It’s not a clean world
where frogs can live like kings
on their own island
apart from the main
stream, where stagnant
boils under the summer sun
with new life they trust
will keep them fed
tomorrow. So far
from our marsh
and mire beginnings,
we tidy up instead.
After fifty years of forgetting
bras and draft cards burning
in a pile on the quad, the colors
red and green every night on TV,
Viet Nam stares me in the face
on a gate that protects the scales
where we weigh cattle, far
in every sense from those days.
A silent nod for Rod and Bill,
for Joel and Waddie, for all
the cowboys who can’t balance
surviving fifty years to zero.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016
It’s hard to like summer in the San Joaquin, but my friend Barry Iden suggested that the only good thing about it are the tomatoes, alluding to the fruit and vegetables from our gardens. But full-time jobs when I think about the man, and mostly woman-hours, spent to germinate, plant, irrigate, weed, thin and pick the assorted crops, when I think about the ground squirrels that denuded our apple and pear trees last year, the raccoon families feasting at night and the risk of rattlesnakes lounging in the garden’s damp lushness. If time and money were the only considerations, it might be more economic to shop in town. But last night’s sliced, vine ripe tomatoes with salt, pepper and volunteer basil are not available just anywhere.
With more than half of June thus far over 100° and less than a week away from Summer Solstice, we’re in production: raspberries, strawberries, early peaches and apricots, we’ve fed the neighbors who in turn bring part of their own harvests. And that too, the exchange of produce that brings us together, a throwback to the old ways that makes summer in the San Joaquin more than bearable, but enjoyable.
Last of our crop of weaned steer calves head to town this morning.
Five years of service: docile daughters
who have daughters of their own
camouflaged in black with bone,
he’s left his stamp, gets along
without much help, keeps the peace
when all the bulls are grumbling
on vacation in the shade. Another world
within the one we own, he could be
human, but with a better disposition.
for Loren Mrnak
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged Mrnak Herefords West, photography, poetry
Education was cheaper in the old days
when we memorized dates, declined verbs
and parsed sentences to pieces—
fell in and out of love like puppies
chasing the next pair of shoes
to try on, or not—that’s how we learned
about ourselves. All my teachers are gone,
or busy getting old, but their younger selves
reside in my brain, fuzzy faces reminding me
that honesty is terribly hard to come by.
Everything we need to know is almost free:
an easy payment plan as long as I remember.
Doctoring eyes again this a.m. in our last big bunch of weaned calves, a problem exacerbated by tall feed. Temperatures have been running over 100 degrees, the creek’s quit running, summer’s here.
We’ve another small bunch of calves yet to gather and wean and then we’ll be done with weaning. Dark mornings and high heat have tempered my posting here. Not much in the mood for poetry or photography, but nothing stays the same ( I hope).
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged photography, Ranch Journal, tall feed, weaning
drycrikjournal 