Apports: Poems

By David H. Burke

This poetry within this collection range from simple observational doodling to metaphysical meditations upon Love, Work, Death, Religion, Raising Children and Life. You get the idea: Its an anthology which rounds up the usual suspects of poems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 3, 2005
• ISBN: 9781469107493

David H. Burke

David H. Burke lives in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, with his wife, Dixie, and their cat, Gypsy. He has two grown children, Danielle and Brandon. After attending the University of Virginia and while pursuing a writing career, David has earned paychecks during the past thirty years as a truck driver, journalist, forklift operator, garbageman, technical writer, milkman, salesman, machinist and hazardous material abatement specialist. His poetry, collected in Apports, has won local awards, with one poem being submitted for Pushcart Prize consideration. Hes written a play, Green Holly and Gray Potatoes, which has been produced in the United States and Canada.

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Copyright © 2005 by David H. Burke.

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Contents

Introduction

chapel in the woods

lennon’s final concert

James Kareman, 1923-1977

the shed

the next wrung

train song

michael: a song

To a married couple nearing

their twentieth anniversary

Zion National Park

passion

triangle

to dixie, whom i love

walking wounded dues

driftwood

Fond Farewell

Spotted Pony

why kokopelli thanks you

ode to a night you didn’t call

having a great time, see you soon

We Saw the White Buffalo Swimming

the last fire tower

of a floating trip down the snake river

time-clock

council of the elders

Rivers

above the roar of the crowd

writer’s blocks

another candle in the poet’s corner

modern times

Getting a Mule’s Attention…

Wounded Knee Creek

Political Primer

bottle of rum

voices in me head

to apple valley

catch a falling star

Dance

Once More Into the Beach

hush little baby

separation anxiety

out of body surfing

roadside memorial

to a young check-out woman

battling a tumor

sanctity

the string theory of autumn

for zoe and sam

creating worlds

my cousin’s wake

creating an air-head religion

zit happens (new age-iety)

dominion

seeing the world in black or white

drought

cause and effect

7 Cleveland Avenue

meditations on gilded carp

inspiration stump at lilydale

parables redux

Star Barn

track

The Zen of Solitaire

To Dixie,

For your

Encouragement,

Inspiration,

Guidance

And love.

Especially,

Your Love.

Introduction

What are apports?

In the Metaphysical community, the materialization of a physical object is labeled an apport. Years ago, according to friends of mine who witnessed the phenomenon, there lived a man named Keith who could bring forth, through his skin, crystals and flowers. Myself, I experienced a related wonder ten years ago in Ohio. While attending a wedding, I discovered too late that I needed to punch a hole in my belt; my waist was down a size since I had last worn the suit. I searched the church for something suitable. I tried the social area kitchen; I tried janitor’s closets. Nothing. Then, in front of the entrance to the church, on the middle of the sidewalk where dozens of people had just walked, I saw a large nail that was just right for my repair. I didn’t have to spend the afternoon constantly hitching up my pants. Where did this nail come from? Who would have dropped a nail right where I would be assured of finding it?

I like to think these poems are from the same origin.

They chronicle almost forty years of my life. It isn’t a hefty volume. I could say that I only wrote upon extreme inspiration but that wouldn’t be the truth. I’ve doodled and started hundreds of poems. Some were not worthy of completion. Some took too long to land onto paper and died lost at sea. In all honesty, I was too busy being involved with friends and love and work and living and religion to keep myself at the desk long enough to record most of the poems begging to be found. The world is always greater on the other side than within the splendid isolation required for writing. As a result, I’ve enjoyed the journey far more than the journal.

   I thank everyone who inspired these writings and George Ominski for shooting the cover and author photographs. I also thank the Transmitter of these creations and apologize for however the receiver may have distorted them.

December, 2004

chapel in the woods

when the plots of everyday life twist too taunt,

   breathe deep your strength from forest dew;

when you feel so hollow as to soon implode into dust,

   fill your drained dripless cup from mountain wells;

when reality’s blanket presses you to no longer stir,

   stretch your spirit among the swaying tree top fans,

when you’re circling in eddy bound stagnation,

   flow your energy stream in cascade aspirations;

                  it comforts your soul:

be it because of the soothing meditation provoked

   by communing with transcendental nature,

   by being amidst giants teeming with life,

   yet nothing seemingly disturbs their peace,

or be it because carbon dioxide exchange creates high oxygen

   levels to better hear soothing stream melodies,

   augmented by watch the swinging butterflies

   hypnosis under sun light balm caressing cares,

or be it because wood nymphs, gnomes and forest fairies

   cast a wonderful spell amid muffled jests;

                  it simply works:

so, when you walk along the wooded path watching

   a hawk in the sky being menaced by rat-ta-tat-ting crows,

   a snapping turtle gallop along the bottom of the stream,

   a startled deer trampolining across to opposite river bank,

   a snake sunning on path, a fox darting to den, heron fishing,

   a sunset pastel the summer sky, an autumn foliage carnival;

be aware, whenever you enter the Forest Chapel,

   absorb the energy which ignites hope in your body,

   feel the vibrations that intone serenity to your mind,   

   know the joy in your spirit which blooms whenever you sense

                  you are not alone.

lennon’s final concert is my tribute to John Lennon. I grew up in the era when six grade boys wore mop wigs and strummed tennis