Author Archives: John

2012 New Year’s Wish

Between Christmas and New Year’s Day, it’s difficult to get much accomplished, especially if one’s blessed with good rains, when it’s too wet for agriculturists to get off the asphalt. The same is the case, it seems, among professionals, the doctors, lawyers and accountants in town, in County offices, all prolonging their Christmas holidays as long as possible, but most apparent in Washington where Congress and the President are playing chicken with all the rest of us on board, on the edge of a ‘fiscal cliff’.

Fat, dumb and happy to be taken for a ride, we really don’t know how bad the wreck is going to be. But how much influence does the government really have over our lives, one wonders, especially when having to resort to fear and terror for the past few years to regain control of the herd. Have they cried ‘wolf’ one too many times? Or is this our due reward, as a nation, for charging almost everything we consume to the future.

Hard times are apparent all over the world in the media, nations afflicted with the same financial maladies, individual vignettes of unemployment and despair in the U.S., yet here on the ranch it’s business as usual. Most mom and pop cattle operations are fairly self-sufficient, trying get the work done and pay the bills, deal with emergencies and changes in the weather. We don’t see much of the unemployed, no one knocks on the door looking for work anymore, and nowadays, with all the bookkeeping and costs of a payroll required for hiring someone, plus the potential liability, we are much too small to afford employees.

Apart from the media trying to sell ads, Wall Street seems the most attentive to budget negotiations in Washington—the same outfit, I’m sorry to say, that brought us the housing bubble and bank collapses that have resulted in our latest recession. Wall Street is generally the harbinger for the economy, where the so-called astute bet which way it’s headed. But most of the rest of us are so tired of the hype, so disgusted with our political representatives, so helpless in this postured spin of blame and misinformation, we have no other choice but to wait and see.

My wish for the New Year is that we make our representatives accountable, expose their benefits and pensions, and require by vote that they abide by the same rules and regulations as the rest of us—get lean. It’s been a back-slapping shindig for far too long in Washington, sponsored and paid for by taxpayers and lobbyists. For so long, I fear, that they may have forgotten how to get their work done.

WHAT SMALL DEVICE…

has begun so many blank sheets,
overlooked details that could, and do,
make all the difference in a life—

or our perception of it. Even the great
magnificences of nature are attended by insects
and disease. Only one of the Seven Wonders

left to see. The oceans dine at shorelines,
valleys rise and mountains crumble
as the earth breathes. No moment is permanent,

even in poetry, and especially in dreams
when sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference
as we progress into a perfect world of change.

We have become the little people of the planet
hanging-on to whatever busyness sustains us,
entertained by dramatic storylines designed

to sell more of the same—and we buy it,
invest in it, hoping someday to escape
our choices, which we will in due time.

Overnight between rains, the creek has returned
to clear its bed, pushing rafts of sycamore leaves
before it. We are, once more, rich for the moment.

 

Maerten van Heemskerck (1498-1574) - Panorama with the Abduction of Helen Amidst the Wonders of the Ancient World - Walters 37656.jpg

Maerten van Heemskerck (1498-1574) – Panorama with the Abduction of Helen Amidst the Wonders of the Ancient World – Walters 37656.jpg

THE MIRACLE OF RAIN

                                    A science which does not bring us
                                    nearer to God is worthless.

                                                – Simone Weil (“Waiting for God”)

I follow the raindrops up—
a tricky ascension from wet ground
to a cold, leaky cloud held
in place by the Sierras,
yet gravity keeps my feet in the mud.

I send my mind instead,
pummeled by pellets
until it rests well above my flesh
in a swirl of cooling gases
to float upon fresh water

risen and distilled from the Pacific,
from around an impure world.
Our breath and flesh is washed with it,
leaves and landscape, yesterday’s
tracks erased when the sun shines,

the earth renewed once more.
I step off on Sulphur Peak
and slide through poison oak
into the East Fork, then follow the creek
to the smoke from our woodstove.

SINCE THE END OF THE WORLD, CHRISTMAS 2012

If cows know rising from their knees
in new feed, it doesn’t show—faces
of calves matted with milk grinning
with greed, speak opulence, satisfied
with rain, everyday a holiday it seems.

