bathe in the sun while it is still hanging around.  I walked and enjoyed the warmth for a while with my backpack in tow.  I stopped at the local caffeine watering hole and got a double latte as usual.  I sat down at a wee table and started going back through my lovely friend, Susan Abraham’s, new book, Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam.. 

As I looked up to have a sip of the steamy and luscious coffee, I noticed a blonde in her mid twenties sit down across from me with several books in tow as well.  I sat there, occasionally darting my eyes over to her, to see if she was doing the same.  She happened to glance up as I did, so we exchanged pleasantries.  She asked what I was reading.  I told her about Susan’s delightful book.  We started talking about our favourite authors.  She asked me about Susan’s book and I even let her read a few poems in it.  She was so enthralled by some of the poems like Lipstick Fish that she wrote down the ISBN so as to order it herself.

One thing led to another and she sat down at my table.  We discussed everything from poetry to the weather.  I spoke of my own poetry and my love of photography and all the arts.  I was more than impressed by her intellect, not to mention the complete package.  That’s when everything went horribly wrong. 

She threw her hair back, smiled, and asked me a question that made me feel like barfing.  “So, do you have a boyfriend?”

“What?”  I demanded as a mountain of anger and confusion erupted from my brow.

She put her hand on top of mine, and said, “Oh, it’s okay now days.  Don’t be ashamed of who you are.”

“I’m not gay”, I exclaimed whilst jerking my hand back.

Shock gripped her face, as she queried, “You’re not”.

“I’m not gay now, nor have I ever been gay, nor do I have plans to be gay in the future",  I answered, as my heart and pride splattered to the floor in a pool of humiliation.  (I mean that figuratively)

“I’m…I’m…I’m sorry…I just thought with the poetry and your kind demeanour that..you were…ya know.”  Her countenance red with embarrassment and pity.

“Can a man not scribe sonnets of a beauteous nature and be soft spoken without being labelled as gay?”

“Again, I’m sorry…I just misread you, I guess.”

“You Guess?!”

“Yeah, most guys are more obvious in their pursuits.”

“The desire to procreate is a powerful one.  I’m just like every other guy out there, except for the fact that I’m a lot smarter in my pursuits.”

“Well, let me apologize by buying you a refill.”

“I’m sorry, my dear, but I have to go and I don’t take pity drinks from women that have eradicated my self esteem, accidentally or not.”

“Aww..”

“Read the book and you might learn a thing or two about people”, I stated whilst grabbing my backpack and heading towards the exit of the caffeine watering hole. 

Looking back at the entire situation makes me almost laugh and yell at the same time.  I’m more confused that she would think such a thing.  I don’t dress in any sort of flamboyant manner.  I don’t speak with a high voice.  I don’t flail my hands in the air while talking.  I don’t get it. 

As I said, I’m not gay, I’ve never been gay, I’ve never thought about being gay, and I’m never going to be gay.  I don’t have anything against gay people.  In fact, I’d fight for their right to be gay.  I may not always agree with the way some people live their lives, but it is their lives, so I pass no judgement on them nor do I have the right to do so. 

So ladies, just because a man may be in his thirties, clean cut, soft spoken, a clean freak, and kind does not, for the love all that is Holy, mean that he is gay!  Believe me, I can be tough when necessary.  I’ve taken more than my share of blows to the head and upper body.  I’ve delivered quite a few too.  If a man would have asked me that, I would have knocked him on his backside right then.  :)

P.S.:  Susan, I’ll have that review by the end of the week.  Your splendid musings and poetry give me hope for my own writing future. 

Literal City

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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. 

Reflecting Footpath

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.

Wee Tulip

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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-

Furled Pink Tulip (by JeffersonDavis)

Blog?

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This wee sector of 0’s and 1’s on a hard drive in a case with ten other hard drives and four CPU’s…I don’t know it anymore.  My little droplet of creativity in an Olympic size pool has become foreign even to me.  This website was created to express who I am in a creative and artistic fashion.  It used to be a grand corner of the interweb.  I’d write a new story or poem that’d knock people off their heels.  They’d nudge me to keep at it and suggest improvements.  I’d oblige and write another fictional story better than the last.  I’d give hints and codes to my own identity.  It’s not that hard to figure me out, but I love mystery and intrigue. 

I was welcomed into a community of worldwide bloggers from all walks of life.  Some of them treated me like family, others treated me like their son.  I loved them all to bits and still do.  It was a grand time in my life.  I have learned so much from so many people.  I am very grateful to all of you. 

In a strange mist that lasted for months, I verged off the creative path and went down a strange and boring trail.  I let people tell me what I was better at, and what I should pursue.  I conformed to one small group and have paid a dreadful price for it.  This blog, if you want to call it that, was never meant to be a daily log of my life.  If I had something important going on or something inspiring to share, I’d announce it.  Otherwise, it was fiction and faction (non-fiction that has been fluffed up to make it interesting.) as usual. 

To be honest, I’ve not felt like my old self in six months or so.  It is imperative that I write fiction and pour my heart out into a poetry, even if no one else ever reads it.  I’m real and everything that I’ve ever said that was factual, is, but I also have the imagination of a youngster.  It’d be a damn shame to waste that!  Yes, I’m a fantabulous photographer and very thankful to those that have helped me along the way.  But, I’m a whole package.  Not only can I take or draw the picture, I can also tell you about the scene in a way that’ll make your heart melt.  :)   My writing is certainly not up to the degree it once was, but I’ll get there again and move forward. 

So, there will be no more blabbering on about weekends or boring nonsense that no one wants to read anyway.  If I have exciting news or a meme to do, I’ll post it.  Otherwise, I’ll be going back to the old game plan.  I’ll post new photos, poems, short stories, and drawings.  Jefferson Davis of auld is back baby!  :)

Be afraid…be very afraid…

P.S.:  Please continue your regularly scheduled skimming of blogs.  Thank You   :)

Cascading Falls Ruminations B&W Falling Time

Riddled countenance

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Over the past few weeks I’ve been of an ill humour.  My countenance has been riddled with an atrocious scowl.  After much reflection and a bit of intuition, I finally figured out what was wrong.  Like so many of my fellow bloggers, I’m a very creative person.  I have to put my artistic talents to use or pay the consequences.  In the last few weeks, I”ve worked so much that I’ve not had time to write poetry or short stories, take or edit magnificent photos that boggle the senses, or draw the things I love.  It is imperative that I do these things no matter how trivial they seem to others.  I’d lose my sanity without my crative outlets.  My prose would drive me mad!

I’m a dreamer, a fantacist of sorts.  I dream of a better world in which people actually get that which they deserve.  Good or bad.  About halfway through an incredibly boring workday, I caught myself doodling characters from a short story I started writing but never finished.  I had everyone at work laughing at the drawing of the auld witch and the squirrel innocently encamping in the eve of her house.

So, to keep from going mad for the twenty-three days I have left at my job, I’m setting aside time to do what I do best.

Speaking of work, I’ve got to be there in twenty minutes.  Have a grand week all…