SUMMER 2021 | Dayton, OH

An Hysteria of Spies

Gary Mitchner

At first brush with dangerous positions,
I search for the contraband of the mind,
A sort of short wave, developing a genius
For recovery.

Preferring a ritual merrymaking
Instead of a diverse shipbuilding,
So to speak, I laugh and chant
In a spring transformation.

The gravity of the hour is thus always
Political; spying involves
An engagement of the masses
Though there might be heavy losses.

With culture all around, now I prefer
The Japanese way of the mind,
One into cross-dressing, not for
Public shame but for her life’s defiance.

Staten Island Shoe Shine

Debra Williamson

I hear him before I see him
The shoe shine man on the Staten Island Ferry
Shine he bellows competing
for soles with the Bible-thumping
woman who strolls the rows
of wooden pews. He calls out again
then pauses to catch his breath,
drop his case near my seat.
He reads the signs of want —
nearby, a folded newspaper drops,
my braceleted wrist jangles.

Shine, he asks, kneeling at my feet,
Five bucks an’ I make your shoes shine.
I nod, scoot back into the pew
a willing supplicant in need of transformation.
He blackens the soles first,
lifts my left foot
a feather on his
scale of justice.
He pulls magic from hidden drawers —
daubs polish on thick at the toes then glides
the darkness to hide the truth.

His sleight of hand snaps forth
a thin white cloth. He buffs a
two-handed shine on my left foot
and Lady Liberty lights my view
my finished foot floats to the floor,
the other receives the same grace.
Thank you and five dollars
pass between us
silent as light —
and he rises to
shine.

Lesson 1: Gravity

Debra Williamson

My father’s lessons
in gravity required me
to be momentarily suspended
mid-air away from my mother’s eyes.

One dry July day when I was eight,
he stopped the blue and white
Chevy Impala on a rutted
back road and asked if I
wanted to learn to drive.

He didn’t wait for my answer
before he skidded my tanned legs
across the knobby patent leather
toward him, slid back his seat, and
mechanically slapped me in his lap.

The engine started like a conversation
I could barely see over the dusty dash
He grabbed the steering wheel
yelled Hold on
then punched the gas.

I flew up off his lap and my head thumped the roof. I grabbed
the blue steering wheel on my way back down and held on
one thousand one his right foot pumped the gas
one thousand two
The car bobbed, jostled us in slow motion one thousand
three my mouth full of pennies one
thousand four one thousand five I held on my
arms and eyes flailed inside their sockets my
father laughed like this was fun

I held on one thousand six
shocked by the car’s pull and weight
one thousand seven
the car rocked
to a stop.
The next day when I winced reaching for a spoon on the floor
my mother asked why I was so sore, gravity my father laughed
and I felt his truth tight in my torso
yet somehow lifted and light from my moment of flight—
I’ve held on to it long after that.

Sunday Night Pizza

Judy Johnson

I ride shotgun in the roomy Buick,
only kid to respond to the invitation,
“I’m gonna pick up the pizza;
who wants to ride along?”
Me, always, any time, any place, with my dad,
to get my mother’s front seat perspective,
riding through star-filled night to Ravenna,
romantically named Ohio town
with a real Italian pizza place,
to enter the smoky restaurant
marvel at the eight Clydesdales
on the Budweiser sign rotating over the bar.

Headed back to the farmhouse
two cardboard boxes stacked on my thighs,
their warmth penetrating my corduroy pants,
fragrance of cheese, pepperoni, oregano
wafting and mingling with smoke
from my dad’s Lucky Strikes,
listening to the Jay Bird, the baritone announcer
from the country western station “Whistler radio,” WSLR.

For now, it’s just us
perfect peace away from boisterous boy cousins
and the case of Stroh’s waiting by the dining room table.

Late August, Akron

Judy Johnson

Nights like this—hint of autumn in cooler summer air—
we’d drive to Strickland’s for frozen custard
vanilla chocolate or flavor of the day
wait in a long line for a Little League team
satisfying collective sweet tooth after a tough game,
blue and yellow neon lights reflecting on their faces.

We’d sit with our cones on the Buick’s hood,
or drive to the top of the hill to watch planes
landing at the metro airport, runway lights blinking,
university stadium still quiet behind us,
red, white and blue stripes of Triplett Boulevard,
painted special for the Soap Box Derby,
gradually fading.

My Father, Lost at Sea

Erica Manto Paulson

He was a boat and I was the waves,
hurling him into his life’s storm.

