please don’t go: a poem

grief comes in waves

or so they say

feels like it comes

in hurricanes

I feel angry

I want to scream

sometimes it feels

like a bad dream

I wish I could’ve

eased your pain

helped you find

a better way

close my eyes

see you again

striped green sweater

my old friend

contagious smile

soft blue eyes

I trusted them

a million times

you saved my life

I couldn’t save yours

how badly I wish

I could settle the score

don’t pull the trigger

you know, I’m begging

I know your burden

it’s heavy and weighing

I’ll bear it with you

I’ll stay up all night

talk with you

and hold you tight

I know you’re gone

I can’t help but pretend

that you are with me

here again

-in memory of a dear friend

Tubba Wubba: a poem

Tubba Wubba, you crazy dog

constantly making a mess

knock over the trash

muddy paws on the couch

need I bring up the rest?

your nipples sagged

and dragged on the floor

flopping with each step you took

you barked all day long

at people, cars, birds

always driving us nuts

you weren’t very bright

you snorted so much

and sneezed on my face countless times

you were also so sweet

and silly and fun

I’d holler for you

and you’d come

bounding up the driveway

dirty and excited

jumping on my new white pants

you’d lay at my feet

after a long, hard day of playing

every day, this same dance

I had come to expect it

you were my friend

and I’m sad it’s the end

I cried when I heard they’d found you

If I close my eyes

I still see you

your tiny black body

bouncing around the house

hear your nails tapping across the wood

the sound of your bark

from down the road

on your way back

after a long, hard day of playing


-In memory of Princess Tubba Wubba (2004-2018)

family: a poem

family tree poem



I wrote this poem after reconnecting with a cousin that I hadn’t seen since I was little.  In our conversation, I noticed that we had a lot in common, though we hadn’t really grown up together.  It made me wonder, what is it that makes us who we are?  What is our choice and what is predetermined by our great- great-great grandparents.  What do we hand down through generations?  I thought back through the generations of pain, heartache, loss, creativity, ideas, talents.  I asked her something along the lines of, “Do you think that maybe to be an artist, one also must suffer?”  It made me wonder what my family would look like without all of the suffering?  Would we lose all of the creativity and drive?  Is that what fuels the fire?  What paints canvases and plays to concert halls?  Is that what inspires the magic?  I don’t know.



and I’m not where I thought I’d be

thought I’d have a fancy career

my pathway there’d be perfectly clear

thought I’d be wearing power suits

classy jewelry and expensive boots

something with a lot of flair

and perfectly-styled, unfrizzy hair

was sure there’d be a house and more

was sure I’d have a garage with two doors

but I just have a regular job

and I gotta admit, I’m still a slob

I still wear converse and my flannels

still go to the store in my pajamas

never been able to tame my hair

but if I’m honest, I really don’t care

’cause when I look around and see

everything that surrounds me

I realize I have all I need

and it has nothing to do with any things

but everything to do with we

you and they and she and he

how lucky am I, without want or need

for it’s people that make my life complete

Ode to the bookstore: a poem

There’s something special about a book

And when you find that perfect nook

In the corner of the store

Where you sit and read right on the floor

The smooth, warm texture of the pages

Only gets sweeter through the ages

The musty old smell of a used book store

Is what brings me back for more and more

There’s nothing quite like the delight

Of finding that book that feels just right

With every turn of a page there are more

New and exciting adventures in store

the meaning of a moment: a poem

my memories, my most valuable possessions, the only things that are only mine.

my memory keepers; journals, photos, yearbooks, paintings, drawings, notes, movie stubs, cards, mixed CDs. these are all my my most prized.

there’s nothing I fear more than forgetting.

forgetting all the moments that brought me to this moment here.  forgetting all the moments that made me the person I am.  the talks, the walks, the coffee shops, the trips, the dinners, the jokes, the laughing, the crying, the driving, the staying up all night, the swimming, the running, the sweating, the working, the studying, the promises, the lessons, the stories… All of it.  I want to remember every moment.

I’ve spent so much time wishing I could be in a different moment from whichever one I am in.  some place in the future, where I won’t feel uncertain, scared, or anxious.  some day in the past, to correct a mistake, to relive a time, to squeeze that person a bit tighter, to ask the questions I never got around to, to make a different choice, to feel all the moments I felt then.

so many present moments wasted, wishing I was somewhere else. someone else. a past or future version of myself.

so many nights lying awake, asking, “who am I without my memories?”

so now. now I know a good moment when I feel it. I’ve learned to take notice. To stay alert.

I think to myself, “this. this is a good moment. and I won’t forget it as long as I live. I never want to let go of this moment.”

but just as I’ve dared to think it out loud, to appreciate such a beautiful, perfect moment, the moment is slipping away.

I’m already forgetting details and it’s fuzzy around the edges. the more I beg for it to stay, the more it goes on fading anyway.

so I have two choices: I can throw a fit and cry and pout

or I can paint and draw and write it out

find some way. to capture the moment. nail it down. make it stay.  write it in these pages where it will never fade away- not even for a moment.



charmaine/ time-travelling: a poem

mindlessly scrolling, I wait in the doctor’s office

I close my eyes

the melody playing softly

lifts me off the sticky leather seat, out of the lobby


eleven, standing in the music room, practicing my alto sax, tiny fingers, barely long enough to reach every key

sharp! b sharp!

he corrects me from the living room davenport

I blush, embarrassed at my fumble

I start from the top, try to get every note right

I want to impress him with how much I’ve been practicing

no, no! more vibrato! you’re ruining it



try again.

fingers flail awkwardly


the door pushes open

he huffs and pretends to be upset

house slippers and ascot cap, holding his tenor sax

“okay, let’s take it from the top”

he winks


fingers dance purposefully across the keys, he closes his eyes

I smile, blessed with the sound

the door creaks open again

Grandma smiles, taking a break from cooking dinner to join me and Grandpa

she takes her place at the piano bench and just when I thought it couldn’t possibly get any better, she adds

infinite magic


there are lyrics to this song but they aren’t necessary

nothing could make this moment better


kaitlyn? the doctor will see you now

not now, please. can’t you see we’re busy?

just let me have my song.


open my eyes.


Grandpa’s gone.



Finer Than Frog Hairs : 11×14, Acrylic on Canvas, Kaitlyn Davis 2018


In Memory of Ernest Charles Edwards (1919-2017)



done is better than perfect: a poem

never satisfied

spend my whole life


cross it out

scrap that

start over

will I ever accomplish anything

or will it always be a blank page

eraser marks

torn in half

balled up

set a flame

can’t stand to see my words sprawled out on a page

naked, vulnerable, on display

I curse my words

the way I curse myself



not good enough

but these are the only words I know

it’s not fair to keep them

locked away

out of sight

circling in my head at night

begging me

to set them free

“done is better than perfect”

my professor said to me

so fuck it

here they are

my clumsy words

they aren’t eloquent or nice

and what do you know,

everything turned out alright.


let me hold you a while

I’ll gently kiss your face

just lay with me

peacefully, happily

I’ll keep you warm in my embrace

let me give you comfort

and your worries give to me

but only for today, my dear

can you live this happily

tomorrow I’ll be gone

and leave you with nothing

but this warm and itching sting

– the sun

Kaitlyn Davis

8 May 2014