Horses wait at mangers, nip, kick and claim
their places early for the same leafy flakes,
from the same alfalfa field as yesterday,
as if unruly children jostling for ice cream
and homemade chocolate frosting—

like any other day. No one has told
the hawks on gliding surveys of the dawn,
nor the Rock Wren gleaning the window screen,
nor the gray wave of quail on patrol, spilling
from rockpiles, that it’s Christmas morning.

They have no sins, no savior, no gods
other than the ever-changing feel of things
that move them from moment to moment
to make the best of today—they have
no need to celebrate any other.

                           Season’s Greetings

                                                                                                                        

IMG_1840

                                        

                                                                                                                        from Dry Creek
                                                                                                                        

THE UNTAMED GODS

To the hollows between the flats and mountain peaks
they have retreated, made homes of nothing and revere
their privacy, neither shy nor powerless, prefer

the wild and all the undefined sensibilities
to glide with Red Tails investigating each new intruder.
You might not ever see them, yet you feel

their presence in the crowns of trees, around rockpiles
and upon the ridges resting, watching—another ethic
here among them, for the living, for all flesh they envy,

yet neither slowed nor burdened by. A flutter in a bush,
a glint of sun on the wing, a glimpse of more beyond
a moment’s pause with endless time on their hands.

WHERE IS SHAKESPEARE?

A political poem wants equal time,
begs for space, but by the second stanza,
I cut it short of hopeless—you see

what’s happened, we turned it over
for someone else to run, like the garbage
and sewer, keeping our hands and noses

clean while chasing rainbows: all the new
ads for comfort and joy that we believe
we deserve. I’m guilty, turned my back

on the dramas and the bad actors
who have forgotten their lines, forgotten
who they’re working for or why.

SOLSTICE 2012

Mud and wet outside, short glass with ice,
Straight Kentucky Bourbon afternoon
between rains forecast for the next two weeks—
cattle fed and work done around a nap
and half-a-dozen postponed phone calls,
greening ridgetops cut sharply out of a gray sky,
I play self-indulgently on paper. Naked,
white slope of Redwood Mountain peeking
downcanyon at the pool of Blue Oaks, all
but undressed when the ground drinks
and promises prosperity: add water to
instant grass, lush color almost every year—
yet no two the same. The old sycamores burn
fat flames in the cold along the creek, loose
fire at their feet, glow in the woodstove.

It may be unnecessary to cut the dead up, stack
and pack the ashes out just to stay warm, waste
hours that could be spent consuming, charging
more for energy other than our own.

The sun finds a hole, sets pink on the snow
like an iridescent beacon at tunnel’s end
upcanyon—summer grass for Cutler cattle—
not bad today, even though the world has
gone to hell and won’t last long at this rate,
playing policeman for the planet. Everyone
has a big gun nowadays. It doesn’t pay
to have wealth, fame or power when the game
is ‘bout over, if there is no future left.

We manage somehow, patch the hull, survive
the egos and evolve quickly—seldom a good sign
unless you are a ravenous pest or mutating disease.
We mustn’t forget what has forged and tempered us,
drawn our genetics to this spot in time and space—
assuming reason, purpose and the all the rest of it.
We try once more with another miracle of rain.

BOTTOM LAND

                    Just write on my tombstone, Lord if I get a tombstone,
                    Or maybe just a honky-tonk wall,
                    That he was crazy for ladies, Lord, and guitars and babies
                    And a damned old fool for the waltz.

                              – Kell Robertson (“I Always Loved A Waltz”)

I imagine Kell and Scott have lots to talk about
in the poets’ corner of eternity, sorted-off
Bright Halo Street, jamming like they did
in that Durango motel, circling a gallon jug
around a dark, smoky room in gulps
of mutual approval, red wine, poetry and song
that no one will remember when I’m gone.

It will be good to see them on the curb,
guitar and backbeat drum, writing songs
for the small crowd down at Judas Tavern—
it’s an easy but sad place to write from.
We talked about it, asked honestly
if we don’t derail our own trains
just to have something new to write about?
Something good pulled from deep within
the desperate core of Everyman and Woman.