No, he was a stone,

his name was Peter. The Lord
called him to be a fisher of men

but he got a daughter who was a river
always moving, and he was rock hard

unwavering.

My father taught me about fishing
in empty waters. He said, why

can’t you be more earthen-like— clay?

In this poem I ask him of his grief
and why he cast his nets from the wrong side

of the boat before he raises his hand
and says— be still

but the storm in me rages

while he keeps faithfully lowering his nets,
pulling them in full of nothing but water.

The Morning Game

Jonah Dorf

Birds chirp like a million souls waking

As the world makes a sneeze

Which blows the waters, which blows the trees

Like a million souls dying

Life will cease

Dayton Metro Library Poetry Contest
First Place | Grades 3 - 4

Bubble of Hope

Carl Furmanski

Sitting alone at a table
Thinking how nobody likes you
Have you shattered your only chance?
In a world by yourself, feeling blue

Then somebody comes over
Asks: “May I pull up a chair?”
Your world goes from black to blinding
Before this, your world was bare

Now you are laughing with glee
As if you had always known them
No one can break your bubble of hope
Now you will sparkle like a gem

Dayton Metro Library Poetry Contest
First Place | Grades 5 - 6

246 days, 15 hours, 17 minutes

Mia Hayden

his sweaters still smelled like him
so i would get through the day just to get home
and collapse on the floor with my nose buried in the collar

it put me through hell, his scent —
it filled my nostrils with flames
and my skin melted down and collected on the floor
of the bedroom that wasn’t ours or his or mine anymore
but i guess it had a time limit,
and when i got home 246 days, 15 hours, and 17 minutes
after i had last smelled him for real,
it just smelled like a sweater
had i forgotten his scent?
had i forgotten him?

no, there’s absolutely no way
the smell of his cologne had simply retreated
through the fibers and dematerialized
because i could still feel his name scratching at my tongue
and the tears tugging at the eyelids i glued shut
237 days, 20 hours, 3 minutes before,
because i didn’t cry at his funeral

Dayton Metro Library Poetry Contest
First Place | Teen

You The Miracle

Danny Rodriguez

A great poet from Marcy Projects once said
“came through the bushes smelling like roses...”
A feat in of itself when entire systems work to erase you
even works of fiction conspire to remove you from existence
One skinny Dominican kid had no clue
but his campesino mother refused to let up
In one summer things went from shooting a fair one
to countless gun shots heard each night
So much so that when detectives asked questions
we just didn’t know
Near misses, slow dances with the grim reaper,
and leaving parties early to avoid gunfire
Shell shocked into adulthood
Lost found lessons, dancing circles, and books
were my refuge
A ragtag group of street corner savants showed me the path
People believe
that walking on water is a miracle
Is it the floating?
Is it a trip to see someone else doing that?
As if it was something we never seen before
The best part was when an older cat told me
when it rains, you walk on water each time
So you the miracle

Dayton Metro Library Poetry Contest
First Place | Adult

House Cleaning

Kathy Austin

In each house
we are all on our knees
in a constant genuflection
of scrub and scour.

Our close glances are
riveted, objects
magnified, inches
uncovered —
the baseboards, the hidden
spaces behind the books,
the ceiling lights and tops
of each door and window.

We have become our homes
as we no longer know
whether we are employed,
whether our kids return
to school, whether we can
hug our grandma, whether
meat is even available,
whether others are masked
or unmasked.

There, directly in front of us,
are cans of vegetables
we carefully organize,
gently pick up and set down
one by one,
in alphabetical order.

Dayton Metro Library Poetry Contest
First Place | Older Adult

Effortless

Adam Alonzo

For three seconds everything looks effortless,
but only because of
the practices before dawn,
the sore and bruised muscles,
the gummy hair that smells of chlorine,
the cold shivers and goosebumps,
the stinging eyes and water-deaf ears,
the locker rooms that stink,
the towels that scratch,
the broken toes that will never point straight again,
the head striking the board with a sickening crack,
the burning nose and sore throat from mistimed breaths,
the climb up the ladder,
up the ladder,
up the ladder,
with only one way down
with a twist and a tuck and a roll,
as she slips into the water
as smooth and soft and silent
as a moonbeam on a windless lake.

Ruminating

Sandra Rivers-Gill

After “Strawberry Letter 23”

I was sweet sixteen–
that summer heat of satin songs
drifted hello
like eight track melodies
turned up my ears
to see his song.
The timorousness of it all –

That slow dance of kisses
shy on the early fruit of lips –
to last beyond the magic –
the weight of his promises.

