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Showing posts from April, 2019

Silence (Spenserian Sonnet)

Dogwood blooms unfurl, awaken. Humming
fan, pine bark scent, bird trill, a gentle breeze.
Greens and pinks of springtime blossoms, coming
home within myself, feelings of great peace.

Solitude, silence, but for buzzing bees,
sounds of rustling trees, wings of butterflies.
Whispers in the wind softly blow the leaves;
green breath-giving life; nature’s lullaby.

Sometimes it takes stillness to recognize
that voice within your heart that longs to say
life is not always about sacrifice;
its joys and satisfactions pain outweigh.

Hunger for the inner voice you once feared;
Love wants nothing more than to draw you near.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

Spring Daybreak (Villanelle)

Pink clouds in spring, day breaking, entrances.
Apricot sky, purple-blue, gratitude.
Rays of hope, waiting, for second chances.

Leaf shoots emerge like lace dogwood branches.
Their buds breathe your song, savor interlude.
Pink clouds in spring, day breaking, entrances.

The heart of the wild world romances,
slow breath transforms dark frets to solitude.
Rays of hope, waiting, for second chances.

Crucifixions redeemed, love advances,
Speaks from the silence within, fears subdued,
Pink clouds in spring, day breaking, entrances.

Birdsong morn follows night, morning dances
'cross the sky, warms the seed, sun's certitude.
Rays of hope, waiting, for second chances.

The green upon green on your face glances.
Unexpectedly, it raises your mood.
Pink clouds in spring, day breaking, entrances.
Rays of hope, waiting, for second chances.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019




Meditation on Teresa of Avila (sonnet)

Wishing moon behind the dark clouds of night,
like the pause at the top of the inhale,
close as my breath, the cleansing rain, sunlight
follows and shadows lengthen, never fails.

I search my heart for voices; I invite
the beauty deep within where spirit dwells.
Desires growing in my soul; insights
take root, clouds part; it's time to lift the veil.

The howling wind picks up and stirs my mind.
I brace myself to face torrential storms.
The lightening cracks, attention snaps to here
and now. Electrified, I seek, I find,
I search for who I am, for feelings warm.
Radical acceptance cleanses my fears.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

New Resurrection Song (Villanelle)

Creation's fruition is finally come;
daffodils open their petals and they
welcome the signs showing dawn has begun.

The full moon hangs in the sky as the sun
starts her climb; the meeting of night and day.
Creation's fruition is finally come.

Hope that the winter, the darkness, is done,
bold meadow flowers ecstatically lay,
welcome the signs showing dawn has begun

her work, resurrection, ready to run
her race, and our hearts, overflowing, say
creation's fruition is finally come.

Courageously open eyes, light still stuns.
We blink, we stumble, but we find our way.
Welcome the signs showing dawn has begun.

We waited for morn, it seems we've now won
the prize of daybreak, its hope to convey
creation's fruition has finally come.
Welcome the signs showing dawn has begun.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019




A New Doxology (Sonnet Haibun)

Delight in the be-
ingness, endless foundation;
the grandeur of space;

the love manifest
and the Wisdom immortal,
expansive, from all

time, and to all time,
in the now and the then, here,
there, and everywhere.

The cardinals, stately, wingspan soaring,
bird calls in the distance and setting sun,
clouds drifting north in the never-ending
sky, wishing moon and blue beyond and on.
The body knows the strength found in suff'ring,
the allure of fate, and the pain undone.
The heart has her reasons, moonlight shining.
Love stopping time; innocence on the run.
The sounds of wind through trees, and birds, and pink,
beyond the purple gray floating skyward.
The source and wellspring of all Mother love,
passionate patience and great Cosmic wink,
intuitive knowing that transcends words,
beyond time, beyond space, below, above.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019



We've Seen this Road Before (Sonnet)

Rainy day out, birdsong morning, new green on green on green on green of spring, blue-gray sky, blue-brown baby birds, and cloudy haze. 
Emerging light and first flight chicks, routines
of life and cycles, seeds which die, we've seen this road before, we walk the day to day, we live to die; our steps point to the way, and rarely do we know just what that means.
We're born to lives we don't deserve; our death is life, our life is death, the voice that calls us back still calls to us. The paradox
of blue moon sky and deeply breathing breath, when life and death hold hostage in your walls, escapes your sight within Pandora's Box.
© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019





Spring (Sonnet)

Baby birds and spring greens, lavender blue
sky; exuberance of new things, fledglings
floundering, awakened, filled with something
long awaited, like a moist morning dew

after a long sleepless night. Life debuts
in the springtime sun and there is nothing
as sweet as chicks and new birth, love, laughing
old friends with new life, open hearts, renew.

Her blue-gray feathers glint the sun's bright rays.
She savors sweetness, satisfaction, soon
the shadows long, but now, the sun is high.

