1. Humid middle of the night. It's stuffy in the bedroom, hard to sleep. I get up and sit outside, waiting for a storm to clear the air, but nothing—just a flicker on the horizon now and then.

    frost-struck oaks
    slowly recovering
    a rash of stars

    I check Twitter on my phone and holy shit, the uprising in response to police violence is spreading across the country. The precinct building for the part of Minneapolis where George Floyd was murdered is in flames. Goddamn. Under the porch I hear a porcupine clacking its teeth to ward off an enemy. Then gnawing, gnawing, gnawing on the foundation beam.

    that near shriek
    in the last note

    # vimeo.com/424435363 Uploaded 16 Views 0 Comments
  2. Six weeks after I planted potatoes, they are finally all up, the latest leaves no bigger than the ears of the mice I was sure had dug up and eaten them, especially after a series of holes appeared in each hill. But it's been unusually cold this spring, and sprouts were simply taking their time. Our neighbors had urged patience, and they were right.

    All this waiting to see what happens with the pandemic would be hard to bear if I didn't also have something to wait *for*: a garden growing and changing day by day now, so that time doesn't merely *pass* like some lifeless assembly line, but unfolds, ramifies, flourishes, bears fruit.

    even as
    I pull weeds my beard
    keeps on growing

    evening garden
    a snake has left her skin
    beside the lettuce

    # vimeo.com/423452840 Uploaded 28 Views 0 Comments
  3. It’s not every year we get snow in dogwood season. This particular year, the wild weather simply adds to the impression that the world is completely out of whack.

    catching snowflakes
    their little spikes

    Marooned in our homes, tempers fray. We wonder how long this will go on, worry about finances and food shortages. I watch a pair of scarlet tanagers—treetop birds—reduced to feeding near the ground and foraging for invertebrates in the creek.

    than our open mouths

    But spring is always a puzzle: the innumerable ways that spikiness blossoms and leaves us.

    # vimeo.com/417469419 Uploaded 19 Views 0 Comments
  4. I dreamed we were in a pandemic, but nobody knew what to do because the official pronouncements were too verbose and contradictory. I discovered that if they were re-written as ultra-short haiku, everyone grasped them at once. This became my new job.

    the and
    in pandemic

    Then I was in the lounge of a nearly deserted hotel, trying to buy a Belgian lambic with some form of local, antisanal currency. It didn't add up. All the billboards were in Japanese. My phone dropped a call from my wife on the other side of the city, which had engulfed the earth.

    your O face
    a grounded

    # vimeo.com/415759242 Uploaded 10 Views 0 Comments
  5. On the last day of April, Facebook gives us a new way to react: a care emoji. Yellow generic-person hugs a disembodied heart, perhaps the heart that absence makes fonder. But to older eyes, unless you squint, it looks like someone clutching an open wound.

    taking shelter
    under my umbrella

    Such a long, cold, rainy April we've had. The death toll continues to climb, just as the scientists foretold. Already more Americans have died from COVID-19 than in the Vietnam War, they say — a comparison which has the unfortunate side-effect of making our imperial adventures seem like natural disasters. But it's always hard to turn the dead into mere statistics. Picture instead a large stadium where the entire crowd has just perished. Or all the stumps in a 300-acre forest that's just been clear-cut.

    too wet to plant
    fresh graves

    # vimeo.com/414374996 Uploaded 14 Views 0 Comments

Plummer's Hollow Poet

Dave Bonta Plus

Poems by Dave Bonta, Plummer's Hollow, Pennsylvania poet-in-residence.

Every neighborhood should have its own poet—even if the "neighborhood" consists of just three houses surrounded by hundred of acres of mountaintop woods and fields. And someday,…

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Poems by Dave Bonta, Plummer's Hollow, Pennsylvania poet-in-residence.

Every neighborhood should have its own poet—even if the "neighborhood" consists of just three houses surrounded by hundred of acres of mountaintop woods and fields. And someday, I hope, every neighborhood poet will have his/her own videopoetry channel, too. In the meantime, here's mine.

Because I don't share videos of my own poems at movingpoems.com I wanted to make them a little easier to find here — the good ones, anyway. The others can stay buried in my archives. And I'm deeply grateful to the other videopoets who have elected to remix my words.

Browse This Channel

Shout Box

  • Dave Bonta

    (I'm going to re-name this the Prayer Box, because it feels like I'm communicating, but actually I'm just talking to myself.)

    by Dave Bonta

  • Dave Bonta


    by Dave Bonta

  • Dave Bonta

    Shout boxes are so 2005.

    by Dave Bonta

Heads up: the shoutbox will be retiring soon. It’s tired of working, and can’t wait to relax. You can still send a message to the channel owner, though!

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