David Melville

David Melville lives in Oregon. For many years he earned his living as a lawyer.  He recently left his law practice to dedicate more time to writing and other endeavors.  Currently, he is at work on a novel, and has organized daily meditations during the pandemic.  Several journals — such as Water-Stone Review, Atlanta Review, and RHINO — have featured his poems.His poetry has also been anthologized in the college textbook, Listening to Poetry:  An Introduction for Readers and Writers (2019). 


When I spoke of the heart, that raucous ocean that froths, 
heedless and repetitious as a drunk,
open mouthed, pounding foam by the barrel, gathering 
to roar sloshed, mad-libbed secrets, 
more sound than sense, until the curl, the slump, 
the bubbled sigh . . . 
and when I babbled about palapas,
islanders who rise with the sun to sweep the sands of fronds, 

I’d meant you as that turbulent water,
me the palm-heaper, an island resident.   
But metaphors walk backwards.  
There you are, walking, sun 
browning your spine, fingers touching 
coconut husks, arms crooked, filled with fronds.  

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