Christine Salkin Davis (Focail do a Chara)

A leaf falls. A bird sings. A bee winds her way from flower to flower and the sun shines on the ivy carpeting the rhododendron thicket. How many times have I described this to you? Every morning it feels new to me. The same bees. The same birds. The same rhododendron blossoms bursting pink and white amidst their long-fingered leaves. The same mossy ground and the same dried leaves crunching underfoot, new life springing up, lead buds from the forest floor. The same blue sky and white puffy clouds and gentle breezes rustling the trees so they look as if they are dancing in time to the bird’s symphony. My eyes take in the greens on greens and baby blues and pink and white as I breathe in the musky smell of forest air  and I want to tell you about the yellow hairy caterpillar inching past  and the berry-colored flower petals reaching up  and the bird in the feeder fluttering her wings and eying me warily and the trees reverberating as the fleeing flock of birds flies away.
I wish for yo…

I wish for you a love that takes your breath away. 
On you to shine the morning sun; the birds to sing  for you. I wish much happiness for you today. I wish the rainy sky much flowers to you bring,
so many that they form your favorite bouquet. I wish you find the lovely life you want; take wing, explore, and love yourself; your beauty heart, the way your blushing skin and sparkling eyes in joy forth spring.
Ignore the insults, threats, indifferent stares, I pray -  small men who make you feel like objects or playthings, possess you not, do not control your fate. Inveigh against their caustic scorn; there is no need to cling
to them; I wish you truly knew what youare worth. I wish you million tons of happiness on earth. 
© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

Yesterday, raindrops pocked the ground, puddles
pooling, white blossoms turned amphibious.
Birds hopped from branch to branch, dry, they huddled
under leafy limbs, high, oblivious.

Today, bird song morning, vociferous
fly, silence punctuated, calm disturbed.
Human-nature struggle, insidious,
but the breeze blows, and my peace is preserved.

The owl hoots, but she's no response returned.
The rhododendron blossom fades away;
her petals peaked; flowers on ground interred.
Woods after rain departs; you know the way

the musky smells mingles with sunshine. Shy,
light looks in; chirps, the morning lullaby.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

Corralled like cattle, bodies, extremely
oppressive heat, dirty, disenfranchised,
isolated, stench, despised, traumatized
and sick, afraid, inhumane, unseemly
bodies, thrown away, like meat, obscenely
bodies, sweat, life and death and holy in
every dirty labored breath, bodies, din
of murmurations, bodies, let them be,
bodies, hungry, lack of humanity,
bodies, thirsty, hatred, lies, decompose,
bodies, legacy of platitudes, disposed,
bodies, dehumanized, routinely,
bodies, separated, called uncleanly,
bodies, shameful, this is our history.


© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

Your shadows deepen; they draw you inside.
Flow where the current takes you; let it go.
There may be rapids ahead, have you tried
to control the waves? You don't want to know.

In the meantime, enjoy the sun on your
skin; enjoy the gently pulsing floating
sensation and the knowing you are where
you belong. Think of what you're devoting

your life to. Slow down the time, acceptance,
unfolding of plot, storyline, as it
comes, wait for the turn, enjoy the suspense
of the now. Maybe it's time to commit

to loving the shadows and rocky stream.
Remember, things aren't always as they seem.


© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

Rhododendron blossoms pop like popcorn
in the woody thicket; pink explosions,
beauty dot the tangled green, emotions,
calm and peaceful, in Mother Nature's porn.

Holy rhythm, slow, permission, reborn
heart, to breathe and sit, to time, reopen,
feel the flow, let go the strive, implosion,
of needy drive; reject your culture's scorn.

Time floats like water, ebbs and flows, a shroud,
cannot escape, her rush, to futile labor.
Our monuments, to time's toxicity.

Birds call and flutter, blue skies beckon, clouds
above in pastel sky. Linger, savor,
grateful be, for slowness, simplicity.


© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

Wind rusting through the trees sounds like raindrops,
and bird songs sound like mountain symphony.
The blue bird from the swinging feeder hops.
Rhododendron blossoms smell like honey,

their petals pink, exploding imagery.
The buzzing yellow jacket dances by
and ants crawl past the flowers blissfully.
The noontime sun shines warm up in the sky,

behind the clouds, her countenance is shy.
'Tis such a peaceful place, where nature speaks;
a sense of calm pervades, as with a sigh
of happiness. The view of mountain peaks

in the distance, beauteous, bluey haze,
complete the picture; the aesthetic gaze.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

Shadows fall into a new morn darkness,
deepening mystery, bird calls above.
Hidden path. Feel the pulsing aliveness.
The dark holds a language, memory of

dreams, disappearances, fragments of love.
Like spider in wait, suspended in web,
her silk filaments surround like a glove,
or flowers recovering from the ebb

of last night's rainstorm, there's a message from
nature, day follows night follows day, and
the darker the shadows, the brighter light.

Cicadas maintain their soft, steady hum
and today's blue of sky feels very grand.
I soak in their secrets, this core of life.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

The deaths of children as weapons of war.
Desperate people do desperate things.
Her heart beat, then it didn't any more.

Jakelin Maquin, seven, she died for
nothing, from whatever racism brings.
The deaths of children as weapons of war.

Darlyn Cordova-Valle was adored.
People don't leave if they have anything.
Her heart beat, then it didn't any more.

He had a home, then didn't any more.
Carlos Hernandez now has angel wings.
The deaths of children as weapons of war.

Felipe Alonzo, eight; his death tore
his family; Wilmer Vásquez, two, stings.
Their hearts beat, then they didn't any more.

Juan de León Gutiérrez, no more.
Desperate people do desperate things.
The deaths of children as weapons of war.
Their hearts beat, then they didn't any more.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

The liturgy of coffee, morning ritual.
Soft edges, greening world,
solitude of a summer morn,
blossoms white and crawling bugs and sunlight, warm on skin.

May you awaken to the memory of untroubled dreams.

May you awaken to bird calls and red-breasted birds in your trees.

May you awaken to a slight breeze and the sweet scent of bacon sizzling; to coffee, bittersweet--like life, warm and smooth on your tongue.

May you awaken to anticipation of love, of losing yourself in the flow of action--or inaction--that transports you worlds away in the here and now.

May you awaken to joy.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

May you be blessed by the peace of a rhododendron thicket in the cool of the evening,
bird song symphony,
crackling-barked limbs spindling over your head,
leaves reaching down and spread as if hands blessing.

May you be blessed by white blossoms and blue skies hanging on to the fading light,
spied as pinpricks through the canopy of leaves.

May you be blessed by the peace of aloneness and the stillness of a summer night.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

On Skeletons and Trees and Branches Reaching Out

On branches reaching from the tree's squelette,
her winding, weathered arms grasping to say,
see, the wind blows and stills in season's way
and sunlight's always followed by sunset.

Acceptance feeling better than regret.
Your naked bones awaken, need convey;
face your fears, let the sky bring what she may;
she spins the wheel of solitude roulette.

Your own light lights the dark night of your mind,
searches for love responses to the hate;
listens, competing chorus, raising psalms,

voices in silence singing to the blind,
the roaring world and headlines punctuate
a breath of air and welcome nature's songs.

© Christine Salkin Davis

Wait. Here. Each and every moment is a
threshold to the next. Release the give-guilt-
purge cycle. Differently loved. Who gives a
crap about tomorrow; art isn't built

in an instant. Feel the muse, let her in.
From your vantage point, you witness to the birds'
chatter, holy speaks in squawks; it's a win
for the soul, nature provides all the words

you need to hear. Let her be, and flow, float,
along the wind. Stop and listen, savor
the sounds of the forest calling you, notes,
melodies, sweet, multitudes of flavors

in your solitude. Don't try to sort them
out. Save some remnants. She will be here when.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

The wearied leaves of the weathered dogwood
tree welcome me home, reaching canopy
and birds singing, calling out, greeting good
day, and blue sky fading, last light to see

before sunset blazes over the trees.
Still air, mountain chill, bird’s courageous hop
to the feeder, eats, eyes me warily,
sitting in my machan-like perch, hilltop.

Blossoms, from yesterday’s torrential sop,
strewn about and brown-head nuthatch dances
alone in the trees, night falling backdrop;
she flies away with no backward glances.

The orange light through the trees entrances,
casting her glow on my dreams, romances.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

Sunlight and rain,
like the human-holy dance,
eternal mist.
Grasses waving in the wind,
welcome,
stone sprouting,
water,
windmills,
capture nature at her core.
Drink deeply from her holy well.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019