He sings the ghosts,
Gives them voice,
Their memories,
Living in song and verse,
Their pain,
Their joy,
Their life now gone,
Each moments,
Sang but unsung,
Spoken but left silent,
Like a wind,
Blowing,
Forming,
A wind through hearts and souls,
Not felt with skin but hearts,
Each whisper,
Raised in song,
Beyond the words,
Beyond the notes,
Rising,
Living,
Heard yet silent,
Voices long lost,
Quieted,
Silenced,
But he hears,
He sings,
And we feel the wind,
The silent stories,
The lives unknown,
Past but not so lost,
Bells more felt than heard,
Ringing in our souls,
In harmony,
In melody,
In dissonance,
Woven in music,
Unheard with heard,
Unsung with sung,
Unknown with known,
A whisper in the soul,
The bells,
Ringing in the wind,
The wind called forth,
Ghost wind,
Long lost,
But never forgotten,
He sings the ghosts.

~He Sings the Ghosts, an ode to Gordon Lightfoot by Bethany Davis, April 3, 2016

What is poetry some might ask?
It’s two robots, moving tapes in unison,
A dance where neither touches it’s partner.

What is poetry some might ask?
It’s a lazy Saturday, nothing to do,
No concerns or regrets as time passes unnoticed.

What is poetry some might ask?
It’s the moment just before dawn,
The sun still hiding but painting the sky with fire.

What is poetry some might ask?
It’s the quiet of a forest meadow in spring,
Still but living, gentle but vivid, forgotten yet always remembered.

What is poetry some might ask?
It’s a lover’s touch in the night barely felt,
The waves of knowing and being known through the lightest touch.

What is poetry some might ask?
It’s the soft chill of the evening on a mountain pass,
The ground warm but the air with a gentle bite warning of the night cold.

What is poetry some might ask?
It’s the almost memory of a dream just passed,
Fading in detail but the feeling that for an instant you knew contented joy.

What is poetry some might ask?
It’s the last words of a beloved book,
The satisfaction of things concluded and the loss of all that’s done.

What is poetry some might ask?
It’s a melody half remembered and half gone,
The knowledge and feeling of all the notes dancing and then resolved.

What is poetry some might ask?
It’s the pang of death and joy of birth,
All of life folded up and inward into one word.

What is poetry some might ask?
It is.

~What is Poetry? by Bethany Davis, November 8, 2015

There is no smell in all the world,
None in the North or South,
None in the East or West,
None in the lowest places,
None on the highest peaks,
Like that smell filling the air,
Filling the house,
Filling my senses,
That smell of spaghetti frying,
Frying in the morning light,
The smell so different from when it was first cooked,
Moving the senses,
Moving the mind,
Anticipation in scent,
The sauce sizzling,
Changing,
Changing in the frying pan,
As the noodles turn crisper,
Crisper,
Crisp,
With that crispness like no other,
The noodles,
No longer white,
Made yellow,
Yellow from the sauce,
Fried onto them,
One with them,
Flavours seeping in,
And the sauce,
Orange now,
Red orange but clearly orange,
No longer the bright red it was when it entered the pan,
And as the sauce and noodles change,
Reach that perfect point,
The smell just right,
The colour just right,
The texture just right,
The sizzling reaching the perfect crescendo,
Then, and only then,
The spaghetti no longer stirring,
Evened out,
Temperature lowered,
And carefully,
Slowly,
To keep them on the top,
The eggs break,
White running among the noodles,
Filling the gaps,
Turning from clear to white as they hit the hot pan,
Yolks floating on top where they should be,
The perfect drop,
And the odours as the white changes,
Filling the air with new scents,
Mingling with the ones already present,
And then the salt, disappearing on the surface,
The black pepper,
Black flects,
Scattered evenly,
Perfectly,
The smell of pepper joining the egg and spaghetti,
And a splash of Tobacco Sauce across the whole,
That hot smell,
That bright red colour,
And the silver lid slips on,
Over the top,
Hiding,
Protecting,
Cooking the whole,
Until it is done,
And the lid set aside,
The whole onto a plate,
Perfect to the senses,
The smell,
The colours,
The texture,
Perfect,
And the first bight,
Heavenly,
Like nothing else on earth,
Almost sweet,
But still savoury,
Strange to those knowing bowled pasta,
Strange to those knowing simmered sauce,
Strange to those knowing fried eggs,
But the tastes,
Perfect,
Blended,
Strange but familiar,
Many memories,
Images,
Experiences,
All coming together like the different parts of the fried spaghetti,
And the fork through the yoke,
As it runs down,
Bright yellow into orange and red and black and white,
Perfect,
Amazing,
Done.

