Brooke L. Davis

In cathedrals the faithful listen as robed prophets expound and gesticulate imparting exclusive knowledge. In cathedrals the faithful...

I will stain you with my ink permanently, like velvet covers the window and shadows light, you will be inexplicably drawn, enveloped,...

On the mountainside, cows roam unaware of potential volcano disasters. Their sweet lives of oblivious wandering makes me jealous of...

I wandered over the quiet green swaying grass of hillside, along fence lines with rusted wire, tiny spikes waiting to bite me over...

The sky I was born under hangs grey, suspended like a crushed velvet curtain strewn with pale cotton on an early cold January day. The...

You have stayed too long like an unwanted houseguest perched in a dim back corner judging me in silence. I fed you the warm sustenance of...

We repeat the mistakes of the past. Thin bony fingers extend from graves, wagging at us as if to say, “You should know better.” We repeat...

retreating within, the girl leaps from the tall cliff into her own world she soars, arms outstretched, over her blue ocean soul tides...

In the warm morning light, the artist sits at her easel. In constant dull pain, she strokes the brush loaded with vermillion, azure,...

He is no longer himself a ghostly apparition who walks the halls confined by doors disconnected by the passage of time. Moments of...

Music had no effect as I watched the moth twist, struggle to free itself from the tangled sheer curtains as they wafted in the glow of...

I am the tree in the black and white photo reaching, leaning, straining sideways in the desert toward an unseen source of water, love. I...

I am Blue Thunder galloping down the mountain. I am Hot Wind blowing the clouds dry before they can open. I am Lighting Thrower rumbling...

Under the same moon birth, death, love, hate, right, wrong - life all stand before us. It is just mileage that separates the sameness of...

I have chosen jobs as a hitchhiker travels, getting into whatever car stops, and riding until I am cast out to start thumbing again.

You are not your wounds. They puncture, bleed, scab and heal leaving you wiser. You are not your scars. They mark you permanently, making...

At 20 below, ice forms long clear crystalline fingers that grip frigid eaves, knuckled talons of winter. Snow becomes pale grit light as...

I am no man’s wife, the mother of no child. I live as a single candle burns, alone on the windowsill, a pinprick of light in a dark...

In early winter, I walk the river’s edge as snow falls silent as a dove’s wing on the mountain. Scattered flakes whirl, lifted by the...