David Allan Evans: "Waking Up"

for Jan


We wake up again to the sound
of those same birds just

outside our window. I can’t
name them, wouldn’t need to

if I could, but only guess
what they seem to be

saying over and over.
Listen: We are here,

we are here,
we are here.

"Waking Up" by David Allan Evans. Published here via poet submission. © David Allan Evans.  

Photography credit: "When birds join the chorus," by Robert David Siegel, September, 2008 (originally color).

David Allan Evans: "Turning 70"

         —remembering Okoboji, Iowa, 1957

 











…click, click, click, click, click went the wheels

of our little roller coaster car taking us slowly,

irrevocably upward to the top of the carnival until,

click         click         click — we slowed more, hesitated,

then, cresting out, began to fall, my guts whirling,

my primate grip strangling the safety bar,

my eyes locked shut on what we couldn’t help

being headed for, straight down—

then, picking up speed, the inevitable letting go

because we had no other choice, against a force

huger than carnivals, planets, universes—

so we all opened our eyes and reached as high

as we could for moons, for stars, then came

our avalanching screams…

That’s it—exactly what I need to get back to:

that letting go (minus the giddy guts), with my eyes

fiercely wide open, each day seconding Prospero’s

“be cheerful, sir,” and Lao Tzu’s tree bending

in the wind, each day looking forward to enjoying

what’s left of the ride, the carnival, the life.

"Turning 70" by David Allan Evans, from A Harvest of Words: Contemporary South Dakota Poetry, edited by Patrick Hicks. © Center for Western Studies, 2010.

Photography credit: Unknown (originally color).