Monthly Archives: May 2017

Early Morning Light

 

 

BEFORE OUR EYES

 

 

Growing into horseback dreams
takes time and dedication for little girls,
pushing cattle where the feed can be

heavenly on the good years—a home
for heifers and their first calf—
we’ve watched her grow to be good help,

to hold her own over years
of pillowed nights imagining—all
come true right before our eyes.

                                                 for Allie

 

Echinopsis w/ Leafhoppers

 

 

A short pause for this year’s one-day bloom that usually occurs around Mother’s Day, more flamboyant, it seems, this year, complete with leafhoppers that have overrun the garden. Once stirred, the bugs blindly assault every orifice, eyes, ears, nose and mouth. The hatch should run its course in two or three weeks, however the mosquitos will be with us all summer. Our weather has warmed to 100 degrees as we begin our workdays earlier, palpating heifers, moving cattle and weaning calves, as we try to find a pace that we can maintain for the next thirty or so days.

 

 

RETURN

 

 

                                        It is time for us to kiss the earth again.
                                             – Robinson Jeffers (“Return”)

We have wandered far from the roots
of our sustenance, the bloom and fruit—
with rain the eager volunteers of stalk

and seed and the herds of harvesters
that circumnavigate uneven ground
and till tomorrow’s table full. We have

lost touch, lost taste, lost our senses
for living well, close to the smell of dirt
from whence we’ve come and will rest

in the end. Instead we let our minds’
appetite for the scandalous fill hungry heads
with acrimony and self-righteousness

to feed another uncivil war. It’s time
for us to stop—take the time to kiss
this earth dressed in her many splendors.

 

TELEPATHY

 

 

Quietly reading cattle
and one another,
prolonged moments
when words come too late
to be applicable—

no room for poetry,
no time to edit—
it is a dance instead,
a gentle rhythm
of man and beast

expressed privately,
a sixth sense
we take for granted
after a lifetime
sorting cattle.

 

IN-BEWTEEN (reblog)

 

 

                    A lie told once remains a lie, but a lie told
                    a thousand times becomes the truth.

                           – Joseph Goebbels, Minister of Propaganda, Nazi Germany

Remove yourself.
Go outside alone.
Find a flowerbed,
some earth to turn
with your hands.
See history fall
between your fingers:
old leaves and roots,
bugs and worms—
this is truth.

Out here,
we watch money
come and go,
but a man’s word
is all he is,
his handshake bond—
once broken
not depended on,
of little use.
Twice broken
he is scorned,
ostracized and ignored.

Life must be too easy
to entertain deceit
on stage, to play
make-believe
with humanity.
Out here, we know
the ending—
but not what happens
in-between.

                                        for Leonard Durso

 

Haystack Owls…

 

 

…hissing.

 

AWAKENING

 

 

First cup of coffee
and Nicorette gum rush
to startle the senses
still slumbering
in the shadows of dawn.

The slow retreat of dreams
replayed on hillsides,
circumstances stashed
among others
in the rocks and crevices,

deep within hidden canyons
worn by centuries of rain,
for safekeeping—
unforgiving places
you may not want to ride,

reserved spaces
collecting wild regrets
with reveries—
first drafts
of uncompleted poetry.

 

FIRST LIGHT

 

 

Night shrinks into shadows rising
to ridges trimmed in gold, the day
awakes with or without us.

 

EVERYMAN, A MOTHER

 

 

We haven’t talked in months
in our dreams,
in how we look at things
living and dead—
I see what you see,

even what you thought
you saw
your mother saw
through her own,
and so on.

Everywoman’s chance
to change the world—
the look of things
that lingers
after life has gone

into the hills
dressed in gossamer
night clothes
to rest, to wait
to be seen.