Posts by davidsapp

In Love

By on Apr 2, 2023 in Poetry | Comments Off

I’m in love, love, love with Patty-Penny-Cindy-Linda-Brenda before I know what love is. She is cuter than all the other girl sin Mrs. Mendenhall’s class and worth all of Uncle Dale’s teasing; pinker than Bazooka Bubble Gum at the candy store across from Wiggins Street School; sweeter than Saturday mornings, cartoons and Froot Loops with six extra teaspoons of sugar; yum, yum, yummier than homemade ice cream churned by uncles after bailing hay on the hottest day of July; more real than a bloody nose on the school bus, my first cigarette in the woods; more thrilling than coasting my bike...

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Only You Could Catch Me

By on Mar 26, 2023 in Poetry | Comments Off

Only you could catch me. Auntie, this is your memory, But I’ll gladly abduct it, or Let’s say, better yet, whoever Lives longer absconds with it and Is required to tend the recollection: You, just fourteen at the bottom Of steep, basement stairs And me, just four at the top, I seized the chance of flight, Flung my little body at you, And you had no choice but to catch me. It was a good thing you were looking, But I knew only faith, not doubt. Only you could catch me. Still a child trapped like me, We recognized our comradery. Mom shrieked and swore; We escaped; we were free. Only you...

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By on Feb 21, 2021 in Poetry | Comments Off

Not once have I wept over art in the Louvre, Uffizi or Met. Well, almost over van der Weyden’s Descent in the Prado, Mary’s grief, but that may have been indigestion after Madrid’s tapas, the Museum of Ham. A lithograph in Chelsea, Kathe Kollwitz’s dead mother and child splayed, stiff, discarded on the curb, brought a single, quiet tear. At the reception, the gallery on Water Street, I am at first preoccupied with drawings, paintings, prints, porcelain; delicate, curious assemblages, diminutive Constructivism; with wine, cheese and those gooey sweets with marshmallows, coconut and...

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The Turn

By on Dec 27, 2020 in 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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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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