Category: Photos

See also my Woodrat photoblog and my Flickr account.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Homebody

the way a tendril winds
spiraling into steadfastness

clockwise or counter-clockwise
there’s wisdom in it

every time i circle my home ground
i grasp it a bit better

till i can wind through the house at night
without even having to see

hands and feet discover
how much they already know

not the exact number of steps
but the way they feel

iambic trochaic
anapestic spondaic

my feet and the ground
are old lovers after dark

i make a circuit of the trails
the milky way changes direction

thank-you-ma’ams dug last year
no longer make me stumble

but sometimes i forget where i am
and a moment of pure terror descends

and when sleep sits on my eyelids
other places i’ve known come back to me

or me to them legs twitching
taking their measure once more

though dream steps follow
a slower stranger rhythm

and sometimes in the morning i’ll ache
in unexpected places

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Fabulous

Today was a day for visions… though not necessarily a day for understanding. The light had a special quality to it, that early spring haziness.

It was a day bookended by thunderstorms. The temperature climbed into the low 60s.

A fire hydrant at the edge of town stood guard over a feral underground.

Near the crest of the ridge, I saw a tree eating a large rock.

I don’t like that someone did this but I can’t help but admire the tree’s response.

I’ve noticed this tree before, but not after a hard rain. Its eye of lichen really blazed forth, and its green suit of moss was fabulous.

The rain also accentuated the distinction between the two halves of this oak, one dead, the other very much alive. This too seems fabulous, in the specific sense that it reminds me of something out of a fable.

Lichens brighten in the rain. They open all their pores.

A dry strip of bark appears virtually lifeless in contrast to rain-soaked portions, where moss, algae and lichen have been revived.

But no one beats wood frogs for revivals. From suspended animation to full-on orgy. It boggles the mind.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Some Facts About Paradise

paradise never sticks
it’s too purpose-driven

the first wings lacked feathers
the first feathers lacked wings

i used to love the idea of giving
my body to medicine

now i’d rather go back to dirt
and grow mushrooms

paradise in the sticks
may require some assembly

the first godhead went nova
the second is a donut hole

i used to be content
as a content creator

now the cold creeps in
through my hobo coat

paradise on a stick
would taste of oppression

the forest pool in new ice
is a thing with feathers

it goes away in the autumn
a blessing for the frogs

whose eggs would be eaten
if it had year-round residents

wood frogs are wise
and live under rocks

paradise sticks
to the script

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Ridgerunner’s Dilemma

far from the monoculture
up in the hills here

and there you can still find
original patterns

new wrinkles in the ridgeline
a rare lichen

a nearly lost recipe
for disaster

the way a chipmunk can race
across a creek

ridge running you rise and fall
on crests and dips
of a sine wave

here an old charcoal hearth
there a borrow pit
returning to woods

you teeter through talus
clamber down cliffs

far from the suburban
absence of fear

where deer without hunters
spell understories without natives

following animal paths
you remember all the ways
to be animal

crawl on your knees
through rhododendron tunnels

to a place where yellow birches
rear up on their roots

and foamflower leaves recline
on sphagnum cushions

maybe you stumble
on a small forgotten stand
of old-growth trees

glowing in the low sun
full of character

like all those who live
long lives out in the weather

and you wonder knowing
how your heart might break
whether to come back

absence can grow anywhere
the ground turns white

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Fallow

fallow ground risen
on stilts of ice

how fun to crunch
in new winter boots

through a snow squall
the sun’s inflorescent glow

drawing me on with its
mirage of comfort

to find that fabled spot
out of the wind

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Our Lady of the Alleghenies

so often the sky looks more
maternal than the earth

i am listening to the traffic
of wind through bare trees

snow on the cliffs growing
roots of ice

from the drained lake
a mechanical thumping

I recall a feeder stream
in lurid unrhyming orange

what’s behind the allegheny front
but played-out coal

the late afternoon light
gains a hint of sunset

warm air dancing with cold air
the clouds turn voluptuous

and the distance even bluer
my own mountain included

on the way home
the apparition of an old man

bent nearly double beside the road
dragging a full bin of trash

the next day snow falls
soft and heavy even in the valleys

with winds off the front
molehills become mountains again

trees are striped white
on the weather side

down in the hollow i spot
the first winter wren in weeks

bobbing with excitement
at the end of a snowy limb

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Les fleurs de l’hiver

in a brown study of a winter
anything bright draws the eye

one snowflake
wandering through the forest

the scarlet crest
of a pileated woodpecker

her knocks inaudible
above the ridgetop wind

working her snag all the while
i sip my afternoon tea

under a table mountain pine
whose sighs are endless

the sun almost comes out
but then it doesn’t

graupel ticking in the leaves
leads me to witch’s butter

a yellow rose turned
to enchanted flesh

feeding on the fungi they say
that feed on the dead

orange ellipses
on black birch

when bees are imaginary
any brightness can bloom

even green rocks held aloft
by upturned roots

or corrugated steel
chthonic with rust

below the ruin of a pine
sky filling the round holes

where limbs once stretched
toward the sun

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Weather Report

it’s january just by the light
and the emptiness of the forest

with so few birds or insects
what’s left to hum or buzz

unfrozen earth under my boots
still has a bit of give

one day i’m in the fog
translucent and vague

the next day it’s wind
obsessively turning pages

fog lends the moss
a certain radiance

i step on it as if sinking
into the lushest life

wind brings percussion
to the treetops

creaking and clacking except
in the heart of the spruce grove

where a woodpecker taps
to the end of a limb and flies off

fog may make me
a better listener

but the wind shows me
how to breathe

from that still and empty place
deep within

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Burlesque

In a forest of headless trees, the one tree with a burl is Pope of Fools.

It’s no accident that burl rhymes with pearl. I mean, it is an accident, but one that makes you think.

If you’re ever in the woods and feel as if you’re being watched, that may be due to the presence of burls. Though to me they have more of a listening air about them.

Brain surgeons could train on them but don’t, as far as I know. Woodworkers could turn them into bowls, and some do.

Such a bowl wouldn’t do for an ordinary salad. It would have few if any practical applications. You’d just want to have it out on display where you and your friends can gather around, standing very still and whispering whenever there’s a wind.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

January Thaw Walk

Bell Gap again

raindrops land with a random
industrial rhythm

on the metal roof of a trail shelter
wrapped in fog

a flash of white from a woodpecker’s wings
as i set out again

feeling parenthetical
under a black umbrella

at the two mile marker
a greenbriar vine’s final leaf

fog retreating up the mountain
doesn’t use the trail

the wet cliffs seem to glow
i page through shelves of blue shale

looking for fossils i find
hibernating lady beetles

and snow hiding below the rocks
protected by rhododendron leaves

that must’ve been stripped off
by high winds

in the place of white birches
i remember my former life

in a distant city
my own tongue gone strange

i walk through a river of cold air
flowing down the gorge

at the by-gone railroad’s
horseshoe bend up the mountain

entering the cloud
i pull on my poncho

to the accelerating pulse
of a ruffed grouse drumming

i’m agog at the beadwork
of rain on every twig

ridge lines begin to emerge
above the clouds

an erasure as selective as
a song dynasty landscape

hiding a highway
and half the sounds of traffic

four chickadees forage
in the trailside sumacs

a white birch appears
through a hole in the clouds

on the side of the next mountain
but i’m turning back

on the slope below me
stark naked branches

where a porcupine has been
exercising his teeth

feeling peckish myself
i pick up a bunch of wild grapes

that old taste of wine
left out too long