A waterfall of cherry clouds
and love letters I sprayed with Windsong.
Our whole notes sparked ballads –
entwined our hands into a long duet.
The sweetness of music flourishing
through a summer fading into a mist –
the freedom of flying
into the arms of a song
that makes no sense
until it ends.

Strawberry Moon

Amy Hollan

The sweet, stagnant air is thick
with the cloying scent of honeysuckle,
freshly mown grass, and pungent earth.

Mallards call as they glide in soft swooshes
through the murky pond waters
just path the swath of oaks.

The night swelters and the last swatch
of sunset resembles a ripe melon
sliced in half and emptied of its rind.

Above the clouds hangs a strawberry moon,
whose pink blush reminds me of rosy lips
and sumptuous berries, ripe for the tasting.

Baggage Claim

E.M. Jones

The young man followed the signs. They took him up an escalator, past the bathrooms, past the bars and restaurants and gates. He walked with his fellow flyers, a few of which he recognized from the flight: the girl with the pink shoes, the woman with thick glasses, the boy with the comics.
The young man regarded them indifferently. They were like him—passengers to somewhere. For some, they had come home. For others, they just left it.
They all followed the signs through the airport, past security guards, past model airplanes, past those who stood and sat and paced, waiting for someone.
No one waited for the young man.
Walking down long, long hallways, the young man stayed with the crowd from his plane, neither too far ahead nor too far behind. On either side, moving walkways raced away into oblivion, carrying passengers who wished to cheat time. They passed the normal walkers by, whisked away into the seemingly endless hallways.
The young man called them time travelers and wished them well. He did not need to escalate time, for it moved too fast already.
The passengers followed the signs, which led to more signs, which led to an escalator taking them up to the main lobby.
The young man followed them to the baggage claim. Apparently, their luggage was delayed. Unforeseen circumstances. The people growled and complained, but not him.
No worries, he thought. He wasn’t in a rush. Best make himself comfortable.
He took the nearest bench. He sat quickly, drawing his knees together and holding his backpack in his lap.
Beside him, sat an old man. He had one spindly leg flipped over the other, hands folded on his rounded stomach, eyes half-closed, and a wry smile on his lips, as if trying not to laugh. He wore cargo shorts, a checkered button-up shirt, and a pair of worn loafers.
“Where are you going?” the old man asked. He did not turn his head or adjust his position. He watched the rotating baggage claim with heavy eyes.
The young man did not know if the old man was addressing him or talking to himself. But the young man believed in always making conversation with whomever you sat next to, so he responded. “Nowhere at the moment.”
The old man chuckled as if the young man's comment took comedic surprise over him. “Why are you here then?”
The young man checked the sign above to them to make sure he was in the right place. Sure enough, the sign read Baggage Claim.
“To claim my baggage,” the young man said.
“To claim your baggage,” the old man spoke slowly. “You’re a better man than I.”
“Why?”
“Which one is yours? The red one? Or that ugly cheetah print thing?”
“I’m waiting for mine to arrive,” the young man said.
“It was delayed,” the old man said.
“Yes.”
“What’s in it?”
This time, he turned to face the young man, his eyes a striking blue—bluer than the sky, and richer, deeper, somehow. He smiled and it was gentle as if nothing mattered to him more than hearing a story about what the young man had packed in his suitcase. “Pictures,” the young man replied. He didn’t know why he told the old man, but he could not stop himself. No one had asked him such personal, such direct questions before. It refreshed him, like a confession.
“Pictures of what?” the old man inquired, never breaking eye contact.
“Pictures. Prints of my work. I’m a photographer.”
The old man nodded with such focus as if they were the only two people in the entire airport.
“Now I’m wondering what a bright young man like you is doing here,” the old man pointed at the bench they shared, “with a suitcase full of prints, a ring on his finger, and a look so lost you might think he’d taken the wrong plane and got off at the wrong stop.”
At this, the young man broke down. A choking sob burst in his throat he did not know was there. A deep, angry groan coiled in his heart. He wanted to scream and weep and thrash around like a child.
“I’m not sorry I asked,” the old man said, quick but careful. “I’m not sorry because I think you’re meant to tell me.”

