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...