Christine Salkin Davis (Focail do a Chara)

The wind stills, still the bird sings.
I can sit in silence, but I can't silence the voices in my mind.
Grieving alone.
Turn your isolation into solitude.
Breathe.
Let the breeze wash over you.
Mother Nature's caress.
Holy pauses. Nature unplugged.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2020

Say goodbye, and then let go,
of hurts and hopes, possibilities lost for now,
maybe forever.

Close yourself away from teeming masses of germs,
sudden disconnect,
discover yourself--what remains
when the social self is distanced.

Yet another turning point,
liminal space, thresholds,
pause;
evidently the last one was insufficient for compassion to well up,
second chance to get it right.

We have been given a collective timeout
to think about how we relate to each other,
regrets,
promises,
promises.

What will we learn from this
besides how to wash our hands?
Cleanse our hearts as well.

Silence.
The bird still sings.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2020

I wait for
my heart to catch up to my mind,
racing ahead,
that reluctant heart,
so cautious and all.

I wait for signs and instruction, wisdom,
words and words and words,
magic ones and right ones,
the just right ones.

I wait for spring,
always waiting for spring,
air to thaw and sun to warm,
fleeting flower blossoms,
in all their pink.

I wait for my mind to wait for my heart
to catch up,
the bird song in the pause,
stillness of a heartbeat.

I wait for the breath to rise and fall, peace
to wash over me,
knowing whispers in my mind, trust,
in whatever will be.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2020

February is the longest month,
with all the waiting and stuff.

The fog descends, cloudy liminality;
is the haze real or is this a dream?

It's the fog and the guardians,
the icy fingers and a warm blanket,
pain in the walking,
and too much to do.

Your angels are dreams in the fog,
beckoning light and silent longing of the day,

surety and fears, holding you back,
until her time. It's a stillness of time.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2020

I just can't get traction,
waiting for things out of my control,
can't make a decision,
and waiting around is taking a toll.

Trust in my foundation,
in the midst of chaos the center holds.
Trust in the formation
of goodness that I'm waiting to be told.

Inside is the answer,
the flow of warmth and love from pole to pole;
there's no threat or danger
connecting with the part that makes me whole.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2020

You are locked in the present, frozen in time,
and the suffocating sameness grows despair.
The sky drips a cold rain
and icy crystals form.
Possibilities flee like a ladybug taking flight from your fingertips,
and you are left with the dead carcasses of misbegotten dreams.

Eventually the sleet will turn to snow
and as the snow globe scene fills the air,
hushed birdsongs and fleeing deer will form a backdrop
to the powdered landscape.

Tomorrow the sun will return.
Life and decay are identical twins.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2020

The sun's return after days of rain,
the taste of hot coffee on my lips on a cold morning,
and the moments -- all too fleeting --
of connection and embrace.

I want to remember
the late night sharing
and laughing,
and the best part of me connecting with the best part of you.

I want to remember
that moments return like the sun
and, like the sun,
love doesn't die -- it just hides in the shadows sometimes.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2020

Are you rushing through
life and missing living it?
Savor the moments,

the sun on your skin
on a cold winter's morning;
the love in your heart.

What if you just basked
in the warmth, appreciate
the life you have now?

What if you tasted
and smelled and felt the music,
the bird's morning song?

What if you camped out
in the now, lit a candle
to light today's path?

What if today was
the only day you have? It
is. Listen! Time stills.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2020

The dark is over, let the dawn alight,
a morning hope brings sunlight rays of white.
Perfection is the enemy of good,
change doesn't wait for you to know it could.

Turn wistful moments into golden dreams;
future's not as bleak as it sometimes seems.
If you're painting a paint-by-number life,
then why does the picture have so much strife?

Let the light, light the cobwebs of your mind,
let it find the all the sadness it can find.
Let the warm wind blow wild through your heart.
Let it turn your pain into works of art.

