Suzy Davies's Blog: Book News, page 28

The Tin Soldiers

I see tin soldiers on the corners of the streets,
the most colorful soldiers you’ll ever meet,
they’re gold and red and black and white,
they brighten the street on Thanksgiving night.

All the people have come to see
the festive window at Dorothy’s.
Dorothy’s red shoes you’ll find inside,
there are Christmas trees too, with fairy lights,
and a snowman, who smiles at passers by,
who delight in Deland on Thanksgiving night.

There are bright festive wreaths everywhere,
for people who come to stand and stare.
And people will talk to you in the street,
it’s a place where the whole world seems to meet.

There are bijou restaurants and little bars,
where you can while away the hours,
and novelty shops with dolls and bears -
there’s even a shop with two moose on the chair!
There are many surprises when you go inside,
and everything you see is sure to delight.
The Muse book store, too, for the erudite,
who come to Deland on Thanksgiving night.

Have you discovered the mural artwork,
or fed ducks and egrets, in the open park?
Or visited the museum, or the theater
or the little green oasis, where the chess boards are?

You can pose for photos by the waterfall,
that makes soothing music
on the old garden wall.
Or go to the old reclamation yard,
where you’ll find a fabulous coffee bar,
in a higgeldy, pigaldy, upside down place,
with a curious cat, with a curious face,
or visit the market with home made fayre
and traders of jewels, and bows for your hair.

And don’t forget, the Museum of Art
before you go on your way, and you depart,
and when it’s Christmas,
see the parades,
with the colorful floats,
and the people that wave.
And say “Goodbye” to the tin soldiers there,
until you see them again, next year.

Copyright. Suzy Davies 12/6/2015.

Dog

Nose to the grass,
head down,
like a thunderbolt
you run,
fur flying,
ears pricked up.

Object of pursuit
in your
possession,
you return -
fur flying,
ears
like kippers,
in the
smoke shed,
golden yellow -
ragged,
in the rain.

Tail wagging,
jaw slobbering,
you drop the ball.
At my feet a whirling
dervish -
yelps of pleasure
when I stroke you,
paws on hot coals,
that won’t be still.

Copyright Suzy Davies 09/25/2016. All Rights Reserved.

Aberystwyth in Winter

"Bad weather is forecast,"

they had said.

My grandmother knew it -

the wind was unusually high;

slates crashed from the roof

in the middle of the night,

and gritter trucks were out

near the old toll house.



Bad weather is here,

but still we venture out.

The sea lures us to

a deserted promenade,

devoid of summer visitors -

gray, and overcast.

There are thunder clouds overhead,

but it may not last.



Bad weather,

and we cling to the rails,

watching fierce breakers roll.

The air, full with rain

as the waves crash,

house-high,

yards from where we stand.

My father, his eyes on the horizon, encloses me in his iron

hands.



Bad weather:

my mother stands away from the barrier, her back turned, anxious,

lest the tide sweeps us away,

like flotsam and jetsam.

Her isolated words cut through

the thunderclaps,

like notes from a song.

“Be careful, Ronnie.”

He turns his back on the waves,

and takes us home.

Suzy Davies Copyright 9/20/2015. All Rights Reserved.

Winter in Wales

The days are short,

the evenings, crisp,

thaw- frost heralds gray mornings.

Bird-song is scarce,

seagulls, inland.

Sea lashes

over the barriers.

Gone are the bikers,

gone are the hikers.

The town

is almost silent.

Then, music heralds Christmas Time -

the little town sparkles, and comes alive,

with revelers and

carolers.

Walkers brave

the wind that

blows

o'er terraces,

fields, and mountains.

Shepherd and sheep

are safe inside.

And families sit

around the hearths,

with welsh dogs,

and glinting brasses.



We rise early

to hear the snow;

full of expectation

as mother lays the table.

“Pick, pock, puck,”

the sound of snow, as it gently falls in

soft and gentle thuds-

on the roofs of barns,

and places of worship.



A peace

descends,

casting a glow,

warming familiar faces.

And bless the hearts of child and man,

and bless the folk

across this land,

Croeso i Cymru.

Copyright 12/5/2015. Suzy Davies. All Rights Reserved.

Poem For My Father

It’s been forty three years

since we last conversed,

and over time

it’s better, not worse,

your face has faded

into memory,

and the lines are softer,

in history.



I do not know

where I’d find you today,

in a churchyard

back home,

the people say.

