Monthly Archives: January 2015

Ramblin’ Jack



I’ll be thinking of my friend Jack this coming week in Elko, Nevada, one of the first hands I shook at the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in 1989, as we waited to get our schedule of sessions, poetry and song. I had to introduce myself, having watched him perform at the Ashgrove many times in the late 60s. Our direct link to Woody Guthrie and the pure heart of the working man, he’s been magically expressing himself on stage for over 60 years.



WPC — “Express Yourself”



Twining Brodeaia - May 1, 2011

Twining Brodeaia – May 1, 2011


Late to the party
in the thick of spring—
just chasing space and sunlight.




Sierra Tidy Tips - May 15, 2011

Sierra Tidy Tips – May 15, 2011


On the edge of where I’ve been
a vaster world waits
for me to arrive.














The big dogs are drilling deeper,
pumping the last of a million years
of underground water, each river

dammed into furrows to farm
the empty Laguna de Tache.
Sixty years ago, when red lights

stopped in every railroad town,
colorful cornucopias spilled
from billboards onto Highway 99

bragging fruit or vegetable capitals
of another world, and huge Big Oranges
squeezed juice every ten miles.

On the semi-arid edge of change,
we beg for rain and dream of floods
to take this Valley back in time.


                    *     *     *


1876 Tulare County Map

Wiki: Laguna de Tache, Tulare Lake





Easter 2014

Easter 2014


After rain in spring, I see my father
standing among a half-dozen others
atop fresh mounds of dirt, hear him

praise the Great Blue Heron as the best
‘gopher-getter around’. As the creek
warms, he glides up canyon early,

spends his days wading shallows,
coasting home in the gloaming.
Punctual, you could set your watch

by his circles to work each day,
depending on season and crop.
When it all mattered too much,

he’d slip up the road to check
the feed and fences, the condition
of my cows grazing with his herons.




March 10, 2014

March 10, 2014


Riding rafts of red above
clouds of dust,
we could breathe for a moment.






How easily she could say,
‘it’s all in your mind—’
deny, dismiss what she knew

could be true, if we let it
when we were children
pretending to be grown up—

playing games
with our imaginations,
mornings drumming music

on eucalyptus roots
before the school bus stopped
our spontaneous chants.

With rusty tools and sticks,
horse drawn relics
and Model T wrecks

we took off for town—
took turns driving
wild steeds or hot rod cars

depending on time—just
as much as we wanted
to get there.



WPC(4) — “Serenity”





Looking back at tracks in the clouds,
you spring the gate closed—
trapped forever.



WPC(3) — “Serenity”





Unfolding into space, hills
from peaks to plains unending
time beyond and past

the horizons of this moment
resting among the eroded
where I am near-nothing,

these specks of rock
spread out before me
like petals opening—

my nakedness
laid bare
as part of the landscape.



WPC(2) — “Serenity”




IMG_1703 - Version 2


Fence of my youth still standing
where birds of prey rest,
repair for soaring.



WPC(1) — “Serenity”