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.
- Mynah Birds and Passing Memories
- Black Dog
- First Steps
- Empty Rooms
- Medicine Is The Best Medicine
- Conversation Blues
- Visiting Hours
- Words Are For Reading
- Fill Me
- A Collection of Haiku - Winter
- There is a Rain That Falls - Performance...
- Mountain Meditation
- In Lavender And Green
- A Collection of Haiku - Spring
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.
Blue hills, at horizon’s edge like billows free,
Frozen for an instant to catch the early morning light
We sit in quiet, my God and me,
As I ponder His eternal might.