Without a headstone,

plaque,

or cross,

to take you home,

to mark the spot.



You did not see

how my life became -

sometimes I was glad

in years of pain,

that you didn’t see how

they spat me out,

when no-one was there-

through the shadows of doubt.



But, through it all I imagined

your voice,

whatever my plan,

whatever my choice.

Whatever I ran from,

or was running to,

you were cheering me on

to see me through.



Copyright Suzy Davies 8th November, 2015

Wanderlust.

When I was young, and just a girl
I wanted to travel around the world -
Casablanca, Marrakesh,
Rio de Janeiro and Budapest.
The more exotic the sound of the name,
the more I was drawn, like a moth to a flame.

I studied the atlas,
and stuck in pins
to highlight the places
where I would be going.
I planned plane journeys from East to West,
from Korea to Siberia,
and back again.

My aunt had a globe in her living room
and I spun it round and round, in a world of my own.
When it was getting dark, the globe seemed to shine
with continents so vast, and oceans sublime,
each night I imagined the people I would meet,
and how I’d introduce myself,
and what they’d say to greet
this small town girl with big,wide eyes,
that gazed into the distance, as if she was surprised.

Copyright Suzy Davies 01/23/2016. All Rights Reserved.

Joanne.

Joanne, Joanne,

always one for a dance - in the kitchen,

in the living room,

barefooted -

on the patio,

when the sun was out.



Joanne, Joanne, she sang

like a bird in the evening -

with the television on,

a hairbrush, for a microphone,

echoes of Opera and old time stage shows,

she danced through the house

in all her best clothes.



Joanne, Joanne, she used to paint canvases

of light blues and yellows

like Van Gogh’s famous sunflowers.

Stored up in the attic,

she brought them down,

for bohemian visitors,

Joanne, Joanne.



Joanne, Joanne -

all her dreams, for her children-

her trials and tribulations -

eating prawn salad,

alone in the lounge.

Joanne, Joanne.

Copyright Suzy Davies 03/15/2016. All Rights Reserved.

I Love The Night.

I love the night,

dark enclosed spaces,

when the mind can wander

to any places,

when reality shifts,

imagination walks in,

and you may dream

most anything.



Nothing’s impossible

when darkness’s hand

draws phantasmal shapes

to comprehend,

and space transforms

to the infinite,

when shadows loom

in the dead of night.



I love the night

the drifting stars,

lanterns of the firmament,

in constellations.

The clouds which swim

across the sky,

dance with the moon,

a crescent, on high



And in the garden,

when darkness comes,

the glimmer of distant, scattered

homes -

the lights of cars

on ribbons of roads,

heading for somewhere,

along the coast.



I love the night,

the windswept shore,

the creek of the wind

on the old town pier -

and lights’ reflections

on the homecoming tide,

the laughter of couples,

in love with the night.

Copyright Suzy Davies 06/10/2016. All Rights Reserved.

Jealousy.

They sit opposite each other,

at a corner table, in the coffee shop.

In silence,

the green monster

eyes up the competition -

make-up, hair, figure,

jewelry,

handbag,

shoes.

Her eyes move - almost

imperceptibly.

She gazes out

of the window,

conveys boredom.

When the pariah

leaves, momentarily,

for the ladies’ room,

the green monster

serves sugar in her coffee:

one spoon, heaped up.

And stirs.

Copyright Suzy Davies. 03/24/2016. All Rights Reserved.

Notes From a Bed

Many hours on a plane,

and ‘twas the end of a dream,

where we had dutifully explained

the position of the tongue when saying “L”

and “R,”

and punctuation -

the difference in grammar

between a comma,

and an Oxford Comma.



Many hours on a plane,

and we were leaving

behind our fellow teachers -

some bound for The Himalayas -

some going on adventures

round the world.

Some remained in school,

teaching anti-grammar

and colloquialisms-

they were popular,

and sounded cool.



Many hours,

and we touched down -

baggage weighing heavy

as we stood in line

through customs.

Then, I spied a skull,

and crossbones.

“No Drug Traffickers Allowed,”

and we were going through,

with thousands.



Just half an hour or so,

and we alighted

from a cab,

carried our luggage through

into the boulevard.

When the sun rolls down

in the sky,

two weary teacher travelers

line a Singapore hotel mattress

with crisp bank notes,

and dream dreams

of faraway folk,

and manna from the sky.



Copyright Suzy Davies 05/31/2016. All Rights Reserved.