Biography of Greg Davidson
I began to write poetry of sorts in my twenties. Occasionally, in times of either deep angst or quiet solitary elation a muse would gift me with words. These times proved to be a blessing, and oft times a catharsis, for the emotional chaos that bubbled over me. As distractions were added to my life; job, wife, family and the mundane priorities that accompany them my muse paid me very few visits.
After teaching mathematics for 35 years and then become “surplus to requirements” I have found the need to remake myself. I do not wish to be seen as another old man out of work. I have sought out my muse in desperation. Again I find myself in need of catharsis, of balm for the soul. I have found it here, both in the words of others and the joy of posting my own. I am posting both the old (some of which have a modicum of merit) and the new.. As I create the new me, revered poet (say I with tongue planted firmly in cheek) seems a much better alternative than retired.
I hope that you, dear reader, may find some enjoyment or encouragement in what you read. In the hope that you will, my self-esteem has begun its rebuilding.
Greg Davidson Poems
Mynah Birds And Passing Memories
- Thoughts of a dementia patient Faces and memories, Lost in time and space,
First steps, Unsteady and unsure, Taking their first steps.
A black dog follows me, No collar nor a lead, Its form I can not measure, Of undetermined breed.
Old and empty rooms, The places in my heart For near forgotten memories Of now departed friends.
Medicine Is The Best Medicine
My life depends on medicine From boxes on the stand One by one I count them out And place them in my hand.
My life is a conversation But they say there's nothin' to talk about Tomorrow's so uncertain And today's just full of doubt
Words Are For Reading
Words are for reading, Lies for misleading, Lessons for heeding, We learn from mistakes.
Damaged vessel, I surrender to the Potter's hand. Unworthy here I stand, Waiting for my Lord's command.
Mourning, Forbidding A Valediction
He still remains. Do not say that he is gone. His memory lives within your mind As long as thought remains,
A Collection Of Haiku - Winter
I - Morning Frost White and crisp the lawn, Breath to mist before my face, A winter day born.
There Is A Rain That Falls - Performance...
Voice 1: Gently is a rain that falls, Voice 2: Gentle as a tear to cheek. Voice 3: Falling as do tears on cheek.
The Ancient Man – Part I
He was younger than the earth about Still older than the trees, As constant as the stars above, Elusive as a breeze.
At The Close Of Day
It’s Friday, at the close of day, Homeward bound, on a crowded motorway. My half-made plans in disarray, Align like crimson lights along the road.
Wisps of cotton clouds drift across a pale blue sky And send a fleeting shadow to the mat of rolling green beneath. We sit alone, my God and I, The silence bringing soul relief.
The Edge Of Dreaming
At the edge of dreaming,
Of future days.
Quiet nights, not sleeping.
Life at bay,
Reality for the light of day.