Christine Salkin Davis (Focail do a Chara)

Originally posted 1/25/2018 Revised 1/30/2019 Seasons of Life (sonnet) The full moon peeking behind the trees on a cold cold night, The ladybug gliding across the smooth windowpane, light of sun on its belly; the wind, gold leaves blowing. The smell of late fall, decaying leaves crunch underfoot in the silence of the night, tall oaks, gold and brown in the day, now much gray in the inky sky, touch the moon, flight of sparrow at noon, time to soar, seasons of life, movement, let go of yesterday's dreams, and change, read the signs in the heavens. Go, open your heart to find your new way. Warm sun, winter's day, unexpected joy, white cotton candy clouds, a deep blue sky. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2018

The Mack truck, slow stall, karma messenger, brings news of red brake lights, traffic, driving, stop lights, tail lights, headlights ahead up there, delays, dead ends, unsure time arriving. Inching up, I wait for the fog to clear. Blinding rain washes away my striving for duty bound, to reach my dreams, to steer my course onward. In time. Unsurprising detours disappoint me. Conspiracy to stop my path, no-show plans limit speed. Surrender to the sky, the tyranny of time no more a thing to heed, no need to run. The slownesses infuriate. Take in the air, deep breath, luxuriate. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

Originally posted 1/23/2018 Re-posted 1/27/2019   Revised: Paradoxes of Life (Sonnet) The rain washes, it also refreshes; cold skies bring out the most brilliant of stars. Mountainous effort, this moment passes; the progress you've made feels so very far. Life’s paradox is presence and stillness, forward momentum and passage of time. Savor these moments; bear to their witness, like breath, they peak high in life's uphill climb. Planting and fruiting, harvest progresses seeds germinate in the soil below. Dark skies and thunder belie successes; stillness of air brings a fresh outlook now. Treks to the future cannot be undone; sun warms the heart in this new morn begun. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

(Originally Posted 1/10/2017): Edited 1/27/2019: This is Not Another Sappy Love Poem (Villanelle) No, not another sappy poem of love, nor siren song of lust and ardor born of sparkling eyes that shine like stars above. No, not an ode to one I'm dreaming of, infinite visions from a heart long torn; no, not another sappy poem of love. No lyrics crooned to luscious lips beloved; wanted, craving, dreamed of, longed for, lovelorn for sparkling eyes that shine like stars above. The skipping heartbeats ‘neath my breastbone prove an insight clear on passion’s fire reborn, but not another sappy poem of love. My rhyme embraces yearning, like a glove, a peace of heart unfolding until morn with sparkling eyes that shine like stars above. Amid the days and hours feelings move; a heartfelt mystery, secrets newly sworn, but this is not a sappy poem of love to sparkling eyes that shine like stars above. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2017

(Originally Posted on 1/23/2018): Paradoxes of Life (Sonnet) Rain always washes, it also refreshes, and cold skies bring out the most brilliant of stars. Despite mountains of effort, this moment too passes; the progress you've made feels so very far. Life is a paradox of presence and stillness, forward momentum and passage of time. Savor these moments and bear to their witness, like breath, they peak in life's uphill climb. Planting and fruiting, the harvest progresses while seeds germinate in the soil below. Darkness and thunder belie these successes but stillness of air brings a fresh outlook now. The trek to the future cannot be undone as the sun warms the heart in this new morn begun. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2018

On the sale of our sailboat, dreams soaring away, on a run, in the wind, sad to see the horizon approach; the sun behind me shines a light on the breeze and me laughing out loud at the seemingly lazily floating by world. Past the mem’ries of days when we soaked in the warmth of the sun, glad to be kissing air, tanning skin, long brown hair blowing back, catch the wind, feel the speed, trust the tack. The elation of fun, when the boat caught a run, in the moment by moment days when we won the world and the wind, and our lives, looking back, the horizon ahead and our faith in our ride. Now, the blue's not the sea but our aging betide. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

Every poem a sonnet, every poem a statement, of life, and love, and longing, and an alliterative manifesta- tion of warm fires or you holding my hand, memory moments of love landing, lay on the page, as temporarily banned pain waits at the door. One rarely can say if a poem’s a success or critics will pan, but I know love when my heart tells me so, and I know a love verse when I feel in my gut, and I’ve known loss and, wishing, know, the depths of love my longing heart can limn. A love poem or a sonnet speaks the heart, But my heart’s true verse speaks through its own art. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

PR has now been weaponized in the fight of politics between the left and right. Did they do it? Did they not? The camera knows what we don't know, the camera sees and shows. Does he look smug? Did he look scared, what were their thoughts while standing there? Does anyone care? Kids are kids but they've been taught no right from might, react from thought, and the message comes through spin and press and those with the means to pay. The shouting voices drown out love today. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

Nothing changes, ever. Complacency and privilege maintain the status quo. Full moons, eclipses, super moons, spotlight cycles. Shine bright, it's your turn, Blood-red Moon. Passages, shifting sands, liminal space to separation, simply survival. Consequences of complacency, change. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

Prayers for voices -- loud ones, brave ones, bright ones, voices for love, boldly speaking against cries of hate, harassment, words that fence, divide, shout down the brave daughters and sons upon whose backs this land was built, building still. What kind of man - no, boy - disrespects respected elders, what mother protects her son's contorted sneer, disdain dripping? They're like rabid dogs yelping after prey and salivating at the taste of blood; one hundred witnesses to their disgrace, and not in sight a single face of love. They shouted down the walls of Jericho. Where are the voices shouting down walls, now? © Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

The list of tasks overwhelms and every body wants from me, want, and want, and want. I shrink under the weight, and sigh. Listen to the voice of your desire. Slow down. Hit the pause button. Stop the world. Let go the edge, and float, go past the things to do, and do, and do, and do, and do. You are in the flow. Find yourself. Find your gratitude for closed doors and dead ends, wrong turns and detours of life. Delights await, unexpected, such as the sun shimmers off the blue-green lake spied through the bare trees. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

New semester turmoil to a teacher, holding onto the past while the future is barreling toward you. Walk the path, teacher of wisdom, make it be enough in all things. Remember that any year in which the poor receive good news, the captives are released, the sick are healed, and the oppressed are cared for, is acceptable and holy. Still waiting. Kernel of hope unfolding, our vulnerability defines our humanity. We are all babies in cages, people dying from indifference and greed; the day dawns cold and wet and we cry tears of if-onlys. To-dos crowd out the muse; living as a love letter to the world. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

Nothing changes, ever. Complacency and privilege maintain the status quo. Full moons, eclipses, super moons, spotlight cycles. Shine bright; it's your turn, blood-red, Blood Moon. Passages, shifting sands, liminal space to separation, simply survival -- Consequences of complacency, change. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

ORIGINALLY POSTED 6/20/17 Winter On a day in which snow and ice imprison me in my home, and my todo list consists of revisions, judgments, and critiques, I take a pause to appreciate the long lines of the tree shadows stretching across the silky smooth sheet of white, reminding me that out of my shadows is light overhead. The dog, insistently putting her head in my lap as I try to put pen to paper, insisting on love. The blanket, lovingly knit by a woman I once heard, draped across my lap, warming my legs and my heart. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2017

ORIGINALLY POSTED 6/9/17 Commitment I commit to radiate gold clouds that sparkle and shimmer and hold us all in a heady embrace that is soft as a feather and warms the heart. To radiate blue, true blue, solid as a rock and smooth as a stone, a path straight from stability and order, a path as wide as an ocean but heading toward home. To radiate the color of love, red, for the heart bleeding for those left behind. I commit to radiate blue, true blue, solid as a rock and smooth as a stone, orange for the passion for justice and righteousness, yellow for the dawn of a new day breaking forth, the color of love, red, for the heart bleeding for those left behind, white for the purity that enfolds us all. I commit to radiate orange for the passion for justice and righteousness, yellow for the dawn of a new day breaking forth, a path straight from stability and order, a path as wide as an ocean but heading toward home. white for the purity that enfolds us all. I commit to radi

ORIGINALLY POSTED 6/8/17 An Afternoon in Inis Mor Mist stings my eyes as I scan the landscape for droplets of water on still green leaves. The air is blanketed by fog, and the afternoon rain falls silently. A crunch underfoot breaks the solitude. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2017

ORIGINALLY POSTED 6/15/17 YES I regret being afraid to say yes. I regret holding tightly to safety and security, to the feel of an old worn shoe, slightly frayed and scuffed on the heel, but comfortable on the toes. I regret clutching onto the day after day comfort cocooning me, suffocating me in its sameness. I regret holding back, holding my breath, holding the exhale, afraid to let my lungs change the air. I regret biting my tongue, misunderstanding the misunderstanding, but too afraid to understand. I regret the what-ifs and the why nots, the worst that can happens and the what can go wrongs and the this has got to hurts. I regret not saying yes. I regret not saying anything at all. I regret not knowing what would have happened if I had said Yes. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2017

ORIGINALLY POSTED 7/11/17 In the NICU Hand wash ritual, acrid smell, antiseptic. Please, the silent prayer. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2017

ORIGINALLY POSTED 7/17/17 The Journey (A Nonet) Orange reflectors blur up ahead; asphalt stretches eight hundred miles; white lines keep us in our place. Safe in our space capsule, we follow our path with intention. So far to go still. Wait. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2017

(ORIGINALLY POSTED 5/15, 5/16, AND 5/17) Haibun I'm a night person. I like the dark--its stillness, coolness, taking the pause to be cognizant of my rest, pinpricks of light in the night sky and my mind, slow, sharpen the senses. Darkness comes in many forms these days and sometimes it's hard to see those pinpricks of light. Amid the news reports of mean-spirited conduct and indifferent acts, how did we come to this, I wonder, this time of evil triumphs, and my heart hurts, and worries. I look for escape from the feelings of helplessness, despair, wonder at how low human beings can go and at the impotence that overwhelms good people, at the pull to hate the haters and descend to their darkness, to close your eyes and pretend you don't hear the cries of the walking wounded. How can you know this and how can you love the this you know, honor all life, perhaps it is time to let the sun shine in the corners of darkness, light of love, overwhelm

The bird sings in the distance, breaking the roar of silence. What ifs crowd my mind; I am a desert in search of water. Time marches forward. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

You spend so much time worrying about what's coming next that you don't leave space to enjoy what's here, now. Dread and hope are both orientations toward the future rooted in fantasy. The sun shadows stripe the white windowsill; dog at my feet, all is well. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

When bad news strikes and you can't catch your breath and the wind blows your hair and your papers, and the knot in your stomach matches the one in your throat, and your soul is crushing, mind is numbing, and you know you are mixing metaphors with hyperbole but you just don't care, all you can do is watch the seagulls fly in formation into the foggy beyond, and trust they will find their way, and so will you. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

The ocean breeze caresses your hair, and the waves lullaby you to a peaceful place. White sand under a periwinkle sky lies marked by footsteps of wanderers such as you. Seagulls catch the current of the wind, and soar; beach walkers move more slowly but purposefully. Let the waves wash you to sea; your fears, their voices; what if all was well? © Christine Salkin Davis, 2019