This poetry book is about pain, suffering, and the tasks of transcending mourning to works of arts to express in the power of the written word. It is a creative expression as a tool of coping with Post Traumatic Stress. "Grief cannot be measured by the tears I shed, but with the love I have" We project our demise out through the written words as a way of letting go for the troubled body and soul and to allow time to gently heal. "NO ONE SHOULD GRIEVE ALONE, LET THE HEALING BEGIN" -Remy Davis

CATHARSIS

By Remy Davis

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Remy Davis
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4670-6760-7

Contents

INTRODUCTION........................................vPROLOGUE............................................viiDEDICATION..........................................ixFOREWORD............................................xiACKNOWLEGEMENT......................................xiiiI. TRAVEL and ADVENTURE.............................1II. GRIEF...........................................7III. INSPIRATIONAL..................................39IV. LOVE and ROMANCE................................67V. TRIBUTE..........................................73VI. THE POETRY OF WAR...............................79VII. SHORT STORY....................................95VIII. TRANSFORMATION................................101EPILOGUE............................................105ABOUT THE AUTHOR....................................107REFERENCES..........................................109PERMISSIONS.........................................111ENDORSEMENT.........................................113

Chapter One

TRAVEL and ADVENTURE

    Big Book

    Remedios O. Davis
    September 8, 2010

    Reading the big book
    Starting from the kitchen nook to the flair of Europe
    I am hook with this big book.
    Anyone who does not travel only read a page of this novel.
    Each time you travel, you read a chapter.
    Where you start reading, it does not matter.
    You want to read it faster and faster.
    You want to absorb every detail the story tell.

    The book has no beginning and no end.
    Like the author of the big book, he is alive as well.
    There is always a new edition and version.
    Always something new and something had change.
    The book is constantly being re-told and re-written.

    Read about the holy land, land of the living God.
    The land of the Pharaohs that tell who is who.
    Land of the Saints the people that do not complain
    Nevertheless, made them get to heaven.
    Land of temples and disciples,
    Then back to American history, the land of the free.
    The Big Apple's statue of Liberty,
    The home of the brave and slaves,
    That rises to the occasion and made this great nation.
    You can start on top of the Grand Canyon.

    You read the arts of ancient history and modern civilization,
    The baroque in Rome, byzantine in Spain, gothic in Venice and Greece,
    The ruins of the Middle East begging hope for restoration.
    The foot prints of early Rome and modern destruction
    That cause many lives to include yours and my very own.
    cannot tell you all that I read on and on
    You have to read it to believe it on your own.

    Too many chapters yet to read
    From Asia to Iraq and Afghanistan;
    The Persian Gulf states to the Arab Emirates
    Not to forget Mobile River in Alabama
    And the glacier of Alaska
    Get out from the kitchen nook.
    Get hook with the big book.
    The book of hope-

*****"The world is a book and those who do not travel read only a page"- St. Augustine

    Trip to Venice

    Remedios O. Davis
    October 8, 2009

    Venice, my enchanted dream,
    You see gothic buildings, shopping and fine dinning.
    I never thought it is for pilgrims.
    An ancient place story tale telling.
    Big boats, little boats crossing the lagoon
    I watched gondolas sailing that afternoon.
    Anchored boats, and unchained rope
    A message of promising freedom and hope-

    In the merchant of Venice,
    It is fuzzy, foggy and blurry.
    I walked clenching tight on my parasol
    All alone, deep down my soul.
    With mingled mixed emotions feeling forlorn
    The boats were blowing their horn
    I wanted to run back home.

    In the island of doom love consumed
    They look like having honeymoon in the moon.
    Sun overcast, people walking in rust.
    Lovers promenading hand in hand
    I see them in a strange floating manmade land.

    Crossing' Bridge of Silent Lover' where two walls divide
    In the island of romance, lovers say "adieu".
    Other lovers hug where no place to go.
    They cling into each other arms.
    As I watched them on top of a compact mud,
    Their feet get wet due to the rising flood.

    After counting gobs and gobs of squares
    And Roman Catholic churches;
    Tired and hungry tourist seat in a hurry
    To rest in an outdoor café
    Thinking they are sitting in a Midwestern buffet.

