October dusk

This entry is part 21 of 37 in the series Bridge to Nowhere: poems at mid-life


What do you mean
by knife, by wind?
The bluest sky below the wash
of sunset pink, delectable
as a slice of blue fruit riding
the horizon’s blade.
Half a moon over the barn.
The field of goldenrod fuzz
gathering its sparrows, brown
into brown, poor Sam Peabody
as lamentable as ever:
a song that catches in the middle
like a shirt on a thorn.
The wind dying,
& the color in the trees
darkening like dried blood.

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Dave Bonta (bio) crowd-sources his problems by following his gut, which he shares with 100 trillion of his closest microbial friends — a close-knit, symbiotic community comprising several thousand species of bacteria, fungi, and protozoa. In a similarly collaborative fashion, all of Dave’s writing is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the “share alike” provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).


  1. great, great images. the song like the shirt snagged on a thorn and the ending: “the trees/ darkening like dried blood.” wow.


  2. Full of good things. And interestingly, as relevant here in Wales as at Plummer’s Hollow. This poem reeks of the year going down into Winter.


  3. oh i like this a lot. the season is fierce and gentle both and its colours glow and you’ve shown me all that…


  4. Dave this is breath-taking – been reading it 5 times and every time another line catches my attention before it melts into a smooth and honest october feeling..wow!


  5. Like they all said, Dave! If it’s a first draft, don’t touch it.


  6. Thanks, all! Not only a first draft, but a dashed-off one at that. I guess sometimes the Zen saying “first thought, best thought” is true.


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