Author Archives: John

This short time—these days,
these years, this life drawn
of earth and flesh, her breath

upon my face. The sun is late
to work, punches-out early
on the ridges. Each oak tree

takes a turn within
reflecting on lemon moons
rising without a rain.

We are hooked, we are trained
to follow every movement
of her hand, our eyes hang

on each stray strand,
each new clue
as to her mood.

This short time for lovers
of shadows on the edge
of pagan space rolls dry leaves

that sound like rain
in the dark of our delirium,
our empty wanting waiting.

This short time for family—
for all the hawks and birds,
for the all the animals,

wild and semi-domestic
that make a living together
in this dry place.

‘As If’

                                                 The world looks
                    tame, but it might go wild, anytime.
                              – William Stafford (“Torque”)

One can’t blame the planet
trying to find its balance,
or wanting to buck loose the load:
daily megatons of consumption
and our never-ending refuse.

Always the would-be trainers
picking at a colt, raking a rowel
and hard in the mouth, always a hole
to escape to. “If he don’t buck,
he sure ought to,” Earl hollers
across the pen to an old showoff
mounting on a loose cinch humping
into a tangle of rusty barbed wire
frozen around its forelegs.

At the heart of this world, wild
and dark extremes are listening,
waiting to fill new holes in the light.
One can’t blame the planet,
or even humanity—it is a perfect
balance of imperfections, just
waiting to go wild, anytime.

Some I remember as mothers
close to the house
calving the first time—

some better than others
raising a calf, breeding
back up the hill

where they came from.
You’ve sorted them
into another pen

with the old and dry,
thin young cows
without a calf,

without grass
or hay enough
to sustain them any longer.

Cutting deeply,
we prune the cowherd
into goosenecks,

save the best wood
for better seasons
when it might rain.

This is husbandry—
no time or space
for frail emotion.

It’s hell to be human
and a joy, as well
depending on poetry

to start your engines.
“Great day for the race!”
my father used to say

as the sun brought
the Kaweahs together
on a flat stream of light

from Sierra peaks
to a crooked string
of cottonwoods

at the bottom
of the watershed,
slow river steaming—

everything was new
and old at once:
that moment.

                                 …carrying through darkness wherever you go
                                 your one little fire that will start again.
                                              – William Stafford (“The Dream Of Now”)

Far too many people in my dream, some dead
trying to divert traffic, but overrun by chaos
spawned by last night’s chili size and onions,

by the two hundred pound rounds of Blue Oak
engineered off the mountain, six empty seats
facing the wood splitter, hands-on instruction

and short entertainment for Christmas
children with more on their minds.
This magic world of possibilities

that’s always been to them
can be deceiving, lead them away
from where little fires come.