    The fine thin angle hair spaghetti's patience tested,
    The look on the face is stern and mad.
    The r s' rolls sound of the roaring murmur of the Mediterranean open sea
    Thunder deafened my ears, and lightning blinded my eyes to see.
    Then the water swells with white foam and crests.
    Then the seagulls fly away in disarray to rest.

    Venice, my enchanted dream, how do I adore thee?
    The skies look bleak and deemed.
    I felt some foreboding omen is waiting
    As I end my pilgrim.

*****After the death of my son in July 15, 2003, I felt the doors were closing in on me. I realized the possibilities that grace is abundant out there and that I should be gentle and kind to myself and look around for an open door as a way out. I continued my pilgrims and resumed where I left forty years ago with the unconditional support of my late husband. Since 1969 to 2009, I live my active life to the fullest of much discords and tribulations and with some good times, no money can buy.

All bad as well as good will always end. On October 2009, few weeks after returning from my pilgrim to Europe, my husband got diagnose with terminal cancer, which completely caught both of us of guard.

My journey in life was turbulent and tragedy stricken one after the other. There were job losses, loss of parents, birth of a disabled child, murder of a son, sudden death of a spouse, loss of intellectual property, injustices and prejudices. My life is a textbook of disaster. Luckily, I am resilient enough not to lose my mind completely. Nevertheless, because of all these, my life had changed forever. I lost trust and a big chunk of myself but at the same time, it made me a stronger person. I learn when to say enough and set my own limitations, with my situation I have no other choices but to do that.

The three things that kept me going are my belief that the divine mercy is not going to abandon me and being appreciative for all his blessings ; a portion of my sanity that is left and lingering to the vivid living memories my lost love ones left behind.

In order for me to maintain my balance of equilibrium, I literary joined groups of wallet and budget- friendly pilgrimages' with distinction and memorable rich spiritual experience which were very therapeutic in nature. These pilgrimages are not professional therapy groups. My experiences with the pilgrims inspired me to write the poems, "Big Book" and "Trip to Venice".

    Vietnamese Chant

    Remedios O. Davis
    September 30, 2008
    Soft as a silk of gentle tongue,
    Touch of beauty of God we all worship.
    Smooth, soothing sway of genteel voices
    Like waves heard caressing the body of an anchored ship.
    With sweet embrace
    Calm water of ocean lullaby.
    Rise and fall of silver foam bidding good-bye.
    The rhythm of voices
    Crescendos up and down,
    Whisper of peace music to my ears,
    Passing through the thick evergreen lust foliage of trees,
    In the valleys by the mountains,
    Deep in the jungle of exotic flowers and orchids
    With sweet water dripping
    From the virgin forest green springs.

    The Chant of Vietnam
    Heard by a wounded man-

*****In pilgrims, I met different kinds of people Chinese, Japanese, Pilipino, Americans, Europeans, etc., one thing about people, they all need people like you and me. Everybody needs somebody for directions and helping hands. At the end of the voyage, I developed a sense of camaraderie like the bond of goodwill in the military. We were all winners and lucky because we were people needing one another, which makes each one of us the luckiest pilgrims.

One group of people had captured my attention, which inspired me to write this poem. In addition, I was very appreciative and thankful that I develop friendship and bond very quickly with the Vietnamese group. How could I not? I am a `Vietnam War wife'.

"Vietnamese Chant", is a tribute to the Vietnamese people and to all veterans that served at sea by the blue water and brown water, in the city and in the jungles; the wings that landed on the soil of Vietnam Republic.

Chapter Two

GRIEF

    Am I Less
    Remedios O. Davis
    January 28, 2010

    Am I less human?
    Because I am who I am
    A female, minority
    I am different other.

    Am I less worthy
    To be treated with dignity
    Because I born
    A fallen soldier son
    I am a gold star mom.

    Am I less human?
    To be treated equal
    Because I am a woman
    And I am not a traditional soldier man.

    Am I a less human
    To be treated with justice
    Because I am what I am
    Who stand my grounds?