~The Smell of Fried Spaghetti by Bethany Davis, June 19, 2015

Dark and cold and howling wind,
My ire hot and anger strong,
I walk the streets and long for blood,
A lioness whose prey is gone.
My skin is cold but blood is hot,
The need to rip, the need to hurt,
I know I can’t nor would I try,
But hurt and anger are deadly food,
And I eat upon it in the dark,
And all that’s past and all to come,
I know I must step back and calm,
To calm and settle and fight no more,
To return to peace, to cool my blood,
And in the dark and cold and wind,
I try to calm, I look for peace,
For ire cooled and anger dropped,
For waning fire and waxing calm,
Back to myself, I turn once more,
And let it go and walk beyond,
The lioness back to her cave,
And warm my skin and cool my blood,
And let Fate do what must be done.
~Heated Blood by Bethany Davis, October 5, 2014

The smell of rain,
In the August air,
The fresh air joy,
The moisture comes,
The smell of grass,
It’s smiling joy,
Sweet relief,
From Summer heat,
With the grass,
And with the rain,
I smile and laugh,
At its gentle kiss,
A light caress,
Upon my skin,
A lover’s touch,
After time apart,
A gentle touch,
Just barely felt,
That in the light,
Delights my soul,
I smile up,
At the shining sun,
Rays through the clouds,
Drops of light,
The drops of rain,
My lover’s smile,
Our eyes they meet,
The drops of rain,
Her clear giggle,
The patter falls,
I take her hand,
And round we spin,
A dance of joy,
In August rain.

~August Rain by Bethany Davis, August 25, 2014

What beauty shines in dappled light,
In misty morning air?
What beauty’s cloaked in foggy mist,
Waiting to be shone?
The light it changes endlessly,
No view is ever twice,
Sun and rain and mist and fog,
The ever changing light.
The hills they roll in endless clefts,
Valleys and ridges roll,
Endless land that ever goes,
From dawn way out to dusk.
A home it is this peaceful place,
If only for a time,
The comfort of the love here found,
That makes a house a home.
Horses graze to their delight,
The moisture fine with them.
The rabbits hope, the birds all sing,
The magpie glides around.
Few have seen the morning light,
Out shining through the mist,
Few there are that know delight,
Of ranch’s peacefulness.
Here I sit in morning light,
The peace it fills my soul.
Refreshing rain and my delight,
Out here far from home.
What beauty shines in dappled light,
In misty morning air?
What beauty’s cloaked in foggy mist,
Waiting to be shone?
The light it changes endlessly,
No view is ever twice,
Sun and rain and mist and fog,
The ever changing light.

~Dappled Light by Bethany Davis, June 7, 2014

Mist is a kiss,
Upon my bare skin,
In the middle of night in the rain,
A lover’s caress,
A joy in each drop,
The love that falls from above.

In darkness I stand,
Each drop and each sound,
The peace of the valley below,
A kiss and a touch,
A whisper and blush,
The rain is my lover and friend.

I dance in the dark,
To a song no one knows,
As my skin is caressed by the rain,
My hips they do sway,
My arms are upraised,
My thanks for the kiss of the rain.

There is no joy,
As complete as mine now,
Out all alone in the rain,
No sound can be heard,
But the tinkle of rain,
Here so far from the town.

Each splash of a drop,
A whisper, a touch,
It brings such joy to my soul,
My lover, my friend,
The life giving rain,
The moisture makes love to my skin.

Mist is a kiss,
Upon my bare skin,
In the middle of night in the rain,
A lover’s caress,
A joy in each drop,
The love that falls from above.

~The Love That Falls From Above by Bethany Davis, June 7, 2014

Out in the range,
Beyond all cell phone,
The peace of the valley,
The mountains around,
Where elk graze and deer run,
Where horses call home,
If I could do it,
A ranch wife I’d be.

The wind cross the hilltops,
The water below,
The cattle out grazing,
Hawk and eagle stand watch,
Fences and dirt roads,
Pastures and fields,
If I could do it,
A ranch wife I’d be.

