David S. Cross's Blog

I'm pleased to report that my story "White" has made the "long list" (which is pretty short) for the Elora Writer's Festival Short Story Contest.

The Elora Writers Festival takes place May 29 featuring popular Canadian and international authors.

Details are here: http://www.elorawritersfestival.blogs...

Only One Was Lost

(A Song of Judas)

Long have I walked the hallways of my mind,
It’s many doorways scattered all about.
My Master’s words; a lamp to help me find
The chosen gate to Zechariah’s route.

The message, with my brethren I have spread
To the little towns and shanties in these lands.
With joy I’ve met with lepers, sick and dead.
With faith I’ve healed by laying on of hands.

My Lord I’ve loved, as I’ve loved no one else,
But now his wish confuses all my thought.
I know that I must sacrifice myself,
For through my act the prophecy is brought.

Can not the task be done by one but me?
What sin have I that claims this great a price?
“Not I” I beg, but teacher’s will must be,
And after me another will sin thrice.

The weight I carry will be ever great,
My pain ensured when I accept the bread.
I trust in God that He has scribed my fate,
To seal my traitorous lips when I am dead.

No tears for me will ever surely flow;
Though never unto Satan did I yield.
With grief, I kissed to let the killers know,
With love, I hear you curse my Potters Field.



David S. Cross
March 3, 1991

This is not really a St. Patrick's Day poem, but it does involving drinking heavily which, apparently, some folks like to do on this occasion...

Last Call

I’ve shut down better bars than this
And worse
In English pubs
I examined porcelain sculptures
Then returned to run up the tab
Between the Rockies and the Sierras
Got lost in a bordertown Bowery
Left behind by the boys
Me left alone
To keep hands off the barmaid Senorita
Pick up the tab
Whoopin it up in Hockeytown
Then returning in cabs
With cabbies
Running red lights
Cause they don’t wanna stop
It’s dangerous in Motown midnight
Brown bag on the seat
Beside my cabbie
Could be booze
Or a gun
God, I hope it’s a gun

David S. Cross

Originally published in C&E Magazine Vol. 2 No1

OK, so Winter will soon be over, Spring approaches...let us not forget Winter.

WINTER...

We humans are not made for this
To be out of our shelters in Winter
We should be naked under caribou skins
Burning animal fats to light our hut
Eating dried meats and berries
Waiting for Spring
Naked under caribou skins

David S. Cross

From Colour of Days published 2007

You Made Me Forget About Sheryl Crow

When I lived in Texas
I met her on a highway
Leaving Las Vegas
Black vested, playing guitar
Flying Elvis, her swaying pelvis
Her curly hair and crooked lip
I wanted to be mine
Then she became a star
Too far to reach

I imagined we might meet again
In a tiny bar
Sunglasses, hat hiding from her star
I would quietly say
Hi, I’m Dave
And not make a scene
Just let her know
Honestly she was the one
In Toronto, she missed me again

Then came Lance
He’s from Texas too
Her stole her
His stout thighs pumping
Winning Yellow Jerseys
His cancer beaten
A whole nation cheering him
And she was there always cheering too
I hated Lance for that

Then, just a few days ago
In a breaking morning
While I thought of you
As every morning now I seem to do
The radio played a song she’d made
Which one doesn’t matter
She wrote it, sang it true
And as I thought of you
I wondered, Sheryl Who?

David S. Cross
December 4, 2006
6:51 pm
Cambridge ON

This poem was first published in the Toronto Quarterly in 2008. A year later is was included in my second book; Saigon, Hanoi or Da Nang.

Not Like Jacques Cousteau

You move like a giant ancient fish
Slow and without purpose
You prowl the bottom of any icy lake
Your granite eyes stone dead
Unblinking in blindness
They gaze across the sandy floor
Just below your belly
Instinctively your tail sways
Drives you onward
Grinding piscine gears
Unthinking
In the frozen black
Without meaning nor light
Suspended just above the floor
By some uncaring, eternal force
You are a giant ancient fish
You are my life

David S. Cross

I have a new blog on Tumblr. I'm trying to streamline things and create one place to go for a sampling of some of my older works and a splattering of new poems and short fiction.

Please join me there...

https://www.tumblr.com/blog/davidscro...

or search for davidscrosspoet

Crazy warm February day here. Felt like spring...reminded me of this recent piece. Enjoy!

How Many?

There may not be
many more
many more days
like this
That’s how I feel
when it’s this fine
this glorious
How can there be more?
How can there be more glory
When we’re anchored here
in the muck
the muck or our own making
And we sleep poorly
In fits
Tossing
Thinking of the muck and the anchor
But waking
Greeted by splendour
not of our making
It’s not right
some mistake
An oversight by a drunken god
Sleeping quite soundly now
forgetting to aid our muck making
and instead
Allowing this day
How many more?


July 21 2015
David S. Cross
Elora, ON

I've been sifting through some poems that were not included in (or maybe not yet ready for) my last collection: Saigon, Hanoi or Da Nang.

My publisher, Benjamin Biesek, at Poptritus Press sent me one or two lines of feedback on dozens of poems that we were considering for that volume. I, in turn, replied to him regarding each piece. These few years later it makes for great reading.

And...there are oh so many wonderful poems yet to be shared!

Well, I've been on hiatus for awhile: took up blacksmithing, bronze casting and sculpture...that was quite all consuming...intended to get more works into print but it seems I could only please the muses of one art form at a time.

My author website has been similarly absent. My books can still be ordered here:

http://www.riobravoironworks.com/Davi...

More to come!