    Am I less respected
    Because I am who I am
    Do I deserve less?
    Am I worth less?
    Am I less?


    Cause

    Remedios Davis
    December 14, 2008

    Life is life.
    Death is death.
    Loss is loss
    When you lose-

    The pain is all the same.
    Regardless of what's his name.
    I am not here to maximize my loss
    To minimize yours-

    I can only feel for my lost.
    Moreover, empathize with yours.
    We lost a love one that we loved so dearly
    And left our hearts empty.

    A loss that is irreplaceable
    The reality is irreversible.
    In addition, never be forgotten
    Because of the cause, `cause'.


    Compliment

    Remedios Davis
    January 7, 2010

    Here is a complement health care kit
    It is time to go brush your teeth
    They are giving you afghan knit.
    What color do you want?
    He was quiet and nonchalant
    Waiting patiently for any color
    With me standing by his door-

    The volunteers just passed him by,
    He was sad.
    Tears rolled down his cheeks.
    As the woman volunteer, passed him quick
    With her, cart that squeaks.

    He got up in a rush
    Pulled off his oxygen mask
    With a soldier's fighting spirit,
    He chased the volunteers
    With his weak, shaking trembling knees.
    Stop a moment, please,
    Are those complements?
    I want the red, white and blue
    With labored breath
    He walks back to his bed tired and exhausted
    Carrying with pride under his armpit the red, white and blue
    He handed it to his wife and said," this compliment is for you."

    He went back on his bed hyperventilated,
    He put back his oxygen mask with heart rate elevated,
    His feet were cold and wanted me to hold.
    She covered and snuggled his feet
    With the red, white and blue afghan knit.

    Please tuck me in so I may sleep,
    That complement is for you to keep.
    My compliment to you,
    And I thank you.

*****This is a story about a dying veteran in his hospital bed who fought for one more time for the colors of the American flag as a compliment to her wife taking care of him by his bedside. He wanted to have the red, white and blue afghan knit not the orange in color. "Agent Orange, complement of Vietnam, he uses to say."

    Death of the Stallion

    Remedios O. Davis
    March 17, 2010

    A brown mare came by one afternoon.
    To bring the bridle and bundle of mare news
    For the stallion to get, amuse.
    The news I have no use.

    I watch them dance with my tap shoes.
    Feeder she brought to keep the stallion corralled,
    As they dance marry-go-round all years round,
    Moreover, kept him pacified and occupied until auction day if he complied.

    Then the mare sped away in a hurry.
    Which made me worry?
    I started dancing the boogie.
    The dance move she did not like to see.

    Then I saw the tidings hanging in her saddle.
    Who knows where they come from hard to tell?
    Bit by bit the stallion slowly deteriorate,
    Thinking the mare was her advocate.

    He sways his silver lined hair to drive the bugs away,
    As he watches the mare wiggles her well groom tail.
    In addition, she hoof and she hoof prancing away.
    I tried to untie the stallion bound tight too long,
    However, he kicked me in rebellion he wanted to be alone.

    The stallion started dying.
    He'd been waiting, waiting, and waiting
    To find out what is in the mare's saddle.
    Sick and tired what is the matter?

    In the middle of the barren acre leading no one anywhere
    Where the only thing around
    Were bright yellow flowers of dandelions?
    Fenced in with a rusty barbwire about to fall.
    All alone and forlorn in the neglected lot
    That is tantamount to a gravesite for a plot.

    I walked alone to a creek feeling very, very weak
    To look for holy water for the stallion to drink,
    Cautious the stallion might kick.
    I tiptoed around afraid the owl might hoot, yoo-hoo ...
    I found fruits and veggies but the feeds he can not see
    With his bridle and feet tied stationary.

    One cannot help but worry,
    His health was crumbling down tied to the ground.
    The stallion died needless prematurely bound
    Not knowing what is inside the pocket of the saddle,
    The truth or a riddle-
    The danger sign he should have seen earlier
    Then he whispered and said, "I should have known better."

    With his bridle, the enemies he did not see.
    Please, take this off from me, and I am sorry.
    Then the stallion expired and is no more
    He perishes forevermore ...