Rainstorms and snowstorms,
Thunder and hail,
Content beneath covers,
Warm arms to hold,
Comfort me, cuddle me,
I’ll be by your side,
If I could do it,
A ranch wife I’d be.

There’s peace in the stillness,
There’s warmth all alone,
Just two souls and hillsides,
We’re never alone,
Isolation is a comfort,
Out out of reach,
If I could do it,
A ranch wife I’d be.

The barking of ranch dogs,
The mooing of cows,
The horses they knicker,
I sigh like the wind,
The bird songs and crickets,
The sounds of out here,
If I could do it,
A ranch wife I’d be.

Out in the range,
Beyond all cell phone,
The peace of the valley,
The mountains around,
Where elk graze and deer run,
Where horses call home,
If I could do it,
A ranch wife I’d be.

~A Ranch Wife I’d Be by Bethany Davis, June 7, 2014

For whom do I wait for and for whom do I long,
Through ages and times long past?
Whose touch is it that shakes my soul,
With joy and pleasure full?
Across my back a gentle touch,
That tickles as much as thrills.
Along me sides, I rise to meet,
And kisses my naked neck.
Astride my waste, my shoulders rub,
A weight that comforts and warms.
Along my arms, a gentle stroke,
That raises bumps across my skin.
Moving down on my feet to sit,
And rubs my upraised rear.
And down my thighs and my calves,
And my feet never knew such joy.
You role me over, my front exposed,
Your smile that makes me blush.
Up my legs your hands to roam,
And outward up my hips.
Once more you sit across my waist,
And now our eyes do meet.
Leaning down, you kiss my lips,
And from them come a sign.
You kiss my cheeks and then my nose,
And then my waiting neck.
My eyes are closed as your hands them roam,
And move across my breasts.
I purr, I stretch, I love your touch,
The play of fingers deft.
How is your touch so well known,
Why do I know it so?
For whom do I wait for and for whom do I long,
Through ages and times long past?
Whose touch is it that shakes my soul,
With joy and pleasure full?
Your kisses come, first on my neck,
And then you kiss my chest.
Down between my lovely breast,
Your kisses pull my heart.
Round the bottom up the sides,
Your lips upon my breast.
Soft as snow and warm as fire,
And wet like springtime dew.
My flesh it moves, alive and free,
Delighting in your kiss.
Flesh to flesh, lip to breast,
Ecstatic joyous me.
First one breast and then the other,
Consuming all of me.
I quiver there beneath your hips,
And beneath your steamy breath.
I’m drowning here in ecstatic joy,
Beneath your loving kiss.
A way to die I’d be glad to have,
An ocean of your love.
Then you stop and give me breath,
And let me settle down.
You look at me with loving eyes,
In in them I am lost.
A smile you give, a crooked smile,
That bodes I know not what.
You hands them move, they touch my breasts,
Then settle at my waist.
You moved down, I know not when,
For I was lost in bliss.
My waist held firm, your hips descend,
Now I’m like a bed.
Your searching kiss my belly finds,
It tickles and delights.
In circles slow with movements fair,
I giggle on my back.
And down you go, you kiss my hips,
One kiss on either side.
You kiss my mound, you move on down,
Your lips that do delight.
Once more I think and wonder why,
I swear I know your touch.
For whom do I wait for and for whom do I long,
Through ages and times long past?
Whose touch is it that shakes my soul,
With joy and pleasure full?
Your lips are soft, your gentle kiss,
Wet and fully there.
Kiss of delights that finds me there,
Kiss at my most hidden place.
A moving tongue, a searching kiss,
A building wave within.
Forever lost in sweet embrace,
A flower in the spring.
Petals part and nectar flows,
Consumed with daring care.
A flower opened for your joy,
And pleasure for myself.

~For Whom Do I Wait by Bethany Davis, June 1, 2014

I long for your touch,
  Skin on skin,
    Your skin,
Sliding slowly,
  Smoothly,
    Effortlessly,
      All consuming,
Along my bare skin,
  Exposed,
    Revealed,
      Open to your touch,
Your touch,
  Opening me like a flower,
    Gently,
      Slowly,
All my senses consumed,
  By your touch,
    So gentle,
      So loving,
        So free,
I long for your touch.

~Bethany Davis, December 4, 2013