$14.00
poems by
ISBN: 978-1-964277-92-9, 70 pages, $14 (+ shipping)
Release Date: May 25, 2026
The Advance Sale Discount on this title has expired. For those who prefer to pay by check, the price is $19/book (which includes shipping & sales tax) and should be sent to: Main Street Rag, 12180 Skyview Drive, Edinboro, PA 16412.
David James has been writing and publishing for over fifty years. For twenty-four years, he worked as director of admissions and dean of academics at several colleges. The last twenty-one years he spent at Oakland Community College teaching writing. Among his nine books and six chapbooks are A Heart Out of This World (Carnegie Mellon University, 1984), She Dances Like Mussolini, winner of the 2010 Next Generation Indie book award for poetry; My Torn Dance Card, finalist for the 2016 Next Generation Indie book award; and Wiping Stars from Your Sleeves, finalist for the 2024 American Legacy Book Award. His one-act plays have been produced in the U.S., Ireland and England.
David James’ poems are tender, witty, and wise—“everything///in some strange way///is a gift.” Whether writing about nature, his family, headline news, or the challenges of aging, he delves into the world he sees around him and into the world that is his life, into moments of reflection, sorrow, and joy. In these troubling times, this poet comforts and connects us. The Cup of Living overflows with gratitude and love—“Love, for God’s sake, love.” ~Christine Rhein, author of Wild Flight
In language that is deceptively casual, and through images of familial domesticity many readers will identify with, David James contemplates the inevitablity of aging and mortality, not only of himself, but of his loved ones as well. Yet “Every morning when I wake and open my eyes, / a miracle walks into view . . .” The Cup of Living is brimming with such miracles—the wonders and joys of a life lived poetically.~Phillip Sterling
This is a good long rain,
which we need,
reminding us with lightning who’s in charge,
placing exclamation points with thunder.
If we read
between the lines, we can see in large
print, the world is the one
making plans, speaking out, taking names,
steering the boat up or down river
at will, just for fun.
And we’re along for the ride, the same
ticket used coming or going.
We like to think we’re in command,
turning here, slowing down, but someone holds the wheel,
someone else does the rowing.
I’ve learned to sit alone on the porch, one hand
with a pen, and watch the wind blow
the Hosta leaves, the ones not eaten by deer.
I’ve learned to trust my imagination enough
to know
the words will come, images will appear,
the poem will find
a way to crawl on the page,
sometimes worth the effort, often not.
Either way, I don’t mind.
I’m tired of sitting alone
talking to myself as if myself
had something to say
that I don’t know.
Sure, I talk to the mirror,
asking my face a question but answering
in a different voice, lower or higher.
It passes the time,
though I can predict exactly
what I’ll say in reply,
unlike actual conversations.
The crows are out in force today,
cawing, flying from tree to tree.
It sounds urgent, and probably is,
but I never learned crow
growing up human.
They fly overhead, talking
to spite me, leaving me
numb and confused,
which is my normal state.
Maybe I’ll take crow lessons.
At least then, I’ll know what’s happening
and be able to pretend
I’m a part of the world
flying by.
“I’ve had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that’s a record.”
~Dylan Thomas
the morning breeze blows
through the sunroom as the sun
weasels up into the sky
five crows hassle a hawk
in my neighbor’s tree until the hawk
begins to hassle back
we eat two ears of corn
grown from our garden
and can’t believe how good they taste
my wife relaxes in the sofa chair
knitting a sweater
for our oldest granddaughter
at 2:00 a.m., we’re standing outside
gazing up at the Perseids meteor shower
making wish after wish after wish
though you wrote some great poems Dylan
you didn’t see any of this
because at 39
you fucked up
big time