Judy Davies resides on Mississippi's Gulf Coast. She 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. In 2014 she was honored as a Grand Prize winner of Artists Embassy International's Dancing Poetry Competition and her poem Artistry was choreographed and danced at their festival. As the Mississippi Poetry Society's 2019 Poet of the Year, her most recent book, Inkspirations, was published by the Society. A retired professional French hornist, Judy holds multiple degrees.
Written in three parts as if from inside the building, this
poem commemorates the beautiful stained glass windows of
St. Michael's Church on the Gulf Coast in Biloxi, Mississippi
immediately before, during, and after Hurricane Katrina.
Surrounded by loveliness, bathed in soft light,
their vibrant colors shone day and night.
Pictures in glass within my embrace,
each tells a story of some ancient place.
Pensively watching those fragile displays,
quietly praying, I feel the Son’s rays.
Stately glass images relate a narrative
of selfless good works, of how we should live.
Stretching my mind and letting it wander:
what chronicles of history, what tales can I ponder?
I see sadness; yet joy, in each windowpane,
hoping against hope, He’s not suffered in vain.
********************************
The humid day stretches before me. It rains.
Winds begin to swirl, their strength gains.
Trees bend in obeisance to the angry outburst,
water pouring in sheets; I suspect the worst.
Run, hide, close the windows quickly,
I don’t want to see what is before me.
I peer out cautiously as people stumble,
trees uproot, cars crush and crumble.
Sirens blare, people cling to each other
knowing this may be their last time together.
Chairs and benches and branches of trees
fly by in a steady stream of debris.
Houses sway, bricks, glass and metal fly around;
no match for the elements, they crash to the ground.
The howling wind continues its wrath,
the waters are rising, approaching my path.
First lapping the door; now the seeping begins,
faster and faster as it flows right in;
once appearing just under the door,
now racing gingerly across the floor.
Will it stop or will I be swept away?
Will I not see from these windows just one more day?
Strong walls, majestic glass icons,
keep me safe from weather dragons.
********************************
The force of the water slows, then retreats,
recoiling, withdrawing, as if admitting defeat.
Water spilled everywhere, everything filled to the brim,
destruction so massive I know not where to begin.
Wind and water surged with raw power,
bridges and buildings crumbled like powder.
Like molten lava deformed from the heat,
twisted pieces of metal lie at my feet.
Droplets of color now rest on the ground
as the stained glass windows came tumbling down.
In place of peace, chaos survived.
The now broken windows cannot be revived.
Soaked in mildew like long hidden lies,
shattered glass, shattered dreams, shattered lives…
An intricate pen and ink drawing hangs in our entrance hall;
it defines our home as welcoming to artists one and all.
The canvas is always ready, the mission always clear,
an atmosphere for creativity is allowed to flourish here.
Precision and patience work magic in clay and in stone.
Potters fashion their clay; sculptors chip away the unknown.
The artist is poised with his brush in hand,
“Bring the canvas to life” is his internal command.
The composer refines sound using ear and electronics,
stringing together pitch sets, notes and harmonics.
Sensitive creativity and originality he must release
providing the framework for each masterpiece.
Dancers develop poise in body with purposefulness,
from plié to pointe, the embodiment of gracefulness.
Dancing with abandon, each performance flawless,
speaking through motion, the epitome of artfulness.
Through prose and poetry the writer’s feelings are heard
as he hones his craft of the written word.
Drawing in his reader, giving voice through technique,
with spirit and soul his art form must speak.
Whether captured in clay, on canvas or in stone,
via music, dance or simply words alone,
the creative process brings new life to our health
when we hunger for culture, not just monetary wealth.
Each form of artistry plays a critical part,
each displays vision through its own brand of art.
Absence of the arts points us down a black hole.
The essence of art is it enriches the soul.
Wind chimes whisper softly in the breeze as
a gentle rain drips monotonously from roof to patio.
The myriad of flowerpots on the deck begin to fill,
the dog’s outdoor water bowl runs over, dust from
last year’s porch furniture disappears as
chairs and tables are washed in rainwater.
Shrubs quickly drink their fill. It’s been a dry summer
with exhaustive heat and oppressive humidity.
Grass seems to welcome its soaking, at once appearing
to inhale moisture into its dry bed like an expanding
sponge, gratefully filling itself with the satisfying liquid.
What began as a drizzle intensifies beneath a darkening
sky. A torrential downpour appears inevitable.
Wind chimes ring furiously as they are pelted with water.
Downspouts pour off water as rapidly as possible.
Intensity progresses from light rain to heavy rain to driving rain.
Angry clouds burst releasing huge cascades of water,
saturating yards, covering walkways faster than pooling
liquid can be absorbed, a deluge flooding the street,
surging outward, leveling itself. Walkways and driveways
promptly become the bottom of a giant pool of swirling water.
Suddenly, as quickly as it began; it stops.
Rushing water stands momentarily still before being
swept to its lowest point, then hurrying toward a drain.
Sunlight peeks from behind previously engorged clouds,
moving to full sunlight as the drying process begins.
Water continues to run off the deck, patio furniture
dries in the warming sun. Flowerpots drip the last
of extra water and soil remaining filled to the brim
for later emptying. The dog’s bowl has had its washing.
Rainwater retreats, wind chimes are silent,
and God sends the blessing of a rainbow.
