Connection


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

As A Poet

 

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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

The One You Are Supposed To Be With

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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

 

One Year Later

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One year later,
let’s dance
to
that song
that brought
our dusty
hands
together; intertwined
like vines
searching
for
more sunlight,
and waiting for
the raindrops
to
clear our
path.

We get
to
sing
and
prance around
like snowflakes do
after
a light dusting,
so
don’t forget
that one
year later,
we get
to fall
in love
all over again,
and
entice the Autumn
breeze
to keep
our
momentum.

M.C. Davis

Mr. Bill

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Every
now
and then,
we
get to walk
on
clouds,
like
wind on
top of
wind, or
like
a song does
after
everyone
learns
the words.

We get
to
dance like
a
wedding
party
just let loose,
and
I’m
the lucky groom
who
gets
to carry
your love
to
my heart.

See,
I’m a poet,
and my words
dance from
adjective
to
adverb
like loose
leaves,
but you
get
to
hang and test
this
amazing
love.

Mr. Bill,
my love
is
filled
to the rim,
so
my joy is
simply
finding
a larger
glass.

M.C. Davis

A Gathering Of Sorts

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Yesterday
we
fell asleep
in
between
each other’s
words,
and
watched
the
sun pause
between
our
stretches.

I get to
love
you,
like a
gathering
of
sorts,
that fill
to the
rim
and overflows
with
no
complaints.

I get
to
love you,
like
a gathering
of
sorts
where days
forget
about nights
until
subtle
touches gain
the
momentum
to
whisper.

I
get to
love you,
so
let’s gaze
a little
longer,
and
into
what we have
made
into
this home.

M.C. Davis

Life Granting

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As our time
forms
and bends into
a million
beautiful
pieces,
I
get to smile
like
a sun
does
after she
bathes
in
the night
air,
or like
the time
we
danced
’til
midnight
when time
fell
between
our
hands.

I’m life
granting
because
of
the
smallest
of
changes.

We’re life
changing
because
of
the greatest
of
love.

M.C. Davis