These are the days—

These—these are the

Days—Lord, let me

Stand—I clutch, like

The Good Book—clutch

At Tante Corrie—committed

To memory—no Psalms,

No Lamentations—Words—

Like the concrete barracks

That gave you walls—framed

The understanding you took

Back to the world.

These—these are the days—

They knock—knock for these

Little ones—needles are

Daggers—cold stabs,

Like the Devil’s prick—

I long only to bathe—

To bathe like the Lionheart

And prepare for the coming battle.

Through the window, here,

Is this winter sun—pale and

Wan like the dim bulb in Barracks

28—the Word went forth

From Hell—among twisted

Bodies and a pile of

Soot that once danced—

Still and damp, cold like

Lazarus’ tomb—the sludge

Of the heart keeps keeps keeps

Its ticking.

They knock—knock for these

Little ones—and I—I stand at

This door, hands at my side.

Winter 2012

Dan Davis, © 2012

                —for those who have lost a home

Our days here are numbered—

And we’ve loved this place—

It was our home before winds scoured—

The Evangelist told of a census—

Hands probe—

Eyes stare—

Names are taken—

We are transported to David’s City

But will come back here only by

Another route—that Sly Fox has made

Certain of that—

Only hope, now, hope, we have—

To be called at a day and time we

Know not out of a desolate land—

Taken up from the base of the great

Pyramids and hurled back into this land

Of miracles we took for granted—

Where seeing is restored—

And four days returns to tell—

Once there was a cardamom night

And peppermint dreams—

And that other Advent the priest came

And blessed the crib from our first Christmas—

Now those holy oils are stored up

For burial—and the great I AM

Has said, Don’t be afraid.

Fall 2011

Dan Davis © 2011

You, leering Jack of the lantern—

You, fading Jack of the harvest—

You, slumbering Jack of the frost—

You, false-promises Jack of the green—

Who trumpets trump?

FALL 2011

Dan Davis, © 2011

The subtleties of Christmas—

I curlicued and you straightened—

Rode me like a gelding and we

Had words—you promised me

The Aquitaine and we dismissed

The Vexin—there was rain, and

We laughed—sunlight, and we

Danced—you soothed a

Resting lion and offered him

Vinegar to drink come Easter—

It rained in Paris and again in

New York—we had mere hours—

We had a patch of days—

Marveled together at the

Lion in the mirror and delighted

At Desk Set—we coffeed with

Red Beard and jazzed with a

Strawberry moon—but at

Christmas we hibernated—

The lamb—and her resting lion.

Fall 2011

Dan Davis, © 2011

August, and home,

Barefoot, smooth

As Sam Cooke, and

A summer liturgy

Under the stars—

Fading voices, facing

Fast into September—

A golden anniversary

At the autumn shore

That calls us back—to

The place where doubt

Is a gift—doubt a gift—

And when gifted with

Doubt, run—and don’t

Look back—to the Miserere.

Summer 2011

—Dan Davis, © 2011

It is the boredom I fear most of all—
A prison boredom, like Tante Corrie—
But my berth is wider, the whole
World my cell—hewn by each thought.
 
The four-year journey was a long pier
Walk—like walking the plank above
Circling sharks—each moment an
Eternity drifting further from the
Harbor lights—but
 
Brave beautiful Cypress—Cypress
Of the Pacific:  I come back to you
In summer and again in fall—and
Once, for that wintering promise.
 
I see you, Cypress—through the
Coastal fog:  you crown the gray
And blue sky, haloed by blue
On the good days.  Brave cypress
Of the Pacific—dawn, dusk, each
Noon, there you stand on a deserted
Stretch, Promise Tree that started
The four-year journey—
 
Of drifting, drifting through the waters—
And I come back—I keep coming back,
Cypress, coming back to you.
 
Dan Davis, © 2011

Noon is the frightening hour—

The long wait the winters over—

A mere mirror of morning—the

Dreary d’noon ahead—straddling

And straddled—so young in this

Season of Lent—the light somewhere

In the desert must be pure—

—so long so long plain song—

Lilac water soothed the temple—

Rosemary sprigs plucked for the lamb—

And Easter so late this year after so

Long and so cold a winter.

Dan Davis, © 2010

—on the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire, 1911

Young, young girls—

Into Your hands each

Hannah and Kate—and

In those hands so short

A-time-ago a clutch of

Damask—no Damascene

Clarity in the choice that

Was the only choice on this,

The Feast of the Annunciation—

That late afternoon so long ago—

Leaping from the flames

Into the cruel March below—

Gabriel’s announcement the

Call forth—Our Lady’s yes

The net that could not cradle

As once arms held you in a March

Where only you smiled at her, as

Even as evening’s sun spread cross

The mountain’s face in a land of hope.

Spring 2011

Dan Davis © 2011

lazarus -- dan davis, (c) 2010

PATCH OF BLUE               

All you had to do was die—

How lucky we are if we can see sky—

A patch of blue, tuft of white—

How lucky when we can see sky.

You took my joy—I had to die—

I didn’t look for sky—why—why?

A quilt of blue, patched with white—

Why, why didn’t I look for sky?

Framed the blue, stitched with white—

Sky, sky—I let you die.  Keeping joy

Alive, windowed by sky—how lucky

We are when we can see sky.

FALL 2010

Dan Davis, © 2010

There’s a darkness we fear—

There’s a darkness we birth—

And care for and raise—

In us and through us—it

Is us—on the mountaintop

Where once we danced under

That red rising moon—full of

Harvest’s promises—at the

Sea where the salt on our lips

Made us delight—dancing

Even too round the cactus

Whose needles prickled

As we pricked at one another

Back—and this whole time

We could not fool You—

We attempted to do so—by

Words and in deeds—to blindfold

You like Bennett Cerf—

But, too, you knew our voice

Before we uttered the

Sound—knew we were

In town—or on that

Mountain still with James

And John, seconding the

Motion to erect tents and

Sell pottery or crockery with

The year monogrammed or

The names of the witnesses—

Commemorating that event

That showed us change was in everything—

And to be expected if

We’d remove our

Blindfolding attempts

And accept the sign—

Because we asked, each of us, for a sign—

Which You had offered us in Your son Jonas.

Fall 2010

Dan Davis, © 2010