You are currently browsing the archives for December 2024.

Analgorhythm

  • Posted on December 12, 2024 at 1:33 pm

Let me start a thread
that avoids a link to a page
that might be a promotion
or political and unacceptable
and therefore of less importance.

So here’s a cat.
Not just a cat, but a
leaping cat, to distract and amuse you
no time to watch it all, skip
to a seasonal meme or a

yes, wonderful landscape
of dreams of a place you might
have been or want to escape to.
Any place but here, because
it’s too hard to consider
genocide

just for a moment choose what
to think, between brutality
and cultural oppression of any kind
because it is merely the way we do things
the traditions of millennia
maybe.

So we’ll stay here and wait
for intruders and, like a cat
pounce on killjoys who
rudely knock to disturb our peace
our place, our comfort.

Like what is a woman?
what is a dictator?
what is just and fair and
what is just
the way things need to be.

Let me show you a person
who carries kindness like
a hidden locket jewel, not
because she is an activist
or a leaping cat but because
she cannot belong where truth
hides in fear of what we know:

that we are all looking away.

© Andie Davidson 2024

Drawing trees

  • Posted on December 12, 2024 at 12:49 pm

A poem for a grandchild I may never meet, who will not know me. But who will surely draw trees.

One day you will draw stick people.

They will all smile and look back
with dots for eyes.
Sun will shine, reach out with rays.

Soon, stick people will have hands
like coppiced willow.
Like the sun has a smile.

Cloudy trees will become dark
woods with bears, scary tales, with claws
reaching out for you

but still furry, and you
will hold your bear with love and
willowy fingers. Your trees

will grow from cumulus to sticks
with structure, with roots, with winters and
in their fingers, beds of birds.

You will learn of ash die-back, oak
apples, mistletoe, ivy and
bark beetles burrowing elms to end.

You will wonder at nests, so spare
all feather and sticks you will ask:
how eggs, so fragile, were ever safe.

How trees bend and sometimes break
what roots look like after a storm
spread like a giant hand splayed

like the rays of the sun.
And what colour was the blackbird
in this nest?

2022 © Andie Davidson