Some ‘last times’ are chiseled
in the maze of our minds:
of the dear departed
or the dreadful lessons,
lest we forget.
But no framed portrait of your face
hanging near my heart, only
half-a-century’s hazy conjuring
of vital growing pains
I still owe you for.
for Susie
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2019
Tagged Great Crested Flycatcher, photography, poetry
Killdeer have their hands full
with children born on the run
teaching intonations of language
while training safe habits—
four bird brains headed
in different directions
after an intense defense
of speckled granite clutches
for four long weeks
from nest-robbing crows
and snakes fresh from hibernation
with wants of their own.
In the crushed gravel drive
their feigned broken wings
flash grit and passion.
New leaves, new shade
as flowers fade to seed
the future
shiny-hided heifers
with babies in their bellies
claim the oak trees,
gossip and commiserate
about the unknown
after sex
with bulls, bugs and bees.
The landmark peak connecting
watersheds and neighbors here
and gone blazes with a rainbow
at sunset illuminating faces and stories
gathered to replay in places
to leave no track but in my thoughts—
my short history on this ground,
the tragic and the magic banked
at the center of my small universe.
Wild colors fade, the grass turns
in the sand and shallow ground
on south slopes as Killdeer defend
their gravel nests and Blackbirds
scout the sky like fighter pilots
patrolling air space—an urgency
to plant seed and protect babies
before spring’s dreaded deadline—
before it gets too late to rain.
Trudy Johnson Photography
Robert Frost never built a fence
between a neighbor as fine as mine,
who shared more than his cow sense
on both sides of the line.
He helped a shaggy-headed kid
whose ignorance could fill a book
and kept his impatience mostly hid
‘less I took a second look—
and then he knew, I knew the pain
and like a son, he worked with me
and tell a joke to keep me sane,
so frustrated I couldn’t see.
In time, I’d be working the gate,
he damn-sure had me looking sharp,
working ’round my each mistake—
the cattle easy to part.
Whenever I call, he’ll be there,
saving most of his work for last.
He helped me ship ’em on Easter,
a drought year gone past.
A slick calf could cause discussion,
he’d always argue it was mine.
I debate for his possession,
losing most of the time.
And when he’d weigh out justice,
you’d find his thumb upon the scale,
but on your side of the balance,
your logic to no avail.
So before you go building fences
and stretching brand-new barbed wire,
there’s one gone beyond common senses
and made Bobby Frost a liar.
If you ever find a pattern cut
that’d be suitable for me,
reckon you’d be hard-pressed put
using other than Earl Mckee.
– John Dofflemyer (Dry Creek Rhymes, 1989)
Knee-deep in filaree,
fiddleneck,and foxtails
with wild oats coming
on a precipice
where there is no trail
to the bottom
of Lake Kaweah—
posing for a drone,
for a documentary
as a cowman, as a poet.
I’ve poured concrete,
plumbed galvanized pipe
and electrified a pump
this week, and still
have work to do.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2019
Beyond the snowline,
roofless remains of rock houses,
high desert sage, pastel willows
and old cottonwoods
that surround Olancha—
fifty miles due east of green,
five hours by car,
five days a foot,
no short cuts.
Not to be weaned after years
of grazing cattle between her breasts,
we know the warm shelter of her flesh
apart from unkind men and women
striving for inane advantage
and choose to stay long after death,
stirred and interred between the rocks
where the native midden rests,
where horses hang their heavy heads
awaiting work, where all the gods
have been welcome. The eagle
on the skyline knows our minds,
deciphers gestures, understands
what few humans he’ll ever know
as witness to our wishes.
What sweet perfection, this planet blessed
to feed itself, whose wildness beckons men
to tame her, to milk her flesh for comfort,
for the glory of brief accomplishments—
lost cultures and civilizations, our crumbling
emulations of rocky crags with razor teeth
scraping stormy skies as man’s connection
to heaven. We have been fruitful, hungry
for her bounties hobbled by ignorance,
arrogance and greed. Mother to us all,
she is a stranger to our children, a far cry
from the hard and generous woman
she once was—her distant whine
on the wind from town begs relief
and a certain change in direction.
(click)