****On December 13, 2009, my husband, Lanny L. Davis, died of cancer. He never found the missing rib bone and the truth surrounding the death of our son. In addition, he was unable to publish the book, we were working on "Smokes and Mirrors" before his passing, which is about the murder of our son, SPC Richard T. Davis. We were side tracked while grieving over our son's loss and battling with his terminal cancer.

My son, Richard and my husband, Lanny both had two months death notice before their passing. My son was twenty-five years old and my husband was sixty.

On May 23, 2003, Richard received death threats while fighting the Operation Iraqi Freedom war in Iraq and then murdered July 15, 2003, in Columbus, Georgia. His father got diagnosed with terminal cancer on October 2009, and died two months later at the Veteran's Hospital, Loma Linda, California.

With our family life story, and my husbands' collaboration as a military consultant of the first book I wrote, entitled "SPC DAVIS", he left me the legacy and tolls to complete the true historic novel that needed publishing in my perspective as a mother, widowed- wife and a woman veteran.

    Depression

    Remedios O. Davis

    Thank you for making me realize
    That my emotions had been long paralyzed.
    Fulfillment I needed so long
    Contentment came along.

***** Depression hurts emotionally and physically so I never take it for granted.

    The Ditch Witch

    Remedios O. Davis
    November 23, 2008

    The witty wicked ditch witch
    Dress in black knits.
    Makes you believe she is rich,
    She thrives in the crack of a ditch.

    She talks nice in a high pitch
    With her glamour and glitz
    Sounds like an angelic soprano
    When singing her pitchy pitch solo.

    Stop the angel without wings sing
    My ears ring a ding –ding.
    She claims she can sing.
    She flashes her bling-bling-bling glittering ring.

    Oh! What a witty, wicked, ditch witch.
    Hard to figure out which is rich.
    Something morbid, something rancid
    She needs to be pitched back in the deep crack of the ditch.

    A slipper, a sleeper
    A creepy crawler
    She crawls out the ditch inch by inch
    To smooch what is in your dish.

    The witty wicked ditch witch
    Who lives in the crack of the ditch?

*****The ditch witch symbolizes one of the noisy demons I needed to shackle and tame in my thoughts. This poem is one of the double doze (a double loss require a double dose) of cognitive therapy for the hazardous toxin in the mind.

    Empty Room

    Remedios O. Davis
    February 20, 2010

    I once had a room filed with so much love
    God sent from up above.
    The rooms are now empty,
    All is left are just old memories and me.

    The emptiness
    A space I use to regress.
    Place I would dare not go before.
    I feel cage within like Berlin wall.
    I am sitting eating my heart out
    Down the floor where I squat,
    I open my window to see the sparrow
    Then I see the weeping willow.

    She said, hello!
    How are things with you?
    Is that man with the twinkling blue-green eyes?
    Who use to gaze at the brightest star up in the skies?
    Is he still there with you?
    I wonder but no one is there.

    While standing sad and dreary all alone
    And no one to lean on
    But the frigid cold window pane
    Soak with the morning pouring rain.

    The rooms are empty and both are gone now.
    Maybe the sparrow flew and followed him across the seas.
    A place a naked eye cannot see.
    That is a probability maybe.

    The bright star disappeared I am drowned with sorrow
    I want to close my window to feed my grief.
    All is left is my shadow
    In my cluttered room of `should haves and should have not's and ifs'.

    Leave the window open
    If you shut it close, nothing will happen.
    The old weeping willow tree said to me,
    Moreover, I agree.
    Then I sat down and lay my head on my knees for a pillow
    I let the breeze come and go where natures flow.

    A space is supposed to be empty
    To clear the yesterdays and yesteryears rancid that you don't need.
    Keep the room empty a time to celebrate the emptiness
    A moment where they use to be a portrait of existence,
    Keep the room empty that is how we are all going to be,
    An empty room, a monument, a testament of our legacy

      That once upon a time, we exist then to nothing.
      Nothing is everything.

*****The poem is a message of hope. "If there was, there is"

(Continues...)

Excerpted from CATHARSISby Remy Davis Copyright © 2011 by Remy Davis. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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