Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Spanish Lesson

Of all, you’re the one
who should know!
Sor Cristina at the helm
Spanish in her eyes,
blazingly scorched the tears
I dared to shed

Standing, I looked around
at the sea of white uniforms,
then down at black-shoed,
white-socked, trembling feet
-trying for an answer,
though none would dare be uttered
in case of incineration mid-air

I had just tasted the salt of the Caribbean
that splashed outside paned glass doors,
stinging the laceration to my ego
I held on to my solid wood desk
hoping to support my maimed frame

Amidst the loud, stern boom
from her small, structured mouth,
I heard the words disappointed
and  sit down please,
followed by ¡Qué desgracia!

I looked back, over singed heads,
to the rainbowed wall sign
about the granting of serenity
and acceptance of those
things I could not change
So, with courage,
I prepped for my next
session –Religion 101

Written for Every Day Poems - Classroom memories poetry prompt at https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=441295359268262&set=a.250609428336857.62979.250601428337657&type=1&theater

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Fall's Way

Green leaves await their turn
as their tawny predecessors
prepare to dance farewell
Sunset crawls like a spider among trees
exposing tangled webs of yellow, red, and orange

Darkness extends in arabesque,
blanketing the acquiescent little angels
Soft strains of Time’s orchestra prep their arousal
Poised little danseuses await their queue,
amber to crimson tutus for flirtatious debut

Wind prompts a breezy melody,
swirling the little coryphée coquettes,
interweaving loud whistles in harmony
as each floats off in a cloud of pirouettes

After Fall’s beautiful ballet,
cathedral-like tree arches bow expended frills,
brushing ground to standing ovation
Appreciative Soil beckons an encore
as proud Wind reaps a crescendo of folioles

Sleep, sleep, children of Earth,
gentle Breeze whispers
as each veined-ear of tree leaf
obeys Nature’s cyclical request

Hushed by Winter’s cold hands,
Forest rubs its sleepy eyes
Content trees huddle in anticipation
of the upcoming and peaceful intermission

Friday, September 21, 2012

Red Shoes

At the heart,
a little girl’s dream,
standing high
in heeled red shoes,
takes her miles
into her light
where she is
neither shelved
with those shoes
society imposes,
nor toppled
off the pedestal
status builds
Rather, with each
balanced step, she
rules the stars
that twinkle in
her mother’s eyes

Written for T.S. Poetry/Every Day Poems/Tweetspeak Poetry - September/Image-ine: Red Shoes based on painting by Nicola Slattery at http://www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/2012/09/21/image-ine-red-shoes/

Monday, September 3, 2012

The Gift

He did not know
from whence it came, 
nor did he seek
to question its aim
He just knew
He had this beast
inside to tame

His soul’s tempo
works in harmony,
plucking chords, from
laughter to tranquility
He just played      
He did not look for fame
It was only his to claim

His fingers strum vigorously
Feelings dance passionately
searching for familiarity
Fortissimo, until pianissimo
They got lost
They did not expect to float
so effortlessly in his melody

Thursday, August 30, 2012

What Is Poetry to Me?

I often happen upon poems that seem to have been customed for me. It makes me feel as if the poet stepped into my emotional shoes. I could taste and feel what the poem/poet wanted me to. It can jump-start my day or remind me of an unresolved issue. It gives me a feeling of oneness when I discover someone else's work that aligns with my viewpoint and sentiments.

Poetry, to me, is a means of expressing my thoughts, emotions, and ideas in such a way that it is conveyed with minimal words to get a particular message or opinion across. The power of a poem could lie in a single word or phrase that conveys a whole idea. It usually leads to self-reflection, my experiences, things I see, learn, and can pass on. Poetry is like the breathing in and out of self -that is in the sense that all I see or take in, must be put back out and shared in my own way, with my signature, to communicate my take on life and things I experience; it is highly individual. That stated, it is through our individualism that this oneness appears. Our words and styles may be different, but ultimately, some of the same sentiments shine through.

