(Sea Dream)

As long as we are here,
we might as well
enjoy the ride:
voices of blackberry clouds roar,
chasing the rain-whir
down the howl of dark winds
--sea blown into white cliffs raging,
while light spills a trillion needles
into the eye of the mother
of all storms.

Peter Clement Davis, Sept. 1996
Peterzen@aol.com

Lonesome Creature

Winter whispers love songs into death's ear:
hear the ice splinters of winter's crystal
insects, the hiss of still water, the thrum
of blood in arteries. Now breathe moon-frost
pickled in starlight. Mist like a blanket

covers the shivering sea. Winter's wit
flies blind snow-winged mayflies into sunflakes.
You dance in dreams of deep-sea violins,
cold wind in the throat of a clarinet,
You come to me in dreams of someone else,
slide over under, dewy inside-out,
soft slippery edges everywhere,
squeezed lightly in the pulse of darkness,
We arrive stoned in colors everywhere.

They call like lonesome monsters in the fog:
adrift, we know these people who have died,
we live in seams between the lines of dreams.

Peter Clement Davis, 15 Nov. 1996
Peterzen@aol.com

Night Orders

Give wide berth to all ships; keep sharp lookout;
call me if wind and seas rise to force eight;
call me if there is fog, or when in doubt.

Advance clocks one hour at midnight throughout;
if there's trouble in the hold, call the mate;
give wide berth to all ships; keep sharp lookout.

Log weather anomalies, such as waterspout;
increase speed if wind and seas abate;
call me if there is fog, or when in doubt.

Landfall we make at dawn or thereabout;
make sure that running lights are burning bright;
give wide berth to all ships; keep sharp lookout.

Watchstanders only on bridge, no hangout;
check compass error by star, then relate;
call me if there is fog, or when in doubt.

Call me before landfall or roundabout;
at zero-five-thirty, call the Chief Mate;
give wide berth to all craft; keep sharp lookout;
call me if there is fog, or when in doubt.

Peter Clement Davis, August 1996
Peterzen@aol.com

Byron S. Davis at 84

My father's hands, once powerful,
now are frail--the backs a map of
bones and veins, dark red and brown
splotches, like surreal snowflakes.

He sits in an iron chair
at the edge of his late wife's
oval pool--beside a blazing
crimson cardinal flower,
beacon for hummingbirds.
He writes illegible
letters in the air with his
right index finger.

What are you writing, Dad?
He looks up from the pool, eyebrows raised,
startled by inner visions reflected,
like backward flight of hummingbirds:
My generation is all gone, you know,
both sides of the family.
I'm alone now. Sometimes,
I write letters to your mother.

Peter Clement Davis, September 1996
Peterzen@aol.com