My Debut Chapbook: Moons, Roads, and Rivers

Updated Cover: Image by Michael B. McFarland

Moons, Roads, and Rivers, my first chapbook, is now available for pre-order from Finishing Line Press. Click here to reserve your copy!

Why Pre-order?  Because the size of the press run is determined by the number of advance sales, so the more pre-orders, the more books they will print.

The official release date is November 17th, so if all goes as planned, you’ll have your copy of Moons, Roads, and Rivers in time for the holidays. Just be aware that these things sometimes take longer than anticipated. I’m looking now to schedule readings for the new year.

Keep in mind, the pre-order opportunity only lasts until September 22nd, so please order by then if you can.

Of course, you could also send a check if you prefer; just scroll down to find out how.

What’s this Chapbook About?

Moons, Roads, and Rivers is a small collection of poems set along highways and side roads from Pennsylvania to Indiana, from backyards and bar stools to graveyards and broken-down cars. You’ll meet a boy who hasn’t learned how to swim and a little girl “who cried / when the moon fell in the river.”

Find out what my dad has in common with Hoover Dam. Discover my favorite graffiti and why my neighbors shake their heads. Some poems were previously published in places like San Pedro River Review, The Blue Hour Magazine, and Contemporary American Voices.

What some good people have said:

With images wrought in highly perceptive verse, David J. Bauman’s poems speak eloquently of what we love, and what prevails over the artificial and transient . . . Such poignant natural details, personal and reflective, “slowly / raise the relics to light,” recalling the land and riverscapes of James Wright. The poems of Moons, Roads, and Rivers embrace and take solace in what blesses our lives, generously offering a luminous, enduring work.
Jeffrey Alfier, editor of Blue Horse Press and San Pedro River Review

David J. Bauman threads dynamic energy throughout Moons, Roads and Rivers, which leads the reader to palpable angst and longing . . . movement between floating and sinking as you travel the circuitous curves of his journey . . .
Dawn Leas, author of I Know When to Keep Quiet and Take Something When You Go

David J. Bauman‘s debut chapbook, Moon, Roads, and Rivers, is a celebration of  everyday elements that we often take for granted . . . Bauman’s lines and rhythms are precise and fine-tuned . . . At the heart of the book, the poet celebrates humanity, despite our flaws, and acknowledges that we are at our best when we are attuned and respectful to the greater world around us.
Brian Fanelli, author of Waiting for the Dead to Speak (NYQ Books)

Read the complete book jacket blurbs at Finishing Line Press when you pre-order Moons, Roads, and Rivers by clicking right here.

An excerpt:

Age 13

I stood on the bank, under the old
Black Bridge, my toes secretly
digging pebbled sandstone.
My friends had just transformed into fish.

We’d been splashing in the shallows.
Now their feet kicked spray.
Arms over arms, faces turning
to breath with each stroke, they swam
through the deep water, all the way out

to the first pier. Knee-deep on its
concrete ledge they were calling to me.
I’d never told them that I hadn’t learned how.

—from “Swim”

Pre-order :

Remember, if you order early it helps increase the final print run. If you can help me reach my pre-sale goals, I’ll be ridiculously grateful.

Reserve your copy of Moons, Roads, and Rivers from Finishing Line Press (You guessed it, by clicking right here).

To order the old-fashioned way (by check or money order) print or hand copy the following and send it off to Finishing Line Press at the address below:


Please, send me ______ copy(ies) of Moons, Roads, and Rivers by David J. Bauman
at $14.99 per copy plus $2.99 shipping.

Enclosed is my check (payable to Finishing Line Press) for $__________

Name:

Address:

City/State/Zip:

Please send check or money order to:

Finishing Line Press
Post Office Box 1626
Georgetown, KY 40324

Saturday Song with Sting

Sussex England, 2010 by Robert Montgomery

I am trying to be a busy, or at least a productive, writer today. Clearing off my desk, sorting through my notes, preparing my files. I have been getting announcements out about the coming publication of my debut chapbook and I have a list of book reviews and other projects to plot and produce.

