Pealing Bells

Poem By Foster Davis

At three o'clock
On a winters day,

The bells of Saint Timothy
Peeled away

The dust and noise
Of my city's decay.

Comments about Pealing Bells

There is no comment submitted by members.


Rating Card

5 out of 5
0 total ratings

Other poems of DAVIS

Why My Daughter Is Kate

We knew.
We did have a clue.

So, in the stew

Bacchae Remembered

Gloriously abounds
The impassioned sounds
Of a tipsy urban cowboy.

Pungently Flow

Handy planks of crimson fiber,
Split and torn, a rending of essence.
All form mauled in a mire of viscous disinteregation.
The darkening pungent flows,

Impotence

The page is naked,
The pen engorged;
My mind is bake'ed,
No epics forged.

Everyones Hopes

Heartfelt dreams
Are old wishes we have held

Forgiveness?

In supplication you reflect each Sabbath
To review your sallies with revulsion
Sanctuary secured
Sobriety solemnized