Little Things

December 22—when we grieve—and

How we grieve—clenched and pinched,

Trying to latch—latch memories and lock

Them into place—at this, the darkest time

In the wheel—we are reminded of the little

Things—the things that after that barren

November were retrieved and sifted one

By one through—a light blue housecoat

Hanging in the closet—slippers by the bed—

The reading glasses in the kitchen by the recipe

Box—magic mixing  bowls—your Pyrex,

The Bauer—whose contents you mailed all

Over Southeast Asia—and again to modern nuns

Sequestered in cloisters—it was the little things—

Your wedding band, mother’s ring—which sparkled

On those roughened Dutch hands—the hairbrush that never

Tamed that fractious Pentecostal wave in front—

The hair nets and pin curls that made you look at

Once girlish and playful—the crochet hooks, the

Knitting needles—that we held onto—and your

Pocketbook whose content on that final trip at night to

St. Mary’s you gave—because you knew—

To your youngest daughter so that she could

Purchase what we would need to celebrate

that first Thanksgiving—without you.

WINTER 2009

DAN DAVIS, © 2009

The Feast of Stephen

January is lonely—

And the difficulties

Wrap themselves anew

Round your legs once more—

Gone the few short days of

Belief strung like lights

From the eaves of Faith—

The warmth of anticipation—

The arms of joy to comfort—

The breathlessness of waiting—

And waiting for the coming—

For the borning of the new again—

In a child who is God—from the

Mother who first said Yes before

She had even seen His face.

December 2009

Dan Davis, © 2009

Lonely In God

Lonely—lonely in God—and

This fractured economy is the

Best diet there is—will these

Times even be remembered?—

We will eat lower on the food

Chain—the crib on the altar now

Is empty and waiting—we await

Its filling with the Divine food—

She placed him in a manger—

Manger:  to eat—ten more days—

The children pull open the doors on

The Advent calendar of days—ten

More—nine more till the eve of—

We wait—in this month of December

In 2009—going to numerology—it’s

Been a 2 year, the witch tells us—

Duality:  yours/mine—all that we

Have is vulnerable—not to loss but

To wanting it, claiming it all the more—

It’s mine!—so I squandered my gifts—

On wasteful calories and stand at this

Altar empty-hearted and empty-handed—

Here, at this altar—in this sacred space.

December 2009

Dan Davis, © 2009

Adventus

ADVENTUS        

—for FTM

Guess who’s coming—guess—guess

Who—who’s coming to dinner—whose

Presence will bless our still-standing

Crib and sprinkle with renewal waters the

Droplets of our new baptism—guess—guess

Who—might as well with our joy be the Baptizer

Himself—guess who’s coming—guess who—

Mary will serve—my Magdalene—on our

Finest china—or should it be simpler than

That—she’ll need Martha’s trained eye,

Her now-restful hands—what time will that

Lazarus go to bed?—we will need the mouths

To open and help sing Hosea—guest, you are

Welcome here—long have I waited for your coming—

Stay with us a while and bless the table—it will be

The new year—so bless that, too—we await our

Dinner guest—the seat of honor is yours, Priest—

Welcome—welcome to our home.

December 2009

Dan Davis, © 2009

 

Decembering

DECEMBERING

The church was a bog—the shadows always

Decembering—and like December—fogged

In and revived by only Debussy—the walls

Shadowed and spoke of all they had seen:

Yes, endings, and beginnings—too soon

Endings and too late beginnings—the

Crèche life-size and coming to you in

April dreams when spring threatened

At the reenactment of the Passion.  The

Students were ushered in—boys on this

Side, girls on that—though the garb

Modified, the legs visible—the sandals

The sandals of hippies and protestors—

That young nun could do more with a

Guitar.

December 2009

Dan Davis, © 2009

Lunch At Flannery O’Connor’s

LUNCH AT FLANNERY O’CONNOR’S

Smiling—smiling and impish—wave upon wave of

My pentecostal locks were no defense against the

Growing terror—toes curled in revulsion, awakening

In cold urine to a scolding—sheets I’d just as soon had

Been my winding sheets coiled in a corner awaiting,

Like me, a bath—Grandma would have had them

Washed in vinegar and baking soda by now and

Hanging like Howdy (I gave him a proper funeral)

On the line—they smelled  sweeter that way—that

Was the year of Saigon and red-headed evil—and freckles—

Captured on a photo of the season:  Christmas 1974.

 

I wasn’t old enough to imagine a meal of cold

Lima beans eaten with onion spoons and crumbled

With cornbread—lunch at Andalusia—a cold Co-Cola, please.

I recall Vicks Vapo Rub and peacock turds—I was warned of

The Arcadian attacks—Dagobert, the slain, knew the same—

The peckpecking at the eyes—they should have warned me

Of clown terrors, alarmed that I exhaled and sighed as I did—

I was a soufflé, a breath of mint to some—sand in scrambled

Eggs were my mornings—and clowns in my hung-over coffee—

Clowns in my coffee.

