https://www.davecavanagh.com/blog-1 daily 0.75 2023-01-01 https://www.davecavanagh.com/blog-1/money-talks monthly 0.5 2023-01-01 https://www.davecavanagh.com/blog-1/armchair-and-the-word monthly 0.5 2022-03-01 https://www.davecavanagh.com/blog-1/on-balance monthly 0.5 2022-01-27 https://www.davecavanagh.com/work daily 1.0 2026-01-08 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61796457a11729546ba7a4bf/cd5861dd-e2a8-4093-a945-8f53fa35332c/Please+Hold+cover+-+final+12-1-25.jpg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61796457a11729546ba7a4bf/e50a9529-ff02-405e-9206-c4d0c1713219/frontcover+-+Somnambulist.jpg Books From Salmon Poetry, 2020 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61796457a11729546ba7a4bf/0cd85184-fb8b-4580-b87a-ba5330656291/Straddle+-+cover+%283%29.jpg Books From Salmon Poetry, 2015 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61796457a11729546ba7a4bf/53a91131-9715-436f-8c2d-05baa245dd5d/Cycling+Cover+300+dpi.jpeg Books From Fomite Press, 2014 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61796457a11729546ba7a4bf/382e8db6-8e93-4c6a-ba0b-72f6d58e3f83/Falling_Body_cover-1.5360022%5B1%5D.jpg Books From Salmon Poetry, 2009 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61796457a11729546ba7a4bf/3de1e4e2-738b-4bf7-b99b-3952b1c05842/themiddleman+-+cover+%282%29.jpg Books From Salmon Poetry, 2003 https://www.davecavanagh.com/new-page daily 0.75 2026-01-08 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61796457a11729546ba7a4bf/aa0432c2-8c27-4cb5-8650-5dcc8843b8a4/Please+Hold+cover+-+final+12-1-25.jpg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61796457a11729546ba7a4bf/1635517712209-SHB0A09MDARUFQF7C4YO/Straddle+-+cover+%282%29.jpg Poems - The Ice Man In 1991 he was found inside a glacier of the Alps. Seems he had been out walking. An x-ray found an arrowhead in his back. He was 5,3 00 years old. If he had known his stroll by an alpine lake would be his last, how the arrow from behind would thud into his daydream, how the lake would claim him, harden, how anthropologists would pore over his Neolithic self the way his own kin hovered with stone knives over a kill, ready to skin, dismember, eat… If he were fast-tracked five millenia, would he say, what are you looking at, what do you want to know, where fire comes from? Or, hey, where can I get some of those sneakers? Or, I am no source, I am an omen. The way one of us, blindsided, mangled by a muscle car running the light, might face the Maker calmly, nothing more to prove, might say, I don’t want in, just want you to know what I’ve been through in case you want to learn something. You gods, such know-it-alls. Most of all, would he have wanted a word with his mate left that morning by a hearth? What tenderness, what worry might have furrowed that big brow? From Straddle, Salmon Poetry, 2015. Poem nominated for a Pushcart Prize. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61796457a11729546ba7a4bf/1635528606982-V6PAV1TA2NBT6S36UMOT/frontcover_final_.jpg Poems - Walking Thought Who are we when we sleep? Are we more or less ourselves? Sleepwalker, are you pulled mindless on hidden wires or do you chart a chosen path? What I fear or who I want to be? Never mind. Never that mind. Let me find another. The body’s mind that feels the ground it travels. Second mind, that knows about mirrors. No telling if waking sleeps or sleep awakens, but I love the rise and fall of music, the fading shore, beauty new and old. I walk in wonder’s thought, alone or blessedly with you or you, the blazing surprise of morning, its graceful daily demise. From The Somnambulist and the Good Life, Salmon Poetry, 2020 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61796457a11729546ba7a4bf/1635561118014-C41Z1Q7G61O1DDE4QGP3/Cycling+Cover+300+dpi.jpeg Poems - Tail Wind At my back a broad, invisible hand. The pedals whir almost on their own. Their fast, perfect circles trace a forward path of fast, perfect circles from here to fleeting here. I’m showered by twirling maple wings. Leaves flash bright undersides and strain against stems, just barely held back on bent branches. Long grasses bob and dip. A blackbird struggling the other way flaps hard in slow motion. I’ve been that bird. Up