A rose
simply remembered
doesn’t
quite intend
well.
She’s not fragile,
nor
do her petals
dictate
to the sun.
She exists
within
the notes
of every concerto,
but
also
she carries
the
notes in between
that
often
begin
with a whisper.
See, a rose
remembered
is
never
simply
remembered, as
she
is created.
A rose
remembered
only knows of
itself
in
this way.
M.C. Davis
Every so often,
we decide to let caution
flail,
dance in between the notes,
and
precariously
allow the sun to
wipe
away the rain’s
desert stain.
We,
as they say,
are in the wind,
but
unlike most things,
you and I
get
to also
become the
wind.
M.C. Davis
Let’s chase the moon,
upside-down
and through
the layers,
letting fate
decide what
to
do with our
hands, letting
them
dance like the
sun
does after
she’s
figured out the
necessary
steps
in waking us up.
Let’s
chase the moon,
and
decide where our
feet touch,
allowing the sandy
pieces
to
assemble like ants
do
after a great
feast.
We’re here,
figuring all
of this
out,
and when the moon
has
slowed down,
let’s
bring her into
our
proximity
like the Gods
do
before an afternoon
rain
shower.
M.C. Davis
In all of the wisdom
that
saunters
in
between
the
semicolons,
and
the
layers
of words that describe
us,
I get stuck
reading the
lines
where
the poet
forgets
he
has an
audience. I get
lost
in the characters
that
dance
like a summer breeze
does
after
a quick
dampening.
See,
we’re much
better
that we think,
so
let all
these poets
linger in the space
in
between
the in
betweens.
We’re
just getting started.
M.C. Davis
Our connection
fell
like leaves do
on
wind-blown days,
and
just like most seasons,
our connection
will usher
in a
newness
and a growth will
dampen
the ridges
of
our beautiful
life.
M.C. Davis
So, as a poet, we have to think differently than most writers.
Every now and then, we get the awesome privilege to look at verbs as underrated nouns, or adjectives as a sassy and often misunderstood adverb. At times even, we have to look into the eye of a world that’s deeply rooted with rich colors, sounds, and seemingly (as one would have it) poets have to take in all of the nothing, and extract the everything to where a reader has just enough of the taste of the black-and-whiteness of a feeling, thought, echo…often, just to create that perfect one line of poetry. And don’t forget, poets have to imagine themselves outside of their own skin in order to craft enough meat behind not only the words they choose, but the relevant feeling and substance inside of those words chosen. Most poets think critically about their words, but not for the reason you may think.
Most poets think critically and intimately about their words because they have no choice but to do so.
For poets, the rhythm and cadence of a certain phrase is just as important as the amount of syllables or texture the phrase carries. For poets, they get to tag along for the ride, and throw an amazing amount of caution to the wind. For this is exactly one of the main reason why poets choose to become poets. They get to layer the intimate senses of our humanity with words, precise caution, and enough love to elevate your expression in how the words affect you as the reader.
As a poet, we get the luxury of thinking differently than most writers, in the same cerebral sense a butterfly gets to reflect without fault her amazing metamorphosis from a cocoon.
M.C. Davis
Poet
So, every now and then, you are reminded of your place in life. You get to sit down, reassemble the evening chores, and fall into a million and one pieces in hopes that by the next morning, your pieces will magically fall back into place. This chokehold of sorts becomes the norm for you, and your absence of breath is simply a way of life closing in and remaining ever present in your ability to find a new norm. But you don’t find a new norm, you simply get used to the old norm acting as the new norm.
But some of us get a different version.
Those are the lucky ones.
Those are the ones who get to take each million and one piece and number them meticulously, take those same chores and execute them with precise accuracy, only to later saunter back into themselves the next morning with such ease that even the sun has to patiently wait a few more seconds to blo0m.
See, these lucky ones are the people who simply enjoy every step ahead because each step isn’t given as a promise. Each step is simply a calculated and articulated fall, and these lucky ones know this philosophy without being told or warned. These are the folks who walk with a purpose knowing in full Technicolor that each purpose given isn’t promised to be meaningful, joyous, or even right-side up. These are the lucky ones who simply devour their environment like a poet does when the words, syllables, and infinite wisdom drips over the cup and down in between the fingers as if searching for a new riverbed through the lines of one’s skin.
See, these are the lucky ones who are able to view in full awareness that the life choices they’ve made, has provided them with a companion with whom they are supposed to be with in the most perfect time-natured way. So, no matter what life brings you, it is in this moment that you are to take a moment to reflect on the roses that sit idle and without notice. Or, if you’re truly aware, it is in this moment that you can simply forgive yourself in not moving in the direction you’ve intended. Often, it’s only the movement that matters and not the direction.
We are all those lucky people, and if you look real closely you’ll see that person holding your hand ever so tightly is just as lucky as you are. In this moment, Happiness is born from a new womb created by the two of you. Take a deep breath and marvel at the fact that you get to give birth to the most joyous connection two people can have. In this moment, you get to simply grow together with every weed far from your path of Happiness.
M.C. Davis