 

Oil paintings on black velvet from Tijuana appeared

When a full decade and more they took away the

Portrait of the slain president from the wall in the

House on Sugar Pine Lane—and replaced it with

One of moonlight on ocean and rocks—you remember—

It hung above every gold velvet sofa and did little with

Its undertows to ease the terror of clown heads and

Midway music—send in the clowns—cool, watching,

Perverted eyes—watching, watching from behind the

Painted-on smile—until—send in the clowns—by the

Age of 6, I finally decided it was smarter to turn crazy.

Winter 1990

 Dan Davis, (c) 2009

Caution

CAUTION

Cautious they watch me,

Judgmental they view—

Who does he think he is?—

Drinking champagne, listening to jazz—

I read, once and so long ago—that uneased

Them—I existed like text to be read only

In page.

 

These many years later—glutton—

Avaricious among us­—am guilty of

Any and all the seven sins—in heat,

Burning, burning—feel the fever from

The page—I am waiting, I am waiting—

Waiting for others to rise up from their

Own petty moments—they melt I am told

In the heat of your own brilliance—the best

Well-meaning words have to offer:  they slap

My face.  How—tell me—do puddles help me

Now?—a rotund monk—oblate, out of step

With this world, slipping in puddles—cassocked

In brown—a Jesuit heart, a Franciscan mind—

No community undergirding this fast fading Falstaff—

Cocktail, mixed, eye on the buffet:  Faulkner—

The Call—closed in one hand—Morrison—

The Response—fisted in The Other—poetic

Language escaping my mouth full of Easter

Memories and Pentecost dreams washed

Down by champagne and numbed by chocolate.

 

Cautious, cautious I am viewed—I am—listening

To Coltrane and Hartman—smooth as hot-chocolate

Wishes with a brandy sidecar—Shirley Horn waiting

Breathless in the wings—so again—­here’s to life­—

Cigar burning like incense in a thrift-store ashtray,

Turquoise and kidney-shaped—baby hands holding

The literature which killed me—baby feet still

Smooth—calloused not even by warehouse

Work—feral with Desire—I am only here—

Falstaff fading fast—remembering the September

Garage—this is not a poem—these are the words

They will find. 

 

I should like only just once to be unfevered—

Cold, like the forgetful foods in the freezer

In the garage—a refreshing bag of peas

A compress for my burning eyes—frost-bitten

Piece of flesh blackening the big toe in the fall—

The blissful dark of the garage, like the old

Confessionals, door closed against the chaos

Of the word, drawing in, drawing close to solitude

And contemplation—with jazz and champagne—

No need for a coffee—I’m buzzed enough—and

Piled at my feet—the literature which surely

Killed me.

Winter 2009

Dan Davis, © 2009

Day of Thanks

DAY OF THANKS

The leaded crystal goblets holding water, wine—

The two o’clock bell summoning gourds into soup

 Terrines, fanciful and fraught—the birds of the

Air free from hoarding and fretting—the celebration

Today with lace borders serves up the reminder:

You carry a bone, you bring a bone.

Autumn 2009

Dan Davis, © 2009

Little Master

LITTLE MASTER

—for CMD

Little master, when I am gone, the gold rings on my fingers

Will be yours—I hope like clover they bring you luck.

We are only once men but twice boys.

You thought I was something— your hand in

Mine—your footstep in my stride—and now I

Hold your hand. 

 

The cropped world of Mrs.—taut and nervous—

Allows no space for the unexamined chin scrape, the

Unexplained bruise on the shin—we must talk about it—

There are no paths for you, Hunter, Warrior—guided by

Mars against a world that has declared its war on you in

Rules—quiet!—in commands—be still—and judgments—don’t cry.

The nuns once corrected my bold barbarian cursive.

 

The lack of memory for it all—except for the fiery dance of victory

On the noonday field and the implicit understanding that the other team

Is not dancing—and in those faces without victory you recognize your

Own defeated twin—they don’t acknowledge that about you.

In the Forest Nod of Lancelot and Galahad you meet your own

Christ—and there gently pluck the rose and hold it soft to your cheek—

Firmly tame the lioness to obey—master, master—master yourself—

And, little man, be nothing like me.

Autumn 2009

Dan Davis, © 2009

Clay Jars

CLAY JARS

An energy I never had—an eagerness read

as aggression—so I let it die by forgetting to

water it—and more than that, I stomped at

the roots and let the rain of tears drown out

dreams of ivy walls and campus malls—replaced

by sawdust floors in ragtime joints and peanut

 shells thrown under the table that reeked of beer. 

 

I didn’t dare imagine Rutgers or William and Mary

but thought I could get close—I took We don’t pay

for shit but we’re awfully nice as the only bridge from

worthless sheepskin to a vocation—eight to five but

more—sixty-five hour weeks and fingers now locked

with arthritis—eyes bleeding—I had only an electric

Smith-Corona and was the most advanced for it on

the block—at the dining room table February evenings

dissecting the evils of liberation theology—liberation:  

freedom:  how is evil freedom? I asked myself at sixteen—

where are the keys to the kingdom, to this blood and its

flesh?—freedom the goal, freedom arthritic fingers unfold

to like sleeping flowers to the sun—caress the crazing and

crackings caused by that ugly tenured Taurus in the china

shop—Paradise you always see from Hell  once you admit

that we are only clay jars waiting to be stolen—again.

Clay Jars Audio

Autumn 2009

Dan Davis, © 2009