Category: Family

The Deer Skull

Animals, Family, Farm, North Carolina, Poetry, Randolph County

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.)

(Photograph copyright 2026 by Dan Routh)

Where I’m From

Family, Poetry, Portraits

My son Devin is an IT professional in Zurich, Switzerland. Once upon a time he wrote poetry.

Where I’m From
Devin Routh

I’m from rolling pastures
Veined by dry creek beds.
Where centenarian white oaks,
Younger than great-grandma Lucy
And her calamine feet,
Shade the black angus mixed with
The santa gertrudis as they
Chew their cud.
I’m from kitchens
Where green beans
And ice cream
Make music when we
Cook them,
Gardens and orchards where we
Grow corn and tomatoes,
Watermelons and apples,
And enjoy the occasional persimmon pudding.
Ambrosia isn’t coconut and pineapple,
It’s two cups of sugar,
Two cups of milk,
Two cups of flour,
Four eggs, cinnamon, vanilla,
And two cups of persimmon pulp.

I’m stuck between Erect
And Climax,
On the way to High Point
But I never go there.
I go down yonder
And ask ‘chup to?

I buy hay from Jack Fagg,
Honey from Janice Horny,
Meet John Brown at 3 a.m.
To discuss politics and watch
His drunk father drink more.

I see my cousins
When I drive 22 to town,
“Routh Oil Company,”
“Alvin’s Automotive.”
Eric, adopted Cherokee,
Still my blood kin, gives me 5th Avenues
To say goodbye.

In the barnyard,
I smell the diesel
Granddaddy Routh used to scrub
The grease from under our fingernails.
At the dinner table,
I taste fire in the peppers
Grandpa Cranford collected in his shirt pocket.

I’m from coldwater springs
Where we lose boots and calves
To the mud, like quicksand but only knee deep.
I’m from flower gardens
Where opossums slumber,
Where they wake under the moon
To eat the leftover cat food.

On my farm,
We build cairns as monuments
For the dogs and cats,
Feed corn to the deer and save them
From the hunters.
Sanctuary. “Jesus is Lord
Over Gray’s Chapel,”
But my grandpas taught me
How to fish, how to sow,
To kiss the catfish
And throw them back
(Their lips look just like a person’s),
Taught me how to look for pine hearts
And cut wood already fallen,
How to give life
And only borrow it.

(Photograph copyright 2025 by Dan Routh)