A thousand violins I wish for you,
to serenade into a life anew.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2020

A person could get whiplash from all the
going and coming going on. It's like
the threshold is a revolving door, the
centrifugal force pulls me under like
a whirlpool and a feeling I don't like
overwhelms. I'm slightly dizzy headed
and I'm waiting for the air to clear like
after a warm summer rain. I'm headed
into the center where my wrong-headed
thoughts can't just whirl me around anymore.
Please pick one direction to be headed
in, couldn't you, I don't want any more
vertigo, but I don't know which I want more,
freedom or safety, I can't take much more.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2020

Liminal spaces and times, the thresholds.
What do you do when you can't stay away,
but at the same time, you know you can't stay;
and reality's wearing a blindfold,

The worst is, your dreams can't get a toehold
if you venture a step through the doorway
because you're thinking too hard of what may
go wrong, and you're too afraid to be bold.

In those liminal places, their pauses
where you can't go back, you can't move ahead
and you're camped out in the space in between,
make you ponder your life and your choices,
the things you've said and the things left unsaid,
the doors never opened, some could have been.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2020

In the late night silence,
I listen to the rain,
and your breath,
and the noises a house makes in the dark;
a cacophony of voices in my head.
Grief abounds, and loss,
and the worst is yet to come, they say.

What do you do while your foundation crumbles?
The word is unsettled today
Yet, the

morning sun reveals white clouds, blue sky,
some trees still bare-- their leaves still brown -- but
three chickadees sit on the branches
of the cherry tree, its almost pink
blossoms exploding, backdrop to the
birdsong symphony, warm up to spring.

Mother Nature still defaults to life.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2020

The storm breaks, a light appears, and your eyes begin to see.
The voice of mother wisdom is mute,
but the message is inscribed on your door.
Enter.
Create.
Begin.
You know what you know.
There is beauty,
for you are beautiful.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

Are you stuck waiting for something to happen?
Are your doors slammed shut, your eyes cannot see?
Is your vision dark and are your dreams unyielding?
Is it raining in your dreams?

While your buried head burrows
under the safety of sameness,
a sunbeam cracks the darkness,
alights upon the resting ladybug;
she opens her wings and flies away.

Can you force your door open?
Even in your mind the bolt is locked.
Let the light in, one candle at a time if you must.
The key will appear when you are ready to see.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

Today the door to your heart is jammed shut with stuff--
hoarded hurts and musty musts,
piled high with disappointments, boxes of not good enough,
perfectionist tendencies gone awry,
and those voices that overwhelm and pull you under.

The knocking is gentle but insistent and all you have to do to answer
is clean a path past the clutter,
let in light and love,
let go the past, release.

Windows warm, transform, in sunlight,
cobwebs become works of art,
and longings elevate the soul to sunrise beginnings.

Begin again in peace, not perfection,
and let the preciousness of life draw you out.
Momentary prayer and pause,
you see the door is open after all.
The wind blows in peace.

What does your heart need?
Rest. And permission to be.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

I sent a letter to the holy:
Holy one to whom I pray.
Who and where are you?
And why is grass green and not, say, red?
And why are people indifferent and cruel, even nice people,
and why is there hatred and war?
Why did Hitler last so long, and Trump,
and why Mitch McConnell and Franklin Graham?
Why are the mean people still walking around
and why are the dinosaurs not?
Why climate change and why free will
and why do we feel so lonely and restless much of the time?
What will it take for violence to end
and what will it take for me to be at peace with what happens, no matter what?
Why is the sun shining so bright when we are all just crying inside?

And the holy one sent me a reply:
'I love you.'

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

There is nothing deeper than love,
bottomless pit of desire and despair.
The true connection that comes from the heart,
never dies.

An open heart gathers thorns and stones,
anything the storms blow in,
and love.
Sometimes you have to sort through the debris
to find the gems.

The light of love is shining from the window of my heart.
Love is never too early;
everything is a deep foundation for the future.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019