In the caves, long shadows of dancing
girls distort and disappear, the echoes
of barkers overlap, every alcove serves
booze and food as we pass one another
staring onward, believing we follow
a thread through the maze. Outside,
on the surface, it sometimes storms—
we watch dismayed and thankful.
There are reasons we bunch together,
build forts and send out patrols
for fears we cannot face or discuss—
always the enemy, we live in caves.
Posted in Poems 2011
Small for easy calving, these Wagyu-cross calves are a week or less old and come in interesting colors. All of our heifers have Angus breeding, though some may have Hereford sires and show the red. The Wagyu influence is mostly black, but can bring shades of gray, brown and red from of our black white-face and Hereford-looking heifers. I am relieved to see them setting-up nurseries and babysitting, adding some stability to their maternity wards.
That peaceful earth, the one with open
arms, meadows, peaks and streams
to stage our dreams—within a perfect
backdrop tucked away from urgency
compressed, gridlock escapes and dark
alley nightmares—we love and lust
for her, believing she will always be
to receive our desperate wanting, that
she has not changed, that she is not
the same woman who quakes with fury,
spews fire and storms fear wherever
she wants, for whatever reason, whim
or consequence. She is alive, a human
goddess trying to hold it together
under pressures to be reckoned with.
Posted in Photographs
We have about 20 x-bred Wagyu calves on the ground, most born in the past week. For whatever reasons, the first calf born on the 5th didn’t make it, a bit of a premie perhaps, or a single mom with no maternal group support, or perhaps it succumbed to the coyotes that have been skulking every fresh birthing place. Showing their nervousness, some of the heifers have chosen the canyons and draws away from the bunch to have their calves, and are fairly easy to read when a coyote’s nearby, oftentimes standing over their calf asleep between their legs. For 1st calf heifers, their instincts are admirable and amazing. I just can’t imagine a better mother than a cow.
Sweet conjecture,
that plane of possibility
between earth and sky,
a space that speaks
a common language
with the eyes
recording reaction,
replaying surprise
without words, yet
we try painting
moments, matching
colors, so as not to forget,
blending sounds
into a song
to carry in our heads—
small reminders
to hang in the hall
like windows, open.
Posted in Poems 2011
My father plied economics
to everything—cows, feed
and even rain, hoping
his demand for wonder
might supply it. Greenheads
rising from the cattails,
sunrise cut and streaked
into separate beams
by Sawtooth and the Kaweahs,
he looked for God beyond
the numbers, and saw
enough to be disappointed
in mankind. He spared
our living with his being
right in ninety-seven,
spared the politicians
written lectures, and left
to watch the show—
forever assured
that no tree grows
to the sky.
Posted in Poems 2011
The war, before me, unfolds
with the flag, chills of inhumanity
roll up my back and bunch
in my shoulders after clearing
my parents’ shelves of mementos,
Japanese and Russian knick-knacks,
hand-painted Imari and little,
black lacquered boxes. I feel myself
become oppressed, cornered
and cowering before this muslin
flag, indoors for more than three
score years—not one frayed thread
unfolded by squares of bright red,
around a clean quarter-circle of white
with one bent, black limb
of Hitler’s swastika. St. Vith?
my son somewhere in Belgium.
Refolded, what does a man do
with such a prize? Give it away,
sell it on ebay, or keep it hidden
with his guns and ammunition?
Posted in Poems 2011
Blond on black,
a filigree of empty shells on long stems bent
to new life trembling in a breeze, the light
and hollow grace of late spring rains, these
wild oats arched, these sun-bleached skeletons
that remain, concealing the