Category: Nature/Ecology

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Goldenrod Time

the meadow at dawn
gives birth to ghosts:

slow dancers of fog
beneath a crescent moon

that’s just been deserted
by its entourage of stars

the goldenrod’s dark gold
mellows to yellow

a whole 30-acre bowl of it
between wooded ridges

where the sun comes
as a parishioner

among the monarchs
and the green darners

and later the lopper
with its steel grin

as i clearcut black locusts
infiltrating the goldenrod

enjoying their shade
even as i destroy it

there’s a cool breeze
from the heart of the sky

now that night and day
are nearly equal

happiness appears in the form
of small clouds

suspended just
out of reach

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Walking Blues

i lug my silence into a blue forest
its lost cloud

loud with jays jeering
at my blue hat

what makes it so high
and lonesome on the map

baptised from below
in the water table

enabling the spirit to speak
in broken oak—

no hoax this glossolalia
a cross-worded puzzle

muzzling all green thoughts
leaf by leaf

grief needs no bait to bite
no hook to hold

old as the reflection
in a phone’s black glass

amassing unknown calls
vibrating on silent

Posted on by Dave Bonta

On Pilgrimage

a morning-fresh aroma
from the compost
steaming in the cool air

i descend the mountain
just so i can climb it
yet again

through fog
as soft as the moss
acorns clattering down

the sun’s already out
in the valley for
the annual farm show

and above the gap
the first broad-winged
hawks of the day

spiral high around
a column of rising heat
then hurtle south

while a long rumbling
line of tractors
snakes through the fields

they used to say
rogation was good
for the crops

even bullshit walks
on six legs
bit by bit into the earth

***

Another day, another poem. Thanks to my brother Mark for the bird info and the Sinking Valley Facebook page for the farm show info. Rogation was/is a Catholic ritual with parallels in folk religions around the world, a form of annual pilgrimage in which a priest leads a procession of local residents in a circuit of the fields.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Ravished

missing heads and shrivelled petals
orotund with seed

corn-fed on extra syllables
trapped between the teeth

nearly reptilian our rictus
of gratitude for another sun

let us trust the rust within us
to paint our noble ruins red

as knotweed blossoms into lace
and devil’s-tail brandishes blue fruit

immune to anything that ravishes
without or within

they spread like miracules
their missionary impositions

as we lower our last dreams
into the earth

we who were never beautiful
but were sensitive to beauty

our lanterns in the dark
so sleek and next-generation

are monitoring our every flicker
for signs of life

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Carpe Noctem

full moonlight at half strength
due to rain

a slow and seemingly deliberate
tapping on the roof

one of the last warm
end-of-summer nights

katydids singing this is it
this is it this is it

this night with its singular pelage
will never come again

let sleep go on without you
like a zombie apocalypse

flying squirrels open
the dark sails of their bodies

a spring peeper calls three times
in defiance of the season

i take the indescribable
petrichor into my lungs

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Oaks as Teachers

give me shade tolerance
so i can worship the sun
at a cellular level

teach me the dance
in abundance
the sects of insects

how to work like
an artist’s model
with wind or fire

how to mine in place
and turn the soil
into an accomplice

how to communicate
with an alien life form
in speech acts of pure energy

how to grow wound wood
walling off all the hollow
broken places

Posted on by Dave Bonta

In the Hinterlands

the mountain hollow’s
yellow meadow

thrumming under another
morning fog

we curl around
our private griefs

before mourning becomes
a form of conformity

recall the headlonging
rush of young buds

the grand flourishes
the common sense we made

invasive weeds freed
from all native constraints

to wander the earth
planting our flags

it’s not easy out
on the edge of civilization

the marching bands
do their best

teams from rival towns
smash into each other

the mascot’s feathered head
rests in his hands

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Rainiac

In the house of rain, all are kin. Consider the toadstool releasing its spores when the rain comes knocking. Many of those spores drift up into the atmosphere, where they become cloud condensation nuclei and give birth to new raindrops—with moisture released by the trees. I recite this true fable to myself as I trudge through the downpour.

that scent
of wet rhododendrons—
Pop-pop’s place

*

I like how the world is textured.

Visually and aurally and in food webs and ecological niches.

The endless intricacy and beauty of it.

It’s utterly entrancing sometimes, like the best rave ever.

*

Whatever i tell myself, it’s never enough. Understanding begins with listening.

Right now what i’m hearing is a mosquito’s singular need, crickets calling for a mate, a truck jake-breaking down a steep grade, and an transcontinental jet’s dull eraser. Plus the steady rhythm of my own steps, descending a different mountain than my own. All this can be music if I let it.

Nuthatch, chickadee. Are the winter flocks already beginning to form?

Thunder. I rummage quickly for the poncho in my pack. The downpour feels like a rather over enthusiastic masseuse.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Unnatural History Museum

pressed under glass
the last goldfinch whistle

slowly solidifies
into earwax

untroubled by looters
who choose flashier artifacts

from this dilapidated museum
close to closing time

in one diorama the leaves
are already withering

in another, farmers turn played-out
soil toward the sun

which is kept in a separate
display case on the mezzanine

right above the blowhole
of a great blue whale

***

This is similar in concept to a haibun in Failed State, though that imagined a domestic space. Because of that redundancy, I wasn’t going to share it, until I noticed that it ended on a somewhat more positive note, with a nod toward the cosmic, and decided I rather like that. Though I did flirt with the idea of continuing in a more cynical vein:

“and in the gift shop they carry
disposable vape pens of petrichor…”

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Brief Case

i am not equal
to the stars

much less any junkie’s
point of light

my right index
fingernail has gone missing

i share a common tongue
with lawyers and sociopaths

a small white moth spends
the night in one of my shoes

so i avoid the paper
get my blood bath from the dawn

*

red dawn over darkened hills