New Blog Site!

Please check out my brand new blog site! On this page, you will be updated with the trials and tribulations of a girl who quit her job and moved from the U.S to Ireland. Among the stories, I will also post poems!

Click below:

https://caitlynsarahdavis.wixsite.com/website

Advertisements

Choice

Either you choose, or you choose for someone

to choose for you.

The outcome we envision carries us a few steps more.

The ground we tread is skin thin before it becomes bone deep.

To choose for you,

or to choose for someone else. Which is easier?

The ground we tread is skin thin before it becomes bone deep.

You know that you can sail on a lake that acts like an ocean.

Or to choose for someone else. Which is easier?

Like the friend who broke your heart between two shoulders.

You know that you can sail on a lake that acts like an ocean.

Every fair wind has its gusts.

Like the friend who broke your heart between two shoulders.

The outcome we envision carries us a few steps more.

Every fair wind has its gusts.

Either you choose, or you chose for someone.

Lunatic Belly

My stomach churned at the sight

of the curled wave –

bending to the end of its cold tail.

What does the ocean feel like when it is naked?

 

Of the curled wave,

pale birds flutter in its wake.

What does the ocean feel like when it is naked?

It is always adorned with buoys, feathers of the worried birds and oil.

 

Pale birds flutter in its wake.

Salty smudges streak the outside membrane of my belly.

It is always adorned with buoys, feathers of the worried birds and oil.

Even an inky dusk cannot hide the sun’s rim, wired in white.

 

Salty smudges streak the outside membrane of my belly,

bending to the end of its cold tail.

Even an inky dusk cannot hide the sun’s rim, wired in white.

My stomach churned at the sight of the moon.

 

moon

Blurry

For protection I imagine

St. Ignatius whispering

some blurry sins

to a woman, drifting out of skins.

Look at the man, holding on to belt straps near by.

What would it be like to split the imagination, fragile as leather,

into holes fit for your waist?

Control that sinewy, nonchalant

golden snake –

keep your distance.

He has no fists to pummel,

that child trapped inside –

eyes showing, uncomplaining.

His ribbed body, clothed in glinting

gold mirrors

staring back at you.

 

Hear the memory of the snake return- dark wit

ablaze with silver ice cubes.

The sound is swollen inside me

a language that lumps in my throat

when you carefully hold1306071203047-snake-textures

the neck.

Comb Keeper

I recover honey samples from the bright-eyed bees

who hug their hives and kiss the cells with floral lips.

The keeper of the combs will pick scents –

infused with lavender, sage, nutmeg

raspberry.

Sweet, but not impure

Sticky, but not messy

Golden, rich and all of the above.

The keeper of the combs weds himself

to the bees.

He won’t ever lift the veil

until the day is over and the sun drips around the planet

veiling and unveiling dusk.Wallpapers 1366x768 (1)

Bloom

Green embedded the floor,

a sonic chlorophyll symphony

permitting the sunlight to sweep the immaculate eyes

of saintly columns.

Wet grass sounds like the cadence of caterpillars

who move like butter over leaves.

the rain revives the ground like a fizzing soda down your throat,

and the girl in the black and white dress

takes a picture with her camera necklace.

It is Wednesday and the grass

is cold, but gunshots break the ice.

snowball hole in ice

The Backside of Fear

Phase I

My sign reads, “Closed for business.”

I will reopen after I fight this lineage curse.

If you saw me today, you’d see

worry lines

transposed from paper to palm

dressed in unwritten ink

pressed down on a clean slate and

moving words from wrist to skinny branches.

I have been shutdown. In lockdown

hiding (protecting) creative fears

from a catastrophic letdown.

If you saw me at thirteen, you’d see

passive explosions falling from palm to

paper

blue ink covering black letters.

Soot on a blackboard covering white chalk.

I have been snuffed

by the fingertips of my own fears,

Goals repeat themselves on papers stashed all over –

I am wanting and waiting

to reopen,

to release my fear.

Phase II

I cut carefully along the lines

running parallel to my spine.

At night, I let the pieces mend

without any glue or tape.

When I wake, they fall a part

and lay to the sides

parallel to my vertebra –

child’s play –

those white ivory keys

I cannot touch.

Have I mentioned the wings

I tried to insert inside the space

I cut?

At night, the incision closes around the blades on my back –

in the morning I wake and stand, let the weight sink in –

Wings tucked tight,

White and light.

Yes, wings can look proud and earned.

Only sometimes, the weight of the day is something that must

be learned.

Phase III

Wings. Held in my hands, you are the backbone, the backside of fear.

The longer I hold you, the more I feel

with my muscle

memory.

My voice repeats itself, becomes a shadow

(flying wings) on dry garden dirt,

dead kale capillaries and withered bean skins.

Muscle memory. Theirs too,

Repeats itself,

folds in for the long shadow of winter.

To be afraid of dying, or the leash of fear

(don’t be) is not trusting your sown seeds.

Spread them far.

Come in…open your hand.

I see wings

the backside of fear.

ukslb_gg00091_0

Pale Wind 

Once, the fish swam in the night sky –
a galaxy inside her belly.

She bore stars and pushed out tears, recalling

The angry cycle of mourning the living.

I had the chance to talk with her,

a chance to travel around her galaxy.

I saw the cycle churning,

filling and unfilling her fists,

palms milk white.

I felt the pain safely escape away

from her memory, from the dark house.

Although she lost the tears,

the memory of it twinkles.

Dead and alive in her sky.

Astronomers attach no name to that time,

That spiral pattern.

That place ejected from her insides.

I looked at the fish finding his way in the night.

He broke out and fell

into a motion you’ll remember as no accident.

You felt it coming. The pale wind

reaching for him.

 
 

Fragile Freight

Her mouth flickered, sharp as razors

across the glass window

clouds rolled in in victory.

Snowy rooftops filtered past and

chimneys coughed a stormy blast.

Simple folk dwell within

golden shadows hide their sin.

The panic in the city lights

sweep her eyes at the fringe of night.

Red ribbons run through her pupils,

it’s alright – the moisture on her cheek

doesn’t mean she’s weak.

She feels dizzy in the moving cabin.

The conductor and she are alone,

staring out at the city’s bones.

17307-microsoft-train-simulator-windows-screenshot-looking-out-the1

 

 

Tranquil Champlain

A boat swings like a weather vane

on the flat blue glass. It turns

like a ballerina

dressed in white canvas and

wooden soled shoes.

She tip-toes and etches hull lines

in the glass like smoke

in her wake.

A man sits on an August heated dock,

watches the lake expand from dark blue to white,

from summer to winter

from East to West.

That boat swings like a needle,

’round the compass of his green-gray eyes.