There was something in the old man’s eyes, something dangerous and loose. As if a piece of him had fallen off and rattled around in his skull. A piece that needed to know about the young man’s life.
It was enough, that wild look, to convince the young man to talk. He spoke slowly at first but gained confidence. The more he talked, the better it felt to own up to it.
“I’ve been taking pictures since I was a child,” the young man said, twisting on the bench to face the old man. “I loved capturing things, like little pockets of the universe and storing them on my shelf or in my phone. There was something unique about it that attracted me.”
"You're a unique man," the old man said, absentmindedly, like it was obvious.
“Well I’ve tried to sell my prints here and there, but without real success. It didn’t take off like I thought it would. But I kept on, you know? I kept on.”
The old man grunted, probably recalling a time when he was young and kept on with something.
“I met a girl named Carrie. We married young—twenty and twenty-three. I’m the younger one, and she likes to rub that in my face. She got pregnant not long after that. And my son was born three years ago.”
“What’s his name?”
“Dylan.”
“Is he cute?”
The young man nodded. “He’s adorable.”
“Tell me the rest,” the old man said. “I fear the worst is yet to come.”
The young man coughed, forcing back tears. His throat ached from holding back the flood.
“Carrie and I fought a lot. That’s the ugly truth of it. We denied it at the time. We didn’t see our fights as symptoms of a failing marriage. But that’s exactly what they were. We were too different. And when I hired an assistant photographer, I started spending more time with her.”
“Was the assistant beautiful? Or was she just something different?”
The young man, now accustomed to the old man’s directness, answered immediately.
“She was beautiful. She loved my pictures, she supported me, she didn’t doubt I’d succeed.”
“And Carrie did?”
“Yes. She thought I should try a different career. ‘A real job’ as she put it during one of our worst fights. I spent that night away from her. Ended up calling my assistant, Ava. And well, I don’t think I have to tell you the rest.”
“I think you do,” the old man said, his eyes growing heavier. He was an attentive listener. He cared all the way down to his bones. And what sort of love is that? To care so much about someone that your bones listen to them speak?
“Carrie found the pictures. I’d done photoshoots with Ava, and when Carrie found them she knew exactly what was going on. I broke her heart.”
“What did she do?”
“She kicked me out. I took what I could from our house and stayed at Ava’s, but that didn’t last long. I wasn’t in a good place to be with her. With anyone, really. I begged Carrie. I begged and begged her forgiveness. She wouldn’t listen.”
“What did you do?”
“I needed space—space away from her, from Ava, from Iowa. I needed to get out. So I ran. I took my prints and I ran. I’m on my way to New York City, to try and make it as a photographer. People do it. It’s possible. Maybe I can make it happen.”
The old man didn’t ask about his son, and the young man didn’t mention him.
“I ruined my life. Now all I have are those pictures of what I’ve lost. Ava, my family, all of it. And they’re good. They’re really fantastic shots. And now I’m about to try and sell them. As what? Art?”
“That’s your life,” the old man said.
“That’s my life.”
“In your luggage.”
“Yes.”
The old man turned away and faced the baggage claim. “Are you going to go through with it? The luggage, the pictures, New York, a new life?”
“I don’t have a choice,” the young man said.
“But you do. You could leave now. Leave. And let that damned suitcase circle that damned belt for all eternity. You could leave and start fresh, without all those pictures.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” the old man demanded. He uncrossed his legs and wiped his forehead, his eyes darting from the floor to the baggage claim and back.
“I can’t because that’s mine,” the young man nodded at the baggage claim.
A large gray suitcase had entered the mix. A purple and gray headband was wrapped around its handle—one of the few things of Carrie’s he stole as he packed. The old man probably assumed as much. His blue eyes settled on the gray suitcase and the purple headband and he looked at peace again.
“That hers? Or the other one’s?” the old man asked.
“Hers.”
“Do you regret it?” he asked. But he seemed to ask only himself.
“Yes.”
“Is that why you must take it?”
“Those pictures are all I have left,” the young man said, standing up, sliding his backpack on his shoulders. “I have to take them with me, but at the same time, I don’t want to. Because that will mean facing the reality of my choices. I own it, whether I want to or not. Leaving it there and running away and denying its existence would be worse than trying to learn from what’s in it. But I’m not sure if I’m ready to learn yet.”
The old man said nothing. His eyes—growing heavier, watched the gray suitcase as it rode the belt round and round and round.
“What about your wedding ring?” the young man asked. “You have a tan line on your finger.”
“It’s in that trashcan over there behind me,” the old man gestured over his shoulder.
“Afraid to go home?”
The old man nodded. “See that suitcase—the blue one with the red travel tags? That’s mine. I’ve been watching it circle for hours.”
“Why?”
“Because I spent the last three weeks in Havana, Cuba—eating lobster, dancing with beautiful women, exploring. I walked through the trees and sandy beaches and narrow streets. I tasted the ocean and the fruit from the trees and decided I never wanted to go back.”
“Back to what?”
“A thankless job I despise, a woman who doesn’t love me, a house that’s falling apart, a life that’s dull and miserable. I threw my ring away because I’m going to divorce her when I get home. But I want nothing more than to hop on a plane and run away back to Havana.”
“Why haven’t you then?” the young man asked.
The old man smiled, but it was sad. “Because I’d be a damned fool if I did. Here I am, too cowardly to run away but too cowardly to face my life. The life I chose. The life I’m responsible for. I don’t want to pick that suitcase up. I don’t want to face what’s waiting for me. I’d rather run away and leave that luggage,” he jabbed his finger at the rotating belt, “right there. Circling forever.”
For a moment they waited there, silent. Even in the churning, noisy room filled with people, it felt as if no one else was there. And perhaps no one was.
“I guess we both have some growing up to do,” the young man nodded at the trashcan behind the bench and walked away.
The young man stood by the rotating belt and waited for his luggage to swing around. When it came by, he clenched his left hand and let it pass. He waited on it again, and the second time around, he reached down and picked it up, holding in his hand the measure of his life.
As he walked away, he stopped and turned around. The bench was empty. The young man did not need to check the baggage claim nor the trashcan for the old man.
Instead, the young man kept on, dragging his suitcase full of ghosts behind him.