So in the spirit of clearing off my desk and clearing out my mind, here’s a Saturday Song feature for today. Someone once told me that the way to let an earworm out of your head is to sing it to someone else. It gets it out of your system and passes the bug on to someone else to carry. I am, however, being very kind to you by passing along a gorgeous, deep and beautiful earworm today, not just some catchy ditty (not that there is anything wrong with those).

The above image by Scottish text artist Robert Montgomery was posted to Facebook this morning by fellow poet and dear friend Philip Clark. You can read more about it at Poets & Writers. It set me thinking about a song by Sting and songwriter Gordon Sumner. The lyrics focus, not so much on the beloved, as on the feelings of the one speaking in the words.  And this, I suspect, is why they are so effective. It helped me cope and move on, allowing me to agree to what I felt and what had happened so that I could live more honestly from there.

I’ll leave the rest of this between you and Sting to sort out. Happy Saturday! Weekend updates on the way soon!

Alan Harris, SpringSummer 2017

Honored to have been given permission to read Alan’s poem from our current issue of Word Fountain. This piece gets to me every time.

Word Fountain

Dead Man’s Hat
Alan Harris

I found this hat in the desert
the head it belonged to was nowhere in sight
I shook out the sand
and believe any bugs that had called it home
were thoroughly baked in the sun
along with the previous owner

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8 years of suffering under Barack Obama

There is more I can add, and as the article indicated there are plenty of things you could critique about any human in leadership, but to say we suffered is a load of crap. Here’s just a little bit of evidence:

Teri Carter's Library

andersonlogo

3C54DC7D00000578-4140672-Barack_Obama_waves_as_he_boards_Marine_One_and_departs_the_Capit-a-77_1484945371469 Photo credit: The Associated Press

The sentence I hear most from well-meaning, conservative friends since President Trump’s election is this: “We suffered 8 years under Barack Obama.”

Fair enough. Let’s take a look.

The day Obama took office, the Dow closed at 7,949 points. Eight years later, the Dow had almost tripled.

General Motors and Chrysler were on the brink of bankruptcy, with Ford not far behind, and their failure, along with their supply chains, would have meant the loss of millions of jobs. Obama pushed through a controversial, $8o billion bailout to save the car industry. The U.S. car industry survived, started making money again, and the entire $80 billion was paid back, with interest.

While we remain vulnerable to lone-wolf attacks, no foreign terrorist organization has successfully executed a mass attack here since 9/11.

Obama ordered the raid that killed Osama Bin Laden.

He drew down the number…

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A Saturday Song

Ah, this important reminder. My youngest and I were talking this morning about our own various issues that relate to sort of thing, and then I went and listened to the song he posted. Great choice, young man. Proud of you.

The Monkey Prodigy

Yes, it’s not a Tuesday Tune and as of the time I’m writing this it is not Saturday yet. But I figured I’d post something anyway. I usually try to post feel good song on the blog. So let me know how you feel. Hopefully it’s good.

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Poetry: “Air Canada” by Kirstin Ethridge

This poem helped my Monday for so many reasons:

Heavy Feather Review

We could fly to Thunder Bay on a plane,
kissing our palms and pressing them
to the cold metal exterior before boarding,
listening to the scarf-wearing flight attendant
rattle off safety instructions in English and en Français.

We used to joke, but now it’s true:
fuck America, I’ll take my chances with the cold.
Thunder Bay might be as backwards as home, but it’s
racist without Rebel flags,
its transphobia tucked under family ties.
Squint and we’re safe.

We’ll arrive in the snow,
salt from the runway stinging our skin
as we slip on black ice to the rental car.
It’s dark, but Grandma’s house is bright,
squatting on Mary Street across from the indigenous school.
When we wake up, my wife’s childhood mountain looms.
We’ll look at photos of snowbanks
taller than her toddler head.

The Trans-Canada Highway curves
between Fort William and Port Arthur.
Our tires glide along…

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