September 28-October 4, 1998: Richard W. Davis and Sandra L. Harvey

Week of September 28, 1998-October 4, 1998

Richard W Davis and Sandra L Harvey

Richard W Davis


I am Richard W Davis I am a teacher at a small private school These were written over the last year or so At forty-seven years of age, and having tried many times, I have never got a poem just right But sometimes I get close.

The following work is Copyright © 1998, and owned by
Richard W Davis and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

The Shortest Distance Between Two Curves

I remember my bb rifle It cocked like the Winchester on the Rifle Man with Chuck Connors
And the boy who was my age then I always wished it would make that great sound when it fired, like a real
gun Instead it sort of wheezed and spat the small copper shot
So slow you could see it curve
Through the air until it disappeared in the not too far distance
Like a major league curve ball maybe That curve was magical;
A long, slow curve like a highway through America A curve like a woman’s hip,
Or the path of a drunk’s stagger,
Or the trail of a puff of smoke in the dark when you’re alone and you

For Posterity

I used to do this alone
Now I write for others;
Unmet friends and foes and brothers People who never heard a poem that rhymes and sings They’re used to stuff that pours in strings
Of sound and colored torn patchwork scraps
While they doze with soft hands in their laps And blow dead smoke through their raw noseholes,
And wonder why they have no souls Sorry Sorry
And blow dead smoke through their raw nostrils
Waiting for the next jolt to come to them, from they care not where.

Fighting for Your Right to Burn Flags

Michael New like the green He was a lean mean U.S.A fighting machine Who took an oath And gave his solemn vow; his word, and his pledge of allegiance
.To the flag
.Of the United States of America;
.One nation,  under God, indivisible
And he said that he would defend with his life, and honorably so, the
Of these United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic,
And brother Michael wasn’t telling a lie,
Or stuttering,
Or speaking French neither
He liked the green clothes, and he wouldn’t wear the blue Those nations aren’t that united after all, and probably shouldn’t be
Jefferson, and Washington, and Henry, and that Franklin fellow,
And a few hundred thousand more alive and dead salute you Michael New
You looked good in that green son You could see the red white and blue in
it And the patriotic fire in your cool, young eyes I am one of the great unwashed;
The teaming hordes,
The masses I am a common man I am a normal person I am an average guy I am a good old boy I’m Ok I’m good people
I loved my mom, and she loved me
I wanted to grow up to be like my daddy, and I did, sort of
I’ve played football,
And baseball,
And tennis,
And golf,
And marbles,
And dodge ball,
And king of the hill,
And poker,
And blackjack,
And craps,
And mumblypeg,
And leapfrog
And hide and go seek,
And doctor I’ve won and lost at each them, and others too numerous to mention
I’ve flown a kite,
And caught a fish,
And I know how to use a stick, a stone, a sling-shot, a BB gun,
A Colt .45, and an M-16
I am a fair shade tree mechanic,
A pretty good plumber, and carpenter, and roofer,
I can bend a piece of sheet metal,
Trouble shoot a refrigerator,

Repair a vacuum cleaner
Replace a broken window Why, I can even unstick a garbage disposal all by myself sometimes
I’ve been engaged three times,
Married once, and been divorced
At one time or another,
I’ve been flattered, tickled, cherished, held, dropped, jilted, despised,
and loved I’ve been lied to, spat at, embarrassed, bit, scratched, hit, kicked,
slapped, knocked down,
Helped up, ran from, and asked for mercy
I’ve stood on a high place alone at 2:00 A.M and, while looking at the
stars, felt at one with all creation
I have sat at the kitchen table, with my family around me, and felt alone
I have been called a stupid idiot, and a fucking genius And I am both, and neither
I have been chasing the American Dream all my life, and trying to live it
I know there’s room at the top That I’ve only scratched the surface,
And seen the tip of the iceberg
I know that there’s more than meets the eye,
All things aren’t what they seem,
And the truth will set us free
I guess that’s why we’ve never been told
Well I’ll tell a little here
“To love and lose hurts like hell
Money can buy a lot of happiness Some isn’t for sale That’s true,
But you can still buy a lot
You can win them all,
But no one ever has Fifteen billion years or so ago,
God stood alone in the darkness, and let a long sigh escape his lips into
the surrounding void
His warm breath was incased in an membrane envelope of time,
And as it left him, in perfect circular symmetry;
As the first stone cast into a quiet pool, forms concentric ripples,
In all directions, at the speed of light,
On the edge of that all encompassing breath, is the time barrier between all
that exists and
All that never shall
Albert taught us that speed slows time, and
When you bury the speedometer at 186,000 miles per second, time stops So while we tool around the Milky Way
Convinced that we can someday understand it all;
Measuring our lives in barrel roll revolutions of our small blue ship,
We should remember that
On that great clock,
Forever escaping us, suspended in the gleaming distance,
The hands do not move It is still dawn And God still sighs.

Sandra L Harvey


I am from Ashland, Oregon My two main passions are writing and a really good piece of banana cream pie, (the kind with the marshmallow and coconut topping!) I have only just recently decided to try and publish some of my work.

The following work is Copyright © 1998, and owned by
Sandra L Harvey and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Rosemary for Ophelia

The book drops Hamlet comes with his peacock feathers down;
He rages at her;
What accusatiomns;
What madness;
“Go to, Go to, bare none of mankind!”
He leaves taking all but change
Silence How insistently weeping; insainly laughting;
It crys;
It kills The pages, tatered, ravished by hands betrayed,
are scattered about the floor
Voluptuous dreams They touch nothing as it grips the soul;
Hear him, child?
His vague pungent voice?
It burns cold as he places his head in your lap;
Ophelia, he mocks you!

Love lost Her friend, father and keeper;
She wears now her garlands;
Crowflowers, nettles, daisies;
Rosemary for rememberance;
Pansies for thoughts
No tears She sings by the weeping brook;
She dreams as the waters embrace her;
An ardent lover;
Down they bring her in bliss.

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