Emily Dickinson

David Lee Garrison

She loves to rhyme the Latinates,
like immortality,
and blend them with a homely phrase
in gravid symmetry.

She matches words that share one sound,
like God with could and cried;
she hears the buzzing of a fly
that her own death confides.

She dreams of strolling on a moor
that she has never seen,
and smells the purple of the heather
hidden by the sheen.

She challenges those platitudes
time hands us down as given,
and seeks instead a slanted truth—
the shifting light of heaven.

She wanders our imaginations,
gowned in ashen white,
and whispers lines of poetry
that haunt each page of night. 

Chance Encounter

Janet E. Irvin

A snake and I crossed paths today,
she minding her own business, I

minding mine. We skirted each other’s
boundaries, mindful of venomous tongues

reciting tales in Renaissance paintings,
a woman’s foot on a serpent’s head.

We formed a truce, I on the upward
climb, the snake trending down.

In the grip of instinct, we eyed
our joint trajectory. I do not know

know what struck her dumb while I
pondered genealogy. Did her past

include an asp whispering in Cleo’s ear
or harken back to Eve’s sinful temptation?

Did my Balkan heritage cross paths with
hers at some forested Silk Road station?

Did a seeress in my past employ her
hooded sight to glean a glimpse of this,

our unplanned meeting among the hills
of Caesar’s Creek, when we would acknowledge

each other’s right to celebrate autumn’s turning,
finding common ground in the rustling of wind,

the shedding of leaves and old skin, the whisper
of shared godhood embedded in our DNA?

I’ve been studying trees

Janet E. Irvin

I’ve been studying trees, how they grow in clusters
or rise singular and alone among the lesser flora,

passing their sagacity to saplings or serving as sentinel,
alert for insects or woodsmen intent on destruction.

I’ve been studying how trees navigate rivers and streams,
how willows wash their leaves and sycamores cool their feet.

I’ve been caressing trees, their branches smooth as corn
silk or stubbled like a lover’s chin, trembling at my touch.

I’ve been listening to trees – conifers, shivering poplars,
maples – celebrating the wind’s kiss, each branch calling

across the prairie, meadow, field, forest. They murmur
in needled tongues, deciduous slang, then wait for me

to whisper back. I’ve been digging up saplings, spying
out their crooked toes that latch the earth, sturdy balls

rooted where the heart begins and the wood extends,
tense at the bed I offer, and how, when I return them

to the soil, they settle and sigh. I’ve been studying trees,
the clash and mutter, the sweet grace and flutter of the

lace-veined leaves, and in the mating of my mind with
theirs, I comprehend the consonance of heartwood

prose and taste the sap rising, reach the sacred life
that hums, tuneless, beneath the bark of both our worlds.

