In the days before TV
I’d wake to the smell of bacon,
Dad in the narrow kitchen
of the Coffelt house, the radio
reporting war, bombs and fighter jets
over the Suez Canal
I was afraid too close
to our local news and weather report.
I first remember my mother
talking to herself
in that same kitchen
and asking who she was talking to
more often now
as my alter ego
impulsively shares
some candid humor
with and about myself.
The sycamores are pushing leaves
against green hillsides along the creek—
thin clouds smeared upon blue seas
above fresh snow upstream, and we
old timers wait for the wildflowers
we remember, their names and faces
begging for a moment in the sun
far from the news in Washington.
Thank God it finally rained after months
of fog, the only moisture to keep the grass
alive, and only now does it start to grow
after the frost and freezing mornings
that make strong feed. You can see it piled
behind the heifers, instead of puddles,
licking themselves as if their coats
were combed with gobs of Brylcreem.
It’s the little things that tell the story
I’m looking for—Baby Blue Eyes,
Mariposa Lillies and Pretty Faces
to greet me spring mornings.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2026, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged heifers, photography, poetry, strong feed, wildflowers
Sunday morning’s horoscope suggests
why not write some poetry
planets aligned for me to be
feeling especially inspired or artistic
and I try, despite the broken tooth
too short to extract with vice grips,
crumbling, throbbing with coffee.
Devastation at the distant feral cat’s
food down at the shop, a raccoon,
I suspect, stuck in the small door
cut in its thirty-gallon cover.
I envision the coon panicked, flipping over—
kibble scattered like gravel,
empty dishes upside down, secret
humor as I reclaim the mess.
And the weeds we sprayed yesterday
from the welcome rains that washed-out
all the fences across the creek
between neighbors, their cattle
headed south, tentatively exploring
our empty pasture across from the house.
Dark shadows shrink upon the green,
a picturesque pre-spring day
in-the-making. I sip cold coffee and wait.
Posted in Poems 2026, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged astrology, catfood, everyday, photography, poetry, raccoon, rain, watergaps, weedspray
Wild, rough and rocky,
Chemise and Manzanita pulling at my jacket’s sleeve,
we followed a few cows and calves off the hill
towards the corrals below before a branding
people scurrying to set the gates
as we drew closer, you among them
dashing with athletic grace
that captured my attention—
young bull, thirty-seven years ago,
six years friends, before asking
in a poem
would you be my Valentine?
We know the dogs’ bark,
coyote, cat, snake or stranger,
the horses’ snort or far off stare
at movement in the pasture.
We understand the nervous
titter of quail on patrol,
the cackle of blackbirds,
even the lonely owl’s deep hoot
just before dawn along
with the roadrunners’ redundant
chants of answers:
location, location, location!
The Buckeye forecasts spring
with premature greenery,
and the southwest wind
whispers a little rain.
All around us family,
each with a job to do
protecting what we have
in the middle of nowhere.
Posted in Poems 2026, poetry
Tagged animals, birds, communication, language, nature, poetry
After a long life
I fill the space
of yesterday’s endeavors
with misplaced memories,
hidden in the refuse
of persistent progress
to be replayed
in vivid detail
as if in order, like
Carrol Peck’s red
five-cent Coke machine
in the Naranjo packing house
before it burned down
at the railhead—its line
of women sizing, packing oranges,
bustling traffic of Okie boys
swamping field boxes
with hand trucks
across the wooden floor
for the next iced-down railcar
heading East.
Red (the only color in the place)
with its white 5¢ script
marking from where I’ve come.
Posted in Poems 2026, poetry
Tagged Coca Cola, Coke, dementia, memory, oranges, packing house
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We branded another bunch on the calf table yesterday, labeled by longtime neighbor Earl McKee as the “Iron Roper”.
The transition from heading and heeling our calves has been smooth, giving us the advantage of branding on short notice as opposed to inviting ropers days in advance during a busy branding season. Though not as much fun, we can get the job done quicker and with less people. We also think it’s easier on the calves not being drug across the corral waiting to be heeled, and keeping the bull calves off the ground while being castrated is also more sanitary.
In any event, it’s also easier on us and our close neighbors, but each to his own, we’ve been there.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged branding, calf table, heading and heeling, old people
We filled buckets of mushrooms
my mother’s grumpy father and I
freshly instructed at ten
what toadstools looked like.
I brought my share home for a panful
of wild slathered in garlic and butter
but got the blame
for my father’s upset stomach.
Back when I was invincible,
riskng chance with circumstance,
I filled buckets on my own
as the ground warmed after rain.
And today, freckled-capped colonies
claiming fresh green beckon me,
pink or brown underneath,
to taste one more time.
I count the barks in the dark
before sunrise, dog on the job
as I try to cypher who intrudes
our tranquility—so much like
tragic news in the daylight
hunting humanity and me
after the primal bellowing
of bulls echo the canyon,
or the solo owl in a nearby oak
searches for an answer,
as joyous choruses of coyotes
find one another
before the day’s work
of stalking rodents
or claiming carrion.
Earthbound, they can’t fathom
the news I hear and read,
feel it clutch mind and heart,
the wounded part of me
cut both ways
for being human.
drycrikjournal 