Author Archives: John

BULLSEYE

Posted on March 10, 2015 | 2 comments

 

Sierra Shooting Star (Dodecatheon jeffreyi) – March 3, 2015

Sierra Shooting Star (Dodecatheon jeffreyi) – March 3, 2015

 

Somewhere it’s raining
lavender stars in my dreams
awaiting impact.

 

 

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Posted in Haiku 2015, Photographs, Poems 2015

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TIME CHANGE

Posted on March 9, 2015 | 9 comments

 

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Early yet in an early spring,
growing patches, orange-gold,
claim open slopes like flames,

Fiddleneck between gray skeletons
of Blue Oaks pushing bud,
feathery translucent leaves

where the gods walk ridges,
wave hands to paint,
adding color to hillside green

we’ve not seen tall in years.
Out of dust and naked dirt,
new mosaics, lush with moments,

openings for everything put off
in drouth—real work we absorb,
take our sweet time to recognize.

 

 

WPC(2) — “Orange”

 

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Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015, Ranch Journal

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Pygmy Poppy Eschscholzia minutiflora

Posted on March 8, 2015 | Leave a comment
February 24, 2015

February 24, 2015

 

March 3, 2015

March 3, 2015

 

March 3, 2015

March 3, 2015

 

March 3, 2015

March 3, 2015

 

I first spotted these flowers in March 2012, misidentifying them as Hill Sun Cups, then, due to drought conditions, only saw them briefly again in 2014. At two locations across the creek and east of the house about 1/4 mile, they began blooming in late February of 2015.

According to the Calflora map, this is the northernmost sighting west of the Sierras. Not a rare species, if confines itself to Southern California and east of the Sierras. Always nice to find a wildflower established beyond its normal range.

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NARANJA

Posted on March 7, 2015 | 12 comments

 

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Beginning to end,
tender loins and fruit on fire
finding Nirvana.

 

 

WPC(1) — “Orange”

 

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BIRD’S EYE GILIA

Posted on March 7, 2015 | 1 comment

 

Gilia Tricolor - March 3, 2015

Gilia Tricolor – March 3, 2015

 

Everyone wants a turn
to be in perfect focus,
too many to count.

 

 

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Agoseris

Posted on March 6, 2015 | 1 comment

 

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Hard to concentrate
under the camera lens
interrupting work.

 

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ON GREEN, ON GRAY

Posted on March 5, 2015 | 13 comments

 

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Haven’t wondered about Heaven
since Sunday school’s cold
pearly gates and alabaster walls

seemed drab by comparison,
and the blinding shine of silver
and gold eternities much too bright

even for the pure. Out of dust
and dirt we rise, generations
personified in living colors.

We need not preach poetry
or pray for more than what’s
before us full with awe—

small enough to see through
purple stems of Wild Hyacinth
on green, on gray—I believe.

 

 

WPC(3) — “Reward”

 

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No, Virginia

Posted on March 4, 2015 | 8 comments

 

March 3, 2015

Top of Sulphur – March 3, 2015

 

…you’re not the only ones
who don’t get ‘em all
gathered and branded:

mothers friends, born
and raised together
in trees tangled with brush,

running mates escaping
the Horse Lot in Greasy.
You were there when

they bolted at the sight
of more cowboys
than they’d ever seen—

panicked partners on a whim
hell bent through the fence
for the safety of home

will never know the ropes,
our hot iron or knife,
headache of dehorning

for the fifty pounds
of recuperation. Not worth
it now to anyone.

                                          for Virginia McKee

 

 

WPC(2) — “Reward”

 

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SHOOTING STARS

Posted on March 4, 2015 | 4 comments

 

Sierra Shooting Star (Dodecatheon jeffreyi) - March 3, 2015

Sierra Shooting Star (Dodecatheon jeffreyi) – March 3, 2015

 

No wildflower man, but of all he saw
worth a mention once or twice
in his lifetime—suggesting value

in the time invested for a boy’s
inspection. Too delicate to touch,
what could we know of grace

refined by harsh survival,
each tangent honed to fit and fly
by millennia of failures?

Perhaps heaven-sent by night
to find transcending daylight
well-apart from the myopic zeal

of mortals, these long stems arched
above the grass on steep and damp
north slopes just waiting to be seen.

 

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RAIN IN THE GROUND

Posted on March 3, 2015 | 5 comments

 

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Perfect for early bloomers,
Fiddleneck, White-veined Mallow,
London Rockets pale the pasture.

Rain in the ground, thick Filaree
overreaches like loose-fringed
lettuce for more—more of the same.

Grass ahead of the cattle, it’s war—
every seed battling for real estate,
real dirt damp, for sun and rain,

green hills puddled with spilt paint.
Everything perfect on it’s own, yet
I fret with the brittle momentum

of lean, dry years—months of dust
and hay—a hard pace that interferes
with becoming forgiving as this ground

exploding in all the colors of rain.
Desperately, I reach through
early morning black for light.

 

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