Crush

Kerry Trautman

Our wanting is a purple bruise we nobly
cocoon in our pectorals, knowing

guilt would rot the having.
My heart cringes a dozen

times this autumn morning, as my
tires roll over caterpillars, and my

windshield shatters Monarchs’ wings—
like when, as a child, I’d twist

my beginner-microscope’s focus
too tightly against a glass

slide. I fear you and I could burst some
delicate micro-thing dormant

in our cells. All the caterpillars want is
to ripple their softness

incrementally across pavement.
All the Monarchs want is

milkweed to repopulate,
then to fold their geisha

silks to sleep. All we want is
one specific crush of torsos.

Is it worse
for my car to crush the worms

before they’ve learned
the beautiful utility of wings, or

to smash butterflies,
so near their final curtsey?

Favorite

Kerry Trautman

Not being one for embracing or doting, not sending
saccharine greeting cards, or phone calls just because she

missed me, still one time she almost said it. Up late,
folding two-weeks-worth heaps of laundry, me matching navy

socks and black because my eyes were better, watching
Kitty Foyle on TV, in a conversation about my sister’s pre-teen

tears and guidance-counselor sessions, and about my brother
being brought home in a squad car after spraying Barbasol

into a Wendy’s drive-thru window, she said merely that
I never gave her any trouble, that I was always... and

she trailed off, stared at the TV screen, her brow creased
as with stomach pains or guilt or straining

to remember some long-ago detail, as if trying to place
the face of someone who is not a stranger yet is

still essentially unknown, as if not recognizing
Ginger Rogers without her ruffles and twirling.

True Story

Kathy Austin

Tossing in a worn copy of Atwood's True Stories
to carry with me as I flee that "black tangle"
as she called it,
I hope it will lead me to my own.

Later, camping on some nameless beach,
I discover scraps of journal, torn out years ago
slipped between every other page
revealing Atwood's best poems:
bike log — destination-speed-wind (no entries),
pack list for Europe, dinner with Sergei;
tangled bits of my other life,
now so inconsequential, best used as markers
for the true story, better than most.

A hot sun beckons me from my tent,
the sand blinds me, requires dark glasses.
My footprints lead through jumbled sea grass dunes
to a cool, scoured beach.

Lakota Lament

Betsy Hughes

The virus took the tribal elders first.
No longer could their voices sing the tales,
Lakota sagas and traditions versed,
the brave travails of their Dakota trails.
Disease aimed pointed arrows at the old
and claimed incalculable human cost
but also left ancestral truths untold,
the sages' memory forever lost.
For Wise Ones held connections to the past —
their history, philosophy, and art,
their language, culture, heritage — a vast
communal store of bonds now torn apart.
This modern plague infects an ancient world
with harm of broken promises unfurled.

Note: According to an article by Jack Healy of The New York Times, reprinted in the Dayton Daily News on January 17, 2021: "The loss of tribal elders has swelled into a cultural crisis as the pandemic has killed American Indians and Alaska Natives at nearly twice the rate of white people, deepening what critics call the deadly toll of a tattered health system and generations of harm and broken promises by the U.S. government."

City of Blossoms

Herbert Woodward Martin

city of apple blossoms,
air fed, leaf confetti,
a fluid wind,
an unstable heartbeat
of breath, of fire
that gives birth,
to a distant skeleton
surrounding an idea
of an apple tree losing
its fresh potential.

 Artists & Authors

 Issue 23 Sponsors

Light in the River

By David Lee Garrison

In accessible poems that are much like stories, David Lee Garrison finds ambiguity and mystery beneath the surface of everyday experience. He rewrites the Biblical creation myth, positing Dog before Man; he imagines John Keats as a baseball player; he watches children play Hide and Seek and rejoice in finding and being found; he ponders the epitaphs in an old graveyard; and, he remembers a singer who came in one measure too early on the Hallelujah Chorus. The poet envisions life as a meandering journey through a summer afternoon by the river–humid and intense, with revelation everywhere, like leaves and shadows on the water.

“In the honorable tradition of poetic memento mori, the poetry of David Lee Garrison explores the nature of reflection and memory, probing the boundaries that separate the living and the dead.”
—Corey Andrews, author of The Genius of Scotland

“These poems have the warmth, the wealth of detail, and the essential humanity of someone who has surely lived an authentic life in this world.”
—Jared Carter, author of Darkened Rooms of Summer

Available at Dos Madres Press.