I am not your pet. I can rise. In one afternoon I can take back everything I’ve laid down for a thousand years.
Author: Dave Bonta
I live in an Appalachian hollow in the Juniata watershed of central Pennsylvania, and spend a great deal of time walking in the woods. My books of poetry include FAILED STATE: HAIBUN, ICE MOUNTAIN: AN ELEGY, BREAKDOWN: BANJO POEMS, and ODES TO TOOLS.
Someday when the world is entirely covered with roads,
there won’t be any place left to visit—and therefore no reason to ever slow down.
Of all doomed friendships,
none is more tragic than that between a compulsive blurter and an obsessive brooder.
such flakes
they can’t possibly be gathering
all on their own
mass extinction
all the empty beds
standing on end
Walking in the snow,
one feels at times barely tethered to the earth.
wetlands in winter
I crush another cathedral
with every step
clouds in our airspace
and all this immigrant snow
clinging to our land
spelling out fences
the immaculate ignorance
of snow
At the silent vigil
we brought our words folded up like dangerous umbrellas.
gone back to woods
all that’s left is location
location location
With one foot in this world
and the other foot, too, in this world, I am learning to love the dailyness of my walks.
