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Dead Poets

Author Biography
Poetry By
  Tracy Davidson


Published on: 6/18/2015
The Deserter

When he wakes, he knows it's for the last time.
Knows that this will be the day the bullets
rip through his chest, break his unworthy heart.
He feels too sick for his meagre breakfast,
throat too tight to swallow cloudy water.
He dresses, no medals on his jacket,
bare hanging threads where the stripes used to be.
He prays to God, though he doesn't believe.

They come for him at first light. It is time.
All is silence, no birdsong to break it,
no chattering voices, no friendly face,
just the blank looks of war-weary men.
He feels the pole at his back, the rough rope,
the blindfold, and thenů just blessed darkness.


Published on: 6/16/2015
Distance (a triolet)

How wide the space between us grows,
even as I'm holding your hand.
This is not the parting I chose.
How wide the space between us grows,
as the beep of your heartbeat slows...
your sand clock has run out of sand.
How wide the space between us grows,
even as I'm holding your hand.


Published on: 6/12/2015
Tanka (like a late snowfall)

like a late snowfall
I melt beneath your warmth
no words needed...
your hands play a melody
of love upon my skin


Published on: 6/8/2015
Tanka (my grandfather)

my grandfather
would never talk of war...
after the wake
I find the hidden photo
him in that uniform

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