ahead on the lush sloping ridge, the long white arms of turbines rotate from tall towers like gleaming, elegant prophets. I’m blessed today by this unseen power. So much riding on it. From Cycling in Plato’s Cave, Fomite Press, 2014 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61796457a11729546ba7a4bf/1635598782749-UFLSUS94K5FY2ZQFI69G/Falling_Body_cover-1.5360022%5B1%5D.jpg Poems -  Waitress I Never Knew Harelipped you were beautiful, loon-lonely eyes and lithe shape split by the veering, renegade lip. Asymmetrical, utterly stirring. After the surgery I wasn’t even sure it was you, so nearly regular your mouth, just a hint of up-pull, so flashing your look. You seemed younger, less sad, less sure, too, as if you had become your own little sister. How I wanted that wildly rising line still to be there. I had no right. I know your life is better now, hear it in the loose swing of your chatter. But your glance -- more flit than flash. Something has been smoothed away I loved. At least one self wrenched from bed by thugs you never knew, hustled off, never seen again. Now it is left to find out what was lost in that line you were born with, what became of the disappeared, what grace resides in that thin river you no longer have to cross, and where it may be found again, and why I worry so. From Falling Body, Salmon Poetry, 2009 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61796457a11729546ba7a4bf/1635606734121-CZTCIUZ238VZULF5KD1M/themiddleman+-+cover+%282%29.jpg Poems - It’s So Much Like Missiles One day you hear they've been fired — the missiles I mean — you imagine them curving like so many Golden Gates between a hundred cities, serene vapour trails with some message you cannot imagine, and don't have to, for you know you have one half of one hour. And everything's suddenly simple, like the time you heard your father had died, long-distance the phone clicking softly as a heart while you felt everything free/e in your tiny kitchen, altered, and impossibly unchanged. And the funny thing is not that they've gone up — the missiles I mean — but that they remind you of something you didn't do, some words you didn't say, just didn't take the trouble to say, like the time you were leaving town, and a friend, and you never told her how much she meant to you, and you never saw her again. Now missiles are flying, and it's just like when your father died, and the visit you'd put off became a dream-train you lived on nightly, dark train pounding on smoothest rails of guilt, never ever arriving. The thing about what's unsaid is you can never take it back. If you had made that final visit you'd have fought with him, most probably, over Trudeau, or disarmament, something not too close. And it would have been furious and futile till it hit you that this time he was dying, and you'd have stopped, and so would he, both of you sheepish, feeling each other sheepish, awkwardness your last strange sharing. But the thing about not visiting, not loving enough to say or fight or apologize or see something new between you – the thing about not saying is it's so much like those missiles up there, on the way, on the final way, so undone, so unsaid, and so impossible to take back. From The Middleman, Salmon Poetry, 2003 https://www.davecavanagh.com/new-page-1 daily 0.75 2026-01-08 https://www.davecavanagh.com/about daily 0.75 2026-01-08 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61796457a11729546ba7a4bf/cb6ee5bf-4d15-41b0-8a40-5518d6fef153/dave+2+PLEASE+HOLD.JPG Contact https://www.davecavanagh.com/contact daily 0.75 2026-01-08 https://www.davecavanagh.com/aloud daily 0.75 2021-11-04 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61796457a11729546ba7a4bf/1636028982524-3B5P8OWG69RHX56SSND9/Dave+Book+Leaf+08-17+%282%29.jpg Aloud - Me reading from The Somnambulist and the Good Life, done as an online Pop-Up Book Launch during the time of Covid: The Somnambulist - Pop-Up #1 The Somnambulist - Pop-Up #2 The Somnambulist - Pop-Up #3 The Somnambulist - Pop-Up #4 The Somnambulist - Pop-Up Finale From Straddle: "The Ice Man" "All Rise" "Night Text" From Falling Body : "Neil Armstrong Shoots the Moon" ”Waitress I Never Knew” From The Middleman: "It's So Much Like Missiles" "For Agnes Mary"