Author Archives: John

Always that little bit of friction
among the gods, here and there—
storms and no storms that we
pretend not to notice, not to upset
the balance of all things. They
envy us from their perfect perspectives,
and therein the perfect flaw
that keeps things churning like leaves
within the flesh, old age glimpses
of more going-on on the periphery.

The story starts where the weather left us
blown off course, or digging out from under
too much of a good thing gone bad, where
a writer develops raw-boned characters
to shape the real deal. Dad was shipping
thin steers the day I was born in the rain,
come too late to help. Since, my dry skin
craves a storm, cold raindrops blurring eyes
to cry with joy or pain—for my flesh
to rise and grin at God over and over again.

You ought to know everything by now,
every cow, horse, goat, sheep,
chicken on this ranch, every irrigated crop,

every gate that swings unlocked—
yet you want more paperwork, more
information to punch in your computers,

then hire an army for analysis
before we run out of food. We are old
and tired, our kids split for town.

But you ought to know everything
by now, how to plant some seed
to raise a crop so you can eat.

The metallic sound of machine guns
in the orchard, woodpeckers on idle
smudge pots around Christmas Day.

We played army, built forts
of walnut leaves, killed regiments
of Japs and Jerries as Korea waged.

Only coyotes on my hit list now
that I am older, caring more for
a live calf than a cunning predator

with a taste for veal instead
of a ground squirrel—peace
only a moment between wars.

                    Some photographers take reality… and impose the domination
                    of their own thought and spirit. Others come before reality more
                    tenderly and a photograph to them is an instrument of love                     and revelation. – Ansel Adams

                    Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting                     that is felt rather than seen. – Leonardo da Vinci

The blessing is a breeze—
one more cool breath
on damp skin
I begin to count,
test and tease
to elevate my spirit
mowing September’s lawn.

Few of the harsh natures
we claim we control—
keep confined like
biting dogs grinning
into that same breeze—
can we look in the eye
to find tender reflection:

all the good and evil
gods ingrained
in the details:
the tamarack’s twist
of pain or the hawk’s
hooked beak still
living beyond us.