Author: danrouth

Greensboro, NC based commercial and editorial photographer.

The Deer Skull

Animals, Poetry

deer skull

(Photograph copyright 2010 by Dan Routh)

The deer skull

We hear them snorting in the woods
at night amidst the pine tree groves.
From time to time we see them graze
on fescue hay that’s meant for cows
but grows in fields that they call home.
They come and go in herds or pairs
or single bucks in search of does.
And usually we have a few
who stay with us from year to year.

One night when we were coming home
we saw a buck across the road
that stood as if he were a king
surveying all his open land.
We shined our lights and watched him match
our gaze with both his glowing eyes.
He had at least a dozen points
or more above his massive neck;
his veins and muscles stretched and bulged
to show that he was in the rut.
Behind him there were does and fawns
and younger bucks with lesser racks
that darted when we shined the light.

But he with amber-fearless eyes,
not lost within a mindless trance,
held strongly to his daunting pose
until we took our lights and left.

We’ve always let the deer roam free
without the threat hunters’ guns.
But poachers sometimes stop at night
along the road to spotlight deer
then aim to shoot towards our barn,
or even towards our house and cows,
because they’re drunk or simply bored.
And when they do, we spotlight them
with two or three bright beams of light
until they grab their guns and run
as if they are the hunted ones.
They get their kicks and power trips
from killing peaceful animals,
but none of them have ever stood
as steadfast as that burly buck.

(Poetry copyright 2010 by Devin Routh. Used with permission.)

Joepyeweed

Butterfly, Farm, Flowers


Butterflies are abundant this year on our farm in Grays Chapel, North Carolina. In fact, I don’t remember ever having as many in our yard. There are literally hundreds. Sometimes it seems as if our yard is alive and moving in one big dance. Part of the reason is my wife has chosen plants and flowers for our yard that attract the butterflies, but another big reason is the large number of wildflowers we have growing on other parts of the farm. I clip my pastures, but I don’t trim close to the creeks and fence lines and the result is a large population of plants such as joepyeweed which act a magnet for all sorts of butterflies. I didn’t set out to do it on purpose, but a lack of time and money to keep things manicured has resulted in an abundance of wildlife.

(Photographs copyright 2010 by Dan Routh)

Truman’s Limo

Automobile, History


Sunday my son and I stopped by the North Carolina Aviation Museum in Asheboro, North Carolina to take a look at their newest artifact, a 1948 Lincoln limousine used by President Harry Truman. At 6500 pounds, with bullet proof doors and a Sherman tank transmission, it’s quite a vehicle and will soon be undergoing restoration. Above, local attorney Alan Pugh sits in the seat that the President occupied many times. Alan considers Harry Truman his favorite modern President.




(Photographs copyright 2010 by Dan Routh)

Turtle Fishing

Family, Farm, Poetry

Turtle Fishing

Under stagnant algae blooms
where slimy catfish feast on muck,
a spiny snapping turtle looms
before it bites a baited hook.

He sinks the point into his beak
then feels a tugging from the line
towards which he cannot help but creep
and follow with his ancient mind.

It leads him right up to the edge
of where the water meets the air;
A skillful hand then starts to dredge
his shell out from his muddy lair.

The turtle now alone on land
begins to hiss and snap with ire.
My grandpa then wipes off his hand
to cock the .410 bore and fire.

I watch him then remove the hook
to add a piece of beef as bait.
It was the second time he took
a turtle from the pond that day.

“I’m only gonna take a few,”
he said before he cut the beef.
“We’ll only get the old ones who
are eating all the baby geese.”

The buzzards would have only five
big shells to pick away for meat.
The goslings then could learn to fly
with baby turtles at their feet.

There was a time I wondered why
we could not let the turtles thrive.
But looking back I realize
that death helps new things come alive.

(Poetry copyright 2010 by Devin Routh. Used with permission.)

(Photographs copyright 2010 by Dan Routh)

Fixing Fence

Family, Farm, Poetry

(Photograph copyright 2010 by Dan Routh)

Fixing Fence

With wire stretchers, fencing tools,
a spool of wire, galvanized
new staples and ten-penny nails
we’d pack the Gator with the tools
to fix whatever fence was down.
An aged elm with rotting limbs
might fall just near a pasture’s edge,
or herds of deer might jump the fence
and nick the top lines with their hooves.
Before we’d start, we’d clear the brush
and briars from the cedar posts
that stood before my Grandpa Routh
was even born; they’ll never rot.
I’d dread the prick of those damn plants
because they always stuck me more
than any of the metal barbs
adorning all the fence our cows
could lean against without a care.
My brother Tristan, Dad, and I
would all wear gloves to keep our hands
from being tattered while we worked.
But Grandpa Routh would skip the gloves,
his hands were like a white oak’s bark.
His arms, however, weren’t the same;
they’d tear and drip with viscous blood,
but never once in all those days
do I recall him grimacing.
When I was young, I wondered how
it felt to feel what pain was like
if I were him with all his years.
I’d know the pain of sawing off
my finger, feel the stitches used
to sew it back so I could bend
it better than the other ones
arthritis would consume with age.
I’d know a thousand hammer blows
intended for a nail or tack
that hit my fingernails instead.
To live and farm like he once did,
to stretch a wire taut and straight
or clear a tangled briar patch,
to use the tools as he was taught
when he spent time with his grandpa,
would be to know the pain involved
and know what makes it worth it all.

(Poetry copyright 2010 by Devin Routh. Used with permission.)