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

 

Inspiration:

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.

blue eyes: a poem

twenty-three

twenty-three

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

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

breathe.

focus.

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

write

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

ugly

incomplete

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.