Birthday Present

What can I give you,

now the gift of giving

is altered, and poverty

but a state of mind?

If I were an architect

I would build you

a house of glass walls

and old timber floors.

If I were a king

(for I am not wise)

I would lay jewels

at your feet.

When I am a shepherd

(with your help)

I will bring you

the first lamb.

But for now,

because I am who I am,

I give you

these words.

John H Davies

28^th March 2012 

String theory

All I remember of her

is a sound of peeing

from the next door room,

an urgent stream followed by a grunt,

and a mysterious glimpse of white string

between her legs;

and afternoon tea at The George

during term; and her tears

as I sang in chapel. Welsh lamb

served in leopard print.

Panic at the smallest event

when driving; a joke about a duck;

and my baby nose immersed

in her warm, wet mouth.

But that's all.

John H Davies

25th IV 2010

Butterfly

Tiny specs of yellow

against the blue and disappointing sea.

A grey sky and a calm day;

almost millpond.

We hadn't worried about our cargo

as we returned on the falling tide.

And half way home,

a mile from shore,

a long way;

the butterfly crossed our bow,

skimming the homely miles;

rebuffing our last port of call.

Lapping and disappearing

into the reef.

No perch.

Yet what vigour;

what heart

pumps this dainty thing?

Wings of lace

to some purpose.

Radar and spark,

on a futile wind.

John H Davies

1^st X 2013

Elysium

The candle’s flame

reflects in a screen

of reproduction quartz;

a fair impression of clockwork

without the languid

reassurance.

She sleeps.

Unaware of my escapement years.

I slip between the gap

in the mosquito net

searching for a pen

and the solitude

of reminiscence.

Old friends revisit me

in Facebook vignettes

but do not wait

for the have-beens.

Rather nows, unpressured

here in slumber,

yet still I sweat

over words,

hoping she will not stir.

Simplicity diminishing me

with grace

and only the faintest

trace in that smile,

enticing me to share

and leading me on.

John H Davies

16^th IX 2013

Lunacy

I saw the moon;

an early crescent

squinting through the palm

last night

and was comforted,

because I always look

up

when things down here

don’t quite add up.

And tonight

it has processed

or regressed,

depending on your aspect.

Because although fuller

now

it is on a lower arc,

reminding me that

our potential is waiting for us.

For it will dip below the horizon

soon,

unobserved

until another night

like this,

when I will look up again

John H Davies

10^th IV 2013

Serial Waitress Phone Number Getter (Part I)

The gentle sting of his hand,

a diminishing slap on my arm,

was what remained

as I leant against the urinal,

and thought of him heading north.

The last image,

a hopeful embrace

with a foxy chick

who was never going to put out,

and I was disappointed

and pleased in the same moment.

And in the morning

when he returned my scabby

shaving brush,

we discussed the border

in conspiratorial tones,

as she passed

in a cloud of perfume,

and we shook

as if it were the last time,

as we usually did.

John H Davies

12^th V 2013

And so, Salaam !

And so, Salaam!

to the latest member

of our happy clan,

gathered here

to welcome you to this:

our brave new world,

or perhaps

to welcome

brave new you

to this old world.

And truth be told

it will be you

who teaches us

in your bold

innocence;

rooted as you are

in bonds of love.

For as an old man said

in some old book:

‘A little child

shall lead them…’

in the realm

of the Holy Mountain,

as the waters

cover the sea.

Tread firmly then

and lead us with

this single step today,

and seize each day

as if it were your first.

And you will forever

live in us

and we in you,

Karibu!

Welcome! Slange!

And so…Salaam!

27th XI 2012

John H Davies

As it fades

‘Write me a poem’ he said

as we sat at a bar

beside the Nile.

And with his charm

and assurance

he built the walls

that my father

had failed to build.

Why me, I shall never

understand, for

in desperation

one hot day

he was called.

And a sigh of relief

echoed through the wadis,

as young men

called for ‘Mam’

and tears of banter

belied the task

that few will know.

And the fruit

from the trees

would recur

in his dreams

friend or foe.

Because it will not fade

in some old pub,

when the regulars ask:

Did you have a good day?

‘Legend,’ he will reply,

and avoiding the smoke

he thinks of friends,

of Kathryn and the kind.

John H Davies

5^th XII 2012