Things About to Disappear

Things are vanishing.

It happens while I sleep.

I wake mumbling some half-formed

phrase from a lingering dream

whose images separate and dissolve.

too quickly. The dream is gone

by the time my feet touch the cold floor.

At the lavatory I face down

the scarecrow in the mirror.

I always seem to blink first. He

only smiles if I do.

So here's my morning quirk. I

hoard marbles in a Crown Royal sack,

purple cats-eyes tucked like jewels

on the closet's top shelf

under the ruckus of winter clothing. Each

morning I toss a marble in the pond.

It scares the beejesus out of the koi, those

shivery pomegranate shadows in the murk

do not appreciate my gifts. I guess one

man's amethyst is another

fish's bomb ball. Birds like me, though.

I scatter day-old pizza crusts on the

fresh-cut lawn. Something for them

to peck at.

There's a girl at the gym. I see

her almost every day. Something

is wrong with her complexion but

her smile is radiant. We carefully

ignore each other.

Evenings are best, that

hour after sunset when arms

of flagging sunlight reach up

to the clouds with orchid

and mulberry crayons

coloring outside the lines.

I watch until it hurts.

The colors vanish

minute by darling minute

and the slow lamplighter

comes calling.

Donny Davis, September 2007

The Waltz

he danced in the park, in the moonlight, all alone,

a waltz in the moonlight, in the park, on the lawn,

we watched from a parkbench, watched

him dance in the moonlight, this woman,

who will never be my lover, and I,

we watched as he danced in the park, on the lawn,

with his arms held cradling, in the moonlight,

a shadow, he waltzed on the lawn, all alone, while we

watched from our parkbench, not-my-lover and I,

with his chin to the starlight and his eyes half-closed,

he danced in the moonlight, he waltzed in the park

as we watched from the shadows, he, up-two-three,

turn-two-three, waltzed with his noone, while

we watched him together, this woman and I,

back-two-three, swing-two-three, enchanted

by the dancing, we watched as he waltzed,

a man and his shadow, in the moonlight,

in the starlight, in the park

on the lawn.

Donny Davis, August 2007

The Stone in the Coat

Such a ho-hum word, "mad" and you

tossed it about so casually on social occasions

"Back when I was mad". I can see you,

flibberti-gibbet, with your Bloomsbury circle,

your sharp nose canted in mild deference,

those intelligent eyes opaque and quivering,

that coquettish smile and purling cigarette,

"Back when I was mad". Everyone laughs.

It is the stone in the coat that chills me.

Ten days before, you came home soaking wet.

This time, as you pulled on your coat,

you knew the stone was required.

'Dearest, I feel certain I am going mad again'.

you wrote. Oh, you regent of spin, pucker, and pout,

of the stream of words on which we sail and the music

that makes a masterpiece of a mark on the wall,

was that the best you could do?

As you chose the proper stone with the proper heft

I wonder if you rolled with your blessed tongue these words

you wrote to Leonard and if you judged also their heft:

"I can't fight it any longer". To me that sounds more like it.

And as you worried the stone into your pocket,

(how large was the pocket, anyway?) and brushed

the stone's grit from your palm, and stepped into the river,

felt it's cold tug upon your ankles then your knees,

felt the weight of the stone in the coat,

did you think it would work, that closing

recollection of past joy meant to soothe him:

I don't think two people could have been

happier than we have been.

Donny Davis, July 2007

The Secret Words

fly, butterfly, fly

all the way to india

find the secret words

I left my boots on the doorstep

overnight. When I woke

they were covered with blue mold.

scurry, lizard, scurry

through a crack in the world

all the way to china

find the secret words

I left a skiglove on the rooftop

overnight. When I woke

it held a sandalwood fan.

swim, damselfish, swim

through the panama canal

past the virgin islands

all the way to england

find the secret words

I left my tophat on the windowsill

overnight. When I woke

it was full of lovesongs

fly, butterfly, fly

all the way to india

find for me the secret words.

Donny Davis, August 2007

The Secret

next wednesday

there will be a meeting

of the Dull Men's Club

and I'll be there--

in fact, I've been made

Sergeant-at-Arms.

I'm the one

who guarantees

that Robert's Rules of Order

are conformed to in the nth degree

and if one dull man, should,

for instance, clamor to discuss

benches when the topic is

standing in line

it is my voice,

strident yet undismayed,

that cuts him to the quick

and permits discussion

to continue unabated

on standing in line.

But I have a secret.

I found a feather,

shaped like a nipple

and soft as a kitten.

It appeared at a glance,

a boring enough shade

of black, and I collected

it without a thought.

But as I sat in my yard

counting the bricks in the

brickpile next door

I mindlessly stroked my cheek

with that light feather and

realized that it was not

merely soft, but

mellifluous.

Startled, astonished,

even agitated and disturbed,

I investigated more closely

and discovered that

what I assumed

safely black was

in truth subtlely

iridescent.

Donny Davis, September 2007

The Robin's Egg

A straw at a time, that's how her snug nest

is made. Given patience and space you might

watch in a day sixty trips without rest,

away to an offbeat gathering site,

back to the swelling nest, the single twig

held in her beak guided by her forest

instinct to its station. A playful sprig

of cellophane adorns this robin's nest.

In June the eggs are laid. This morning I

wake to find, spattered on the patio,

a bit of baked sun in a jigsaw sky.

If she's counted, or judged the ratio

of egg to nest and found it lacking, she

wastes no breath regretting it (unlike me).

Donny Davis, June 2007

The Pisces of her Sulk and her Smile

She says, "I am
a wedged orange on a blue china saucer
balanced on a gloved hand."

She says this as her limousine whirls
the corner of Seventh Avenue and Oakridge.

I spilled my green tea
(lemon-cactus flower with natural flavoring)
on her white chiffon blouse and she sulked

Until I said, "Your eyes
are like burning chocolates"

Donny Davis, June 2007