By Renae Bonnett

Appalachian Themes and Voices,

Marshall University

November 11, 2010

Germs

on a microscope slide

scurry from the high powered light

and cling to the sides

of our Petri dish culture

as a despotic eyeball

raids and disarms us,

robs each stain of us

bare,

overexposes us to magnification

as the trespassers pass judgment

on germs on a microscope slide.

I Remember

I remember indigo stained fingers

that reached into briary thickets

and plucked out fat blackberries

that hung like manna clung to thorns...

evenings lit with fire flies

that hovered low in fresh cut grass

and the scent of cool wintergreen alcohol

that soothed chigger bitten legs.

I remember the creak of front porch swings

that sang in cadence with the whippoorwills

and complemented tenor crickets

as velvet night pulled in around us…

cloudless days of late September

bathed in autumn’s lemony sunshine

that drenched woods from hilltop to holler

in hues of amber and crimson fire.

I remember the gray dawns of November

and grass covered by half-hearted frost

that melted on the hearth of an Indian summer

into an afternoon of spicy afterglow…

the spell cast by the first flurry,

and noses pressed to schoolhouse windows,

while December dressed for winter

and dawn awoke in snowy-white clothes.

Spring in 51 Syllables

Air heavy with lilac bloom

Robins on the ground

Warm earth springs forth green

Peepers under newborn leafs

Chirp resonant notes

And stir sleeping souls

Cold rain falls in pitter-pats

bathing buried seeds

under muddy ground

In 2002, US Attorney General, John Ashcroft, ordered the covering of the

partially nude, female statue representing the “Spirit of Justice.” The

statue, which adorns the Great Hall of the Department of Justice, was

draped at a cost of more than $8,000.

Photo by Sabbatha Bonnett, 2003

Cloaked – the statue of Mothman before

unveiling at Pt. Pleasant, WV

Remembering Mr. Ashcroft:

A Fashion Statement to Justice

Perhaps it‟s all for fashion,

a fashion government‟s decree,

to clothe every nude statue

from A to Double D.

The government knows a bargain,

only eight thousand dollars spent

to hedge the liberal bosom of Lady Justice

in a drab conservative tent,

lest mounds of marble femininity

disturb folks so weak of constitutions

even lifeless monoliths cause anxiety

and upset their rigid institutions.

So, we frocked her, for the sake of piety,

concealed her in burka–like clothes,

and precluded the temptation of society

to see an inch of Justice exposed.

A Blackberry Winter, Spring 2003

Blackberry Winter

On wings stretched wide with downy plumes,

anemic spring denies the bramble greens

and drapes a white spell to cover

hilltop to holler in blackberry winter

that shatters the new born clutch of blooms.

In the frost-lit air of morning, the rooster throws

his sun-crackled salute to the day’s dim dawn

and ruffles the straw-lined nests of broody hens

who cast out the still and the bitter born

to the ravenous beaks of tar-plumed crows.

Fall of Dark

Angels

Fall of Dark Angels

In the ice-etched morning,

they gather, with quills dipped deep

as ink well black

and claw feet wrapped

about a low hung branch

of a crystal coated sycamore…

In wings tucked tight as a widow’s shawl,

they loom, with scythes ready to reap

as the sugarcoated weeds

and bitter bitten seeds

wait for the half-lit stream

of the ice-crust thaw…

In the bone-bare trees,

they hold their line, heaped

as ruffled soldiers on glassy tracks

and tinny green gleaming across their backs

when blood-orange breaks across the black

of the over-night freeze…

In the feeble day break spell,

they descend, with wing beats

as silent as the falling snow

and they scratched among the wheat and oats

with a familiar sound caught in their throats

of murder, as the feathered angels fell.

Trees in November

If a tree could make a sound

it would be an icy screech

like the razor-sharp rasps

of a witch’s fingernails

raked across a sheet of glass

Memories of a Barefoot Summer

Before sunrise scalded through the stagnate haze,

a barefoot brood meandered to the dwindled creek

and filled knee-high buckets from the scum covered holes

that remained in the acrid days of summer,

when copperheads go blind, no cut heals, and

Canis Major reigns in the nocturnal sky.

We carried our burdens like lop sided ducks,

one wing stretched longer by the weight

that sloshed beneath the bails as we pecked our way

up the hillside to the draught stunted field.

Plant by spindly plant, we emptied green tinged water

on cracked ground and watched the earth

swallow each drink in thirsty gulps, then

retraced our footprints from creek to crop

to water every inch of our half-tassled woes.

Swelter poured over the far side of morning

and stirred a heat charged wind that at last

draped a stratum of darkness across the hilltops,

that called down jagged strikes and throbs of thunder

that shook the fractured earth beneath our feet.

We let the rain win the race back home

but lingered long enough to splash

through long forgotten puddles

that splattered our calves muddy.

Later,

we scrubbed our dog-tired bodies fresh,

then flopped face first into a cloud of feathers,

and listened as a melodic lindy-hop

poured across the rooftop,

content in the lullaby evening pulled down from heaven.

Prowling

Capable brood, armed with flashlights and pails,

prowled through the drizzly dark

in search of night crawlers, and gave no notice

to unfurled tresses or dainty feet soaked inside old sneakers.

Heads perched on crooked necks,

we sloshed through the yard for hours,

ready to descend before the slick creatures

withdrew when the narrow beams caught them.

Fingers transformed to fleshly talons,

we swooped like kestrels upon our prey,

snatched the slimy quarry and then deposited them,

one by gooey one, into open-mouth pails.

Sandy eyed and eager, we meandered to the creek

and sat cross-legged, still as statues on the shoals,

with bamboo poles propped on forked sticks,

content to squint for hours at tottering orange and red bobbers.

We waited, loyal as Job, and held our breath

as lines grew taut and sank our lively, two-toned floaters.

Then we set our hooks with slick, quick yanks,

sent reels singing, and hauled in the whoppers.

Dragline

Used to remove

mountaintops in

the extraction of

coal.

Acid Mine

Drainage from

past strip mining

practices.

Acid Mine

Drainage

buildup of

deposits that

have rendered

this stream

lifeless.

Mountaintop

Removal site in

WV.

SWAGGER

There is the swagger, the way out west

Sand in the saddle, grit in the girdle

Down to brass tacks and level best

Under a 10 gallon hat and no cattle,

Swagger.

The smoke „em out, take „em out,

they got weapons of mass destruction,

gonna twist and shout, no time to doubt,

gotta pay for the reconstruction,

Swagger.

The “wanna buy some wood”

right hand red, left hand yella,

turn in your whole neighborhood

play spin the wheel of terra,

Swagger.

To Sleep / To dream

Halfway through the night

I caught a glimpse of the first quarter-

a sliver of silver, a scythe

pitched into blue-black velvet

that ripped the fabric of the veil

and let beams blow

to this side of the cosmos

as it had since the labor of creation

when newborn eyes first ogled

the puncture wounds of hollow blackness

like a thousand rusty nails

pounded through the floor of heaven

as I watched, distant sailor lamps flickered

until heavy lids closed

like ebony curtains draped

around a humming dream machine.

Special Thanks and Acknowledgements

To those who provided support to this project, without whom it would not have been

possible.

Bobby Bonnett III:

Guitar (music featured

in this project)

Sabbatha Bonnett:

Photos

(Barbie, Mothman)

subject of “Fall of

Dark Angels”

Ramona Asbury:

Photos, “Orb and

House.”

Bobby Bonnet

Jr., Photos ( Nature:

Winter, Blackberries,

Bees, Wetlands, Sce

nery).