Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful

Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful

One day you’ll look up
and not see
my intense hold on you. In fact,
you’ll look up and not
even see my semi-chocolate
impression on the bedspread.
In fact, you’ll stand tall
in knowing that
my life has resumed
and the chills that come
afterwards has now limited its
reach. What I’m saying
is that my time with you
is up and your day with
me has made its last
stand and if anything,
you belong over there
and I over here. So, don’t hate
me because I’m beautiful
and I won’t hate you
for not understanding
our distance. It is in
this understanding that
we’ll make the most
progress towards
a beautiful
friendship.

M.C. Davis

I Think I Will Have That Drink

I Think I Will Have That Drink 

I love the small
version of you
and the delicate touch
of your fingertips
and the poetry that each
layer brings to how we devour
each other in slow and deliberate bites.
It’s magical, and the leaning sky
doesn’t wait but instead
hesitates, nods, and dreams
for us. This is how we have
learned to dissect life, but if we stay too
long, then we are already late
for the evening show.
Yes, the drink will do us fine
and you too will learn
that with each sip,
we are falling in love
once again. With each sip,
we are once more unfamilar
as to why we are here
in the first place.
Yes, I think I will have that drink.
Yes, I think I will.

M.C. Davis

Communication I

I love poetry, as most would suspect about me. There is something about the charisma that poetry brings to the table that changes the color of a room or causes people to stop talking. More specifically, I love slam poetry because within its many different layers, I hear music, and tonal noise that causes anyone to stir uncomfortably.

I ran into Dr. Maya Angelou’s poem Communication I a few years ago and it made me stop, think, and then sit down. It’s poem that surprises you then makes you realize that Angelou’s understanding of love is absolutely misleading in the sense that love between lovers might indeed be the same love for another. There is a sense of prowess with this poem and I believe that the balance between love and sincerity is proven deeply within Angelou’s layering and almost subtle hints of what’s to come.

Communication I

She wished of him a lover’s kiss and
nights of coupled twining.
They laced themselves
between the trees
and to the water’s edge.

Reminding her
they cratered moon lay light-years away,
he spoke of Greece, the Parthenon
and Cleopatra’s barge.

She splayed her foot
up to the shin
within the ocean’s brine.

He quoted Pope and Bernard Shaw
and Catcher in the Rye.

Her sandal lost,
she dried her  toe
and then she mopped her brow.

Dry-eyed
she walked into her room
and frankly told her mother,
“Of all he said, I understood
he said he loved another.”

Why I’m Here

Why I’m Here

I don’t stand too tall
nor do I speak like
Abraham nor do I walk
with jive and speed
like bumble hives on
a  warm sunny day
but I know why I’m here
and what I’m supposed to do.

I may not carry a tune with
sound of wisdom times faith
divided by square root of
some other number nor make the days
seem like ease on top of ease but
I do know why I am here and what
I am supposed to do.

 Like others, I may not grant
the kindest smile or extend my hands
with grace nor take the time to admire the
moon on crystal nights or make a mirror
of my image in your eyes but I know
why I’m here and what I am supposed to do. 

In other words, don’t clamor my style
by cutting short my worship and my attention
to what I am supposed to do because
my time as well as my heart doesn’t belong to you.

See, you tend to disagree for the sake
of disagreement but instead
let’s make your moment become our moment like
we used to do in the golden age?

When our minds were filled up like waterfalls
on a clear Sunday afternoon.

That’s why I am here and that is what I am supposed to do.

M. C. Davis 

I Want To Be Like Langston

I Want To Be Like Langston

The hills are too far for my reach
and I am desperately seeking a
way to understand his
words, ideas, and fantasies,
since I am here and he is there.
Life stumbles on like drunken soldiers
and I am dashing from your start
to my finish, wondering just how you
did that. I am lying around
and tempting myself into thinking
that you are at the gate
when all along you were
standing in the window
with your little yellow
pad, jotting metaphors
and dangling participles.
I want to be like Langston
because he knew what the soul
craved and he understood
how delicate words are to digested.
I want to be like Langston because
he understands my need for peace
and the trees that guard my gift
surrounding the culture within these bones.

M.C. Davis