Tag Archives: love poetry

My One True Love And the Meaning of Moments

She stands inside the garden’s blooming, still
As long green stalks that reach toward the sun.
Above her head the Arcosanti bell,
A gift brought to her by her lovely son,
Waits wind to stir its deep, pure voice to song.
Her graying hair shines in the early morning light:
A silent testament to births and how
Her son died in a place she did not understand
And how her daughters have a boundless grace
And how granddaughters gleam and grandsons spark,
One caught inside autism’s draining clinch—
A binding to the yellows, blues, and pinks
Of blooms she planted in the early spring

Then, whirring, one bold calliope bees
Up to the bright red feeder near her eyes
And slips its slender beak into the hole
Where nectar made inside her kitchen sink
Transmutes into an iridescent energy.
A moment more and clouds of hummingbirds
Kaleidoscope around her head; her eyes
And spirit swirled into a halo born
Of flowers, bell, the hummingbirds, the light
Of early morning, all the life she’s lived.

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Milk-Honey

by Thomas Davis

My love’s breasts are full of milk honey,
And the seed of life lies heavily within her.
I praise the quietness of the gentle night
When my voice can love play with her voice,
And the round, straight features of her face are clear.

It is then that the surging waves of the sea
Are drowned in the music of their own singing,
And the cool green depths of an underwater world
Drift through the star milk moods of silence
Running intermittently through the clatter of our tongues.

It is then that my love becomes more beautiful
Than the bazaar of women who display charms
So cunningly to an awaiting, breathless world.
My love’s breasts are full of milk honey,
And the seed of life lies heavily within her.

Note: This was written when Ethel and I were expecting our first child, a daughter, a long time ago.

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Gifts

on Ethel’s birthday

Bring to me water
Taken from the well of the moon.
Bring to me bread
Baked into brown, round loaves.

This is my water and bread:
My woman with hands as white as the moon
And eyes as dark as the brown loaves
Bringing me the food and drink of life.

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A Moment

a love poem by Thomas Davis to Ethel

The aftermath of a moment
Is hard to describe:
The beauty:
A flash of sunlight
Through the storm darkened sky,
The wonder of beauty
Which may never come again.

Love, there was a night
When the stars were slung
Over the sky’s black face.
You were singing a lullaby,
And I was changing words into song.
We were happy and love filled.
The night was a rhythm of ourselves.
You laughed and made me see geese
With white wings in dark skies.
I laughed, and you stopped your lullaby.

Love is a kin to the silence
And also to the song.

You and I were singing,
And both of us stopped
To listen to silence.

It was a wonderful evening, love.
It is a wonderful time.

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The Responses

by Thomas Davis

Now the responses, once fresh,
Are natural and automatic.
The moon still shines, a silver crystal
Polished and hardened into bright stone,
And the stars still glint alive
The dark, unknowable spaces between stars.
But the responses,
“I love you,” “yes, honey,” “Darling, Darling…”
Are like jackets worn too many times,
Old…familiar…and too comfortable
To be emotion.

I remember a night, late summer,
With stars crowding out the sky,
When I held you against an old wagon
Left resting in an empty, dark field.
You were warm and responsive,
But I was tense, filled with anger at words,
Struggling against commitment,
Against the flow of years that would flow after
In endless succession, endless time.

Then I spoke, afraid, bold,
Wild as a man playing marbles
With blazing, cateyed stars.
Then the universe expanded, exploded
Into a dance of darkness,
A celebration of silver and dark.
I reached out, became one with you,
Spirit, soul, body, and mind,
And threw away the sense of years
With responsibilities and commitments
And endless waiting on the flow of time.

Now the responses are familiar.
“I love you,” I said and meant it,
But the flood of emotion was a trickle,
An acknowledgement of the past
And the possible future
And those myriads of things said
And unsaid…

Are the years that dark?
So hideous in their alternations
Of good time, bad time, good, bad?
Is the waiting nearing an end?
A resolution of emptiness? Fullness?

You put on a yellow nightgown,
Shadowy curves through misty silk,
And I look from light into darkness
Strewn with the dim lights
Of silver stars and silver moon.

I look and see you running madly
In and out between the fiery suns
Of dim stars, brighter than stars,
Brighter than the stone smooth moon.

I put down this pen and wait…
For darkness…for the unraveling of hours.

The words are natural, cold with fire.
I have learned to handle suns
Without scorching flesh.

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But my Love. . .

by Thomas Davis for Ethel

But my love is also like the quietness of the earth,
like the wind passing by from the north to the south,
like words wonderful with knowledge,
telling of the measurements of justice and truth.
Her spirit is like a threshing instrument
that can harvest even the wild waters of the sea.

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I Shall Put Upon Your Shoulders

by Thomas Davis

I shall put upon your shoulders
The cloak of the hills,
And at your feet I shall put the mountains
Clothed with the light of early dawn.

With joy I will gather up the blue waters
From the nestling lakes of the valleys
And turn the blue waters into gems,
Rare and beautiful, for you to wear.

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In the Stone Fields

photograph by Sonja Bingen

a love poem to Ethel by Thomas Davis

In the stone fields
The roots of the pinyon
Interweave with stone.
In the barest silence
Song is worn like a cloak
Of the brightest colors.

May my lips be as a brook
Bubbling forth songs
In praise of my love.
May my heart be as a pinyon,
Drawing forth music
From the barest stones.

Originally published in The New Quiver, University of Wisconsin–Oshkosh, copyright 1972.

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Of Love

by Thomas Davis

The round, close face,
Soft like gentle hills
And as misty as the sky
Full of coming rain,
Inspires this song—

The beauty beyond thought
And love beyond the beauty.

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The White Bird

by Thomas Davis

Rainwater falls…

Falls…

Into puddles,
Upon rain-shining stones.

Amidst the stones
A lone white bird
Sings of cherries, sweet and black,
and spring.

You sit upon a stone
In the rain listening…
Listening,
Hearing rainwater
And the bird mingling melodies.

Life is strange,
For the rain, the white bird,
you, and the songs
Form a beautiful image.

The rain…

Falling…

Falling.

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