Ferlinghetti got it, saw poetry lose touch—
but not Kell and Scott: they kept the sweet
and weak away, didn’t play fancy shindigs.
Fence lines sag along the black bottom
farm land in southeast Kansas before
they become supermarket parking lots, but
“all I can see is what we’ve lost.”

                                        for Kell Robertson and Scott Preston

*     *     *     *     *     *     

from Dry Crik Review, Fall 1991

THE NEW MIGRATION

They escape to the central
Idaho Rockies
900 miles from the main office
in downtown L.A.
140 miles from the nearest
major airline
14 miles from the airport
three-quarters of mile up some
narrow draw
where they drop seven figures
on 6 or 8 thousand square feet
on a streambank
they’ll use a dozen times a year.
They install digital
burglar alarm & security systems
intercoms & push button combinations
that automate a massive gate
fashioned from the rustic hewn timbers
& a live in caretaker who doubles
as a trespasser heavy. Their
phone number is unlisted
no number on the gate
the driveway curves into infinity
six months of the year it’s
impassable with snow
& they bitch about why their Fedex
is guaranteed by noon instead
of 10:30.

                              – Scott Preston

 

THE OLD MAN GOES HOME

Under the discount store
the fast food place
the furniture outlet
under all that asphalt
is one of the best chunks
of black bottom farm land
in southeast Kansas.
My granddad grew corn
wheat, oats and alfalfa,
rotating the crops by
his almanac and the taste
of the dirt, and there
under that corner
my grandma’s garden grew.
The house was somewhere
near the bicycle rack
and the barn was where
they have that bank
of video games.
Under all this asphalt and concrete
plastic and steel, I learned to cut
a calf, learned to drive a team of horses,
learned to work in this earth
and in that barn, learned
from a third cousin who
teetered on the edge of womanhood
another meaning for kisses
beyond the peck on the cheek
I got from grandma.
I close my eyes and see it,
butt my way under that old Jersey cow
squirt the hot steaming milk
into the cold tin bucket, hear
the hogs snorting around for slops
we saved for them.

I open my eyes and almost
get run over by a housewife
with a buggy full of disposable diapers
and sugar-coated cereals.

The security guard takes my arm, asks
if I’m alright, leads me out into the parking lot
asks me what I’m doing there if I’m not
going to buy anything.

I’m visiting my granddad’s farm I say
underneath all this crap
is the sweetest little farm
in southeast Kansas.

Walking away
into the shimmering heat
rising from the parking lot
I swear I hear
grandma calling us for supper.
There’ll be beans and cornbread
and iced tea…tomorrow we’ll start
plowing the lower forty.
Then we’ll come home and sit
on the front porch, watching the dogs
playing in the yard, dreaming
of going to town next week
to sell some hay and get
a store-bought hat
to wear at the dance at the Grange Hall.
Maybe my cousin will be there
and she’ll teach me more
about this kissing business.

Right now
Looking back at the parking lot
full of people doing something

all I can see is what we’ve lost.

                              – Kell Robertson

NOT THE STARS

                                        Both man and cat are bathed in pleasant
                                        insignificance, their eyes fixed on birds and stars.

                                                            – Jim Harrison (“Searchers”)

And when we do look up, unplug our eyes from electronics,
disconnect and free our friends stored inside pocket devices—
the stage is a blur, a swirl of colors, tilting, we must navigate

and find a rhythm we can move to. Focus comes slowly,
footing falters and we are lost for a moment outside
ourselves to reach for the railing, reeling in another world.

A wave of gray rolls across the yard, a covey of round hens
and strutting fat cocks, topnotches bobbing, pecking, watching
for the cat, invading the brown winter lawn as if we were not here,

not responsible for this destination they act like they own.
Even the woodpeckers test the logs since we put the pellet gun
away. The wrens work the window screens, we have become

just another tree among millions, another weakening stand
in this canyon trying to get along with our closest neighbors,
who entertain us constantly. We are the audience, not the stars.