Residing on Mississippi's Gulf Coast, Judy Davies is a past president of the Mississippi Poetry Society, Inc., and remains an active member of its South Branch Chapter. A 4-time winner as Mississippi's Senior Poet Laureate and a National Senior Poet Honor Scroll Winner, her poetry has been published internationally. She published her first book, Poetic Images, in 2011 and released Poetic Soundscapes in 2012, a collaborative CD of narrated poetry with her composer husband's custom-crafted music. As Mississippi Poetry Society's 2019 Poet of the Year, her recent book, Inkspirations, was published. A retired professional French hornist, Judy holds multiple degrees.
I’m not ready for ink in the morning.
At first light of a dewy day when
the smell of rain has fallen fresh on
cement, I need to firmly grasp my
cup of coffee, watch the sun’s rays
transform into braided flames of light,
indulge my subconscious, and hope
for penciled scribblings I can
eventually shape into an opus of
My mind needs to wander, to prime
the pump, to remember how breath and
fingers bring an instrument to musical life.
What lasting thoughts can I convey as I refine
those penciled scribblings into finely-tuned
words— Inkspirations— because ink is final.
Brushed golden tips undulate in the
breeze— a polychromic patchwork quilt.
God paints the fields in a chatoyant panorama.
Its pastures now vibrantly ablaze,
the once coarsely worn fabric appears
as refined as an art sculpture.
The fields are alive, delicate to behold—
a magical handwoven arras.
Unrestrained, the landscape resplendent
in its glory, intertwined threads weave
a loom across the countryside. Lush
reds, burnished golds, succulent greens
join its vivid paintbrush.
Nature's lustrous tapestry cannot be outdone.
God's paintbrush displays the majestic fields at
their finest until nighttime descends, wiping
away color like a naughty paint scraper.
Morning's sunrise reveals His paintbrushed fields.
Carry me high to my resting place,
strong young men with backs of brawn;
carry me under the drooping leaves
of willow trees in dew-wet dawn.
Carry me high in the searing sun,
shuffle the dust that’s scorched and brown.
Carry me high in the noonday light,
I’ll wear its gold as my final crown.
The sun will set on my resting place.
Strong young men bend knee and thigh
to touch the grass and roughened earth.
It’s my final trip home, so carry me high.
Unsung artist, known only to God,
who senses your passion, your excitement,
your heart; who sees your paintings hung
by clothespins on a line in the sky—
Your secrets are carried like seeds
on the wind, borne by you as you labor
to make your way in this harsh world;
waiting, hoping, praying for rescue
from this obscure dark place,
longing to be invited into the light,
your art at last unveiled before its edges
have had time to wither and yellow.
Sari fabric trimmed in gold,
their story woven in threads so bold.
Unspoken words laid within each fold;
family ancestry, history foretold.
Ancient ruins, weathered and cold,
noisy markets where wares are sold,
within lies a story that needs to be told;
here East meets West as tales unfold.
Mahatma, a tenet of non-violence extolled;
Indira, the Prime Minister’s job would hold.
Two Ghandi’s assassinated who didn’t fit the mold.
Both strengthened their country a thousandfold.
Strife-torn nation within a stronghold,
questions surface in each household.
Dynastic politics offer no leaves of gold,
corruption remains rife and uncontrolled.
Economic power yet poverty manifold,
burgeoning with opportunity to behold.
Outsourced jobs bring new foothold.
Where East meets West, a future untold.
In her mind and heart poetry became dramatic.
Pausing over her worn Smith-Corona, as deft hands
typed, her phrases and words became magic.
Drawing pictures in poetry, she wove fine fabric
in metaphors, transporting pupils to distant lands.
She stirred mind and heart; poetry became dramatic.
Her smile infectious, her voice charismatic,
her passion for poetry helped learners understand
the beauty of poetry as phrases became magic.
With expertise and a flair for the climactic,
she gradually taught her student fans
to use mind and heart to make poetry dramatic.
Gently taming those whose expressions were erratic,
she taught them to write poetry that commands
attention while using words that made poetry magic.
Students no longer found writing poetry problematic,
no longer was there hesitation to try new plans.
In mind and heart their poetry became dramatic,
packed with words and phrases that made poetry magic