Quicken (Dave Bronson)

Dig my feet in
make the earth below me spin

watch the green and snapping branches
coalesce and dim

I am among the light, the barely here
the about to begin

A Leading (Dave Bronson)

This forest shares its secrets with the wind,
Its whispered acorns; deeply buried prayers.
Where ferns glow green and stretch out spongy limbs,
And lichened rocks are holy altar stairs.
Black beetles genuflect and flash their shells.
Moth’s tattered wings reach out to supplicate.
The breath within the soil gently swells,
And lifts up cantillations to the day.
A tree trunk lays itself in feathered moss,
While rings of ivy lash it to the ground.
The ancient Oak knew nothing of it’s loss,
And wears the vines as Hera wears her crown.
I knew all this when I was still a child,
When God still showed His nature in the wild.

8th Grade (Dave Bronson)

When they are done
They walk up to my desk
Ever so slightly unassured
And pass in their completed papers
One after another
Staggered by effort
And ability

The first papers
Are placed uniformly
Parallel
To the corners of my desk
But soon
Placed in haste
They begin to break down
Each a slight variation on disorder
And if I don’t interrupt
on their behalf
Grabbing the whole of it
And letting its own weight
Slide down on its edge
Lifting and falling
Smashing them down
Over and again
Until they all fall
Back into line

The entirety
Of the previous order
Would be
Unrecognizable

Arms (Dave Bronson)

I wrote this after a woman was murdered in the town next to me. I live in a small town and the eventually successful search took two years. The search for the killer, in such a small community, was pretty awful, and something that I won't forget.

I search for the arms
of strangers,
of friends,
of my family.

People pass by me
and their eyes drop
to my arms
before they meet
my face again.

They found a woman's body
hands, feet and face
burned. Naked
tossed into the woods.

Her killer
still unidentified.

They asked for tips.
She struggled
they said,
her violator may have been wounded.
Scratches and bruises may still be visible
on the forearms of her attacker.

So I find myself
staring down
at the pale arms
of men,
of the unkempt elderly man at Honey Farms,
of the teenage gas attendant who never quite
meets my eyes,
but also
at the father of my daughter's afternoon playdate,
the teenage sons of my neighbors
and at an evening barbecue, my own father,
questioning against doubt
what they are capable of.

And when I am alone,
even though I know,
in the mornings
I look down
at my own arms
unmarked.

And still, I check
twice.

Spring (Dave Bronson)

Sometimes the poems that I write come fast, the words are right there. This was one of those, written a couple of years ago in March.


Everyone is concerned with
what lies deep within
the heart and soul and such things
But it is in your face
that I see you
a shallow, light-filled stream
laughing across the surface
And I am sure
your bedrock is down there
hardened and broken
but on this leafless spring morning
I am looking for the sun.