Poetry can be used to play on all the senses to fill in the gaps of those grey areas of life that otherwise cannot be explained through prose. It goes beyond prose in that each word is carefully considered for its emotional and musical value, among other things. What better way to show how your heart feels by describing it as and/or comparing it to objects outside ourselves in a poem? Where else can one creatively incorporate rhythm, tone, and words into pithy lines to convey a sense of urgency, happiness, angst or serenity? It is raining, and you are unhappy, which can simply be relayed as “My soul, weeping like rain” to convey your mood in a poem.
Poetry is also cathartic. Things happen to you along life’s way that can be released succinctly through poems. Going through the process of writing poetry actually helps me to understand a situation, learn, and grow from it. It is observation through experiences brought forward and pieced together with just enough words to convey an idea, message or feeling I have, leaving the rest to interpretation. Hopefully, this can move the reader to reflection and perhaps towards the fresh perspective I get from reading others’ works.

Saturday, August 18, 2012

A Childhood: The Biography of a Place

By Grace M. Brodhurst-Davis

Unlike the wide Sargasso Sea
(its fertile underground),
lies in the seat of the soul
No rumors, of water it abounds

Its birds of paradise,
the sounds of poetry
in your dreams,
belong to me
My borderlands -la frontera
The violent bear it away
I taste the wine of astonishment
Such free fire –a raisin in the sun

Things fall apart at
the dyer’s hand
Brother, I’m dying
I see the forgotten waltz

The sugar solution:
three cups of tea, as
fair and tender ladies
praisesong for the widow –Belize

Little big minds rise above
incidents in the life of a slave girl,
member of the whipping club,
in search of lost time

A return to the native land
through the book of awakening
Geography III on the banks
of Plum Creek -I’m freed

A new dawn on rocky ridge
opens the kingdom of this world within
-not unlike a history of Latin America
My childhood: A history of Belize

Found poem, prepared and based on book titles (and book spines) for Tweetspeak Poetry's August Rain Theme/Project:

Monday, July 23, 2012


By Grace M. Brodhurst-Davis

She clacks and clatters
down hardened, dusty way,
hundreds of tiny seeds
spilling by her sway.
Strings of multicolored beads
encircle her weary neck,
muscled by heavy, hand-woven
basket, plopped atop her cinta,
worn like a million women before her.
She barters harvested maize
and the woman still at the conveyor belt,
whose fingers nudge factory-punched
gold medals that stray,
negotiates an exchange.
Her deal made -a fair trade.
Grinning, her teeth like chiclets,
at loggers moving big rigs
with mechanical arms
on her way home.
The universe has made its preparations,
swirling pigments of the old with
so-called new world.

Written for T.S. Poetry/Every Day Poems/Tweetspeak Poetry - July Mosaics - Found Poem based on "Girl With 13 Necklaces", by Tanya Runyan
Featured at: http://www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/2012/07/23/july-mosaics-concrete-poetry/
July "Mosaic" winner:
Featured with audio clip in T. S. Poetry's Top Ten Poetic Picks at:  

Friday, July 6, 2012


By Grace M. Brodhurst-Davis

In ease of rawness
she hardly contemplates
her reach

She, a vision
fitted in stitches
of aquamarine

Blurring lines between
her verdant veil
and her reason

For Tweetspeak Poetry's Image-ine/based on Michelle "Shell" Rummel's "Cerulean" watercolor

Thursday, June 21, 2012


By Grace M. Brodhurst-Davis

To him, it seemed he had to stumble from
The shy observatory he stood upon
To seek that secret soul's pleasure
To be everyone's idolized treasure

He opted for the liquid measure
Tasted highest bliss in his endeavor
Down murky halls he slithered anew
After drinking the witch's bold brew

Atop the smoky, jumbled heap he drew
Crowds of kindred spirits to woo
'Mongst age-old musical souls he crooned
The musky notes of a jazzy blues tune

Written for T.S. Poetry/Every Day Poems/Tweetspeak Poetry - June Jazz - Found Poem based on "O Solitude! If I Must With Thee Dwell", by John Keats
Featured at: http://www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/2012/06/18/june-jazz-dance/

Señor Jazzid

By Grace M. Brodhurst-Davis

Crowd swaying
Tumbas tapping
Tribal chanting
Tension building
Smoky, thrilling
Drinks a’ spilling

Sax a’blowing
Timbre growling
Señor Jazzid
Pork-pie hatted
Latin lizard
Acid jazzing

Oxford Comma

By Grace M. Brodhurst-Davis

Oh! Such dilemma!
Over Oxford comma
Old country of mine
‘Lose it not!’
Others say,
‘In the gutter!
Too much clutter!’
Haters love the brevity
Lovers, the history
Or perhaps utility?
This serial comma,
Such an innocent fella,
Breathes such life
In naysayers,
Yet breeds
So strongly
Among players
This English mystery,
To everyone’s worry,
Is still very much alive
In World’s ever-changing drive 

For T.S. Poetry contest using "O" (#Oxford)


The Candy Jar

By Grace M. Brodhurst-Davis

She stands tall
Atop the console in my entry hall
Vessel for candied contentment
Sweet childhood memories
Now my posterity’s
She is a regal lady

Her mermaid-like gown
Flows gracefully from
Her buxom-bodied phial
Fecund with sweet treats
Proudly displayed for trial

She’s entertained many varieties
From lollipops to lemon drops
Facilitated certain balance
Between upstart ‘Red Hots’
And indecisive ‘Sweet Tarts’

Though she’s been packed
And traveled quite a lot
She’s been bobbled and toppled
It’s a wonder she’s still intact
She remains a regal lady

Written for T.S. Poetry Press/Every Day Poems - April Candy Theme; Featured at:


By G. M. Brodhurst-Davis

She sat, eyes blazing
her limbs’ embers awakening
awaiting her matador

Impossible passion
a bubbling volcano
lancing through her door

Her thoughts blistering
trumpet inflaming
blood moon turns to the Moor

Her matador gleaming
in gold-trimmed vermillion
his modus operandi, an art

Eyes focused on triumph
cape rising, taunts piercing
the beast, on red plate…flailing

The hot crowd’s approbation
signals her aspiration
Yes!  My Maestro is borne!

Written for Every Day Poems/T.S. Poetry's "Red" theme; Featured at:

Skeletons Unsheltered

Nine skeletons in his open trailer
Thoracic cages stand to order
Not unfamiliar, but reminding what was
A funeral beckoning a new day’s birth

Does he not bear our silent uproar
at his drive-by, blackened bone yard?           
Heads turned, frozen in glares
Our next-to-nothingness shared

Nine sets of calcified structures
leaning against his trailer frame trellis
He must have painted the bony bowl heads
Were they models? Were they not?

He takes off, tarsals and metatarsals,
carpals and metacarpals a jiggle
My eyes, doll-like, clacked open,
enslaved in robotic procession

Nine lives reduced to bits
Souls long gone to somewhere else?
I could not fight a crawling shudder
Did they have families? Did they not?

He gives them a start, abruptly stopping,
cages rittle-rattling rigidly against wires
Skulls bob-bobbing in concurrence
with the mournful-manner, the bony bowl-headed,
rib-caged, dangling danglers were transported
as the pitter-patter of drizzle sprinkled on the spectacle

My comments about this poem: 
On my way to work one morning, I saw a truck pulling 9 skeletons (painted black) being hauled in a trailer. I wrote this poem based on my journal entry of what I saw...

Wednesday, June 13, 2012


By Grace M. Brodhurst-Davis

Outside of myself
I can see how
The wind blows
Breath into me,
But can’t seem
To see how
Breath in me
Can erase the cacophony
Of deep-hued memories
Of my being      
Though knowing
Such breath,             
I pulse towards
My innermost calling
To free myself to be

For T.S. Poetry contest using "O" (#Outside)