Posts by davidsapp

The Turn

By on Dec 27, 2020 in Featured, Poetry | Comments Off

Though my mother is long dead, my sister estranged, I cannot account for the specter. After over forty years, the image, the memory returns to me lately, haunting my afternoon routine, all its edges garishly distinct. The turn began at the end of summer, nineteen-seventy- two or three, the last tubing and camping trip with the Buskirk and Weaver kids, The Caves at Millwood, along the muddy Kokosing River. After one too many days of fun, fun, fun, of hotdogs and marshmallows, hair and tee shirts reeking of smoke, sticky nights in rank sleeping bags, no showers, no television, the mighty,...

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Abundance

By on Aug 11, 2019 in Poetry | Comments Off

A Wednesday in Oberlin, a warm, affable, summer day, dolce far niente, under the red umbrella, we’re al fresco at Lorenzo’s pizzeria. Bees feast, elbowing for the finest, pink hibiscus blossoms. Beneath the table, a sparrow begs, hopping to a lively mazurka. My wife objects, but I can’t resist, and toss a piece of crust, exceedingly satisfied as the tiny bird pecks at the edges of lunch. It occasionally glances at me, wary, grateful, greedy. That’s it. There’s nothing more to this inconsequential moment. This abundance is...

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The Romantic

By on May 26, 2019 in Poetry | Comments Off

On bleary mornings, Eos on my way to work, twenty years, my matins, I passed a coppice, a sloughing of limbs, tall, splendid oaks, condensed diorama forest emerging from haze. I’d envision a doleful wanderer, an abbey ruin, Casper David Friedrich’s bleak, romantic painting. The modern came crashing, suddenly a rude huffing, greasy bulldozer, a hole in the ground, a house, concrete, lumber, vinyl, bramble of wire and pipe, razing my sublime, though the trees seemed glad for the company — too much gloom. Who knows? Kids may play in bits of shade, long summer...

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Mushroom

By on May 26, 2019 in Poetry | Comments Off

When I went to prune The limbs, groom the hairy, Disheveled springs, I discovered, High in a crook of the apple tree, A slight, soft armpit hollow, Or the tender back of a knee, A solitary mushroom growing there. What an obscene little phallus, White, erect, exquisite, its round Head a button for a king’s mantle, The stem curved precisely As a girl’s peduncular leg, The underside delicately gilled, A sea creature undulating Along the bottom of the Pacific. How did the spore find This remote place, improbable Shangri-La perched on the Himalayas, Miniature utopia for...

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I Could Be Charlemagne

By on May 19, 2019 in Poetry | Comments Off

I could be Charlemagne. If I examine the plat, Lines and measures survey So many feet from here to there, Staked with orange, florescent paint, My realm of house, yard, wood, This soil, the worms, wasps, rabbits, These wildflowers, my vassals, Courting deferentially each summer, These trees, all bow to me. Absurd! Actually, the wind Possess these boughs — the wind, Pillaging the scene of the Pacific, Conquering the Rockies and Sierras, Marching cyclones across Nebraska. During calm days of respite, The wind away invading Appalachia, I could be Charlemagne, My reverie of sovereignty...

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