One more springtime is the gift for today.
Tonight the sky will fill with full pink moon,
and I will, grateful, in my dreamland, lie.


© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019


Narrative Inheritance (Pantoum)

(Written with Spoma Jovanovich, UNC-Greensboro; Abby Lackey, Jackson State Community College; Cara Mackie, Florida Southern College, in Montgomery, AL on 4/6/2019)

(Upon reflecting on Montgomery, Alabama's National Memorial for Peace and Justice)

"Is this like a maze?" "Yes, precious one, it is."
Lives mattered then, and they matter now.
Burdened, silenced, burdened, heavy; I want to beg for mercy.
Blood, tears. Water.

Lives mattered then, and they matter now.
Standing in the midst of ghostly witnesses to hate, hanging, there is no peace.
Blood, tears. Water.
Dignity.

Standing in the midst of ghostly witnesses to hate, hanging, there is no peace.
The wall is crying shades of brown. Dignity. A narrative inheritance I cannot escape.
The wall is crying shades of brown. Burdened, silenced, burdened, heavy; I want to beg for mercy. A narrative inheritance I cannot escape. "Is this like a maze?" "Yes, precious one, it is."

Hunters and Hunted

(Upon visiting Montgomery, Alabama's Legacy Museum; National Memorial for Peace and Justice; Civil Rights Memorial and Center)

I am among the daughters of fate; hunters and hunted.
The sins of our fathers' bodies lay the shame in ours.
Ghostly voices, hard to hear, but listen.
Born, bound, and died in the shackles of hate.

The numbers speak: Twelve million kidnapped.
You feel it in your body; in the knot in the pit of your stomach and the breath that struggles to escape from your throat.
What would you do if they came for you? What would you do? You.
Whites only!
        Whites only!
                Whites only!
                        Whites only!
                               Whites only!
                                        Whites only!
                                                Whites.

The numbers speak: twenty-four thousand enslaved.
Waiting for God bravely.
Cruelty, depraved.
A people shaped by slavery. We are all shaped by slavery. 
The sins of our fathers'…

Born, Bound, and Died in the Shackles of Hate

(Upon visiting Montgomery, Alabama's Legacy Museum; National Memorial for Peace and Justice; Civil Rights Memorial and Center)

I am the daughters of persecuted and persecutor.
The sins of our fathers' bodies lay the shame in us.
Ghostly voices, hard to hear, but listen.
Born, bound, and died in the shackles of hate.

Twelve million people kidnapped from Africa during the transatlantic slave trade.
You feel it in your body.
What would you do if they came for you? What would you do? You. Whites only! Whites only! Whites only! Whites only! Whites only! Whites only! Whites.

Twenty-four thousand enslaved, eighteen-
hundred. Waiting for God's bravery.
You enter through a security screen.
Montgomery, a city shaped by slavery.
The sins of our fathers' bodies lay the shame in us.
Living at the edge; emotional whiplash and nowhere to purge my pain.
Born, bound, and died in the shackles of hate.
I dreamed I was stripped bare and shackled by shame.
You feel it in your body. Anthony Ray Hinton…

Montgomery Alabama Legacy Museum (Pantoum)

Twenty-four thousand enslaved, eighteen-
hundred. Waiting for God's bravery.
You enter through a security screen.
Montgomery, a city shaped by slavery.

Hundreds waiting for God's bravery.
I hear my daughter but I can't find her.
Montgomery, a city shaped by slavery.
Have you seen our mother?

I hear my daughter but I can't find her.
You enter through a security screen.
Have you seen our mother?
Twenty-four thousand enslaved, eighteen.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019


You Feel it in Your Body (Pantoum)

Twelve million people kidnapped from Africa during the transatlantic slave trade.
You feel it in your body.
What would you do if they came for you?
Whites only!

You feel it in your body.
Anthony Ray Hinton: 30 years on death row for a crime he did not commit.
Whites only!
Collecting soil from lynching sites.

Anthony Ray Hinton: 30 years on death row for a crime he did not commit.
Coffins crying tears of blood.
Collecting soil from lynching sites.
Lined up and hanging.

Coffins crying tears of blood.
What would you do if they came for you?
Lined up and hanging.
Twelve million people kidnapped from Africa during the transatlantic slave trade.


© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019


Way Forward Detours

Dying way of life, way forward detours, step by step in fog-shroud haze to nowhere. The path is dark; pursue it if you dare.  Beware those serpentine, hairpin, blind turns. 
You think the path will clear through things to learn.  You think without respect, no one will care. You see uncertain guarantees, you fear. You think the road to safety leads to ruin.
When you have hiked the hike to glimpse the top, what if you see the mountain and conclude, the skinned-knee effort wasn’t worth the climb? What if the things released are just a drop of blood, a prick in life’s slow interlude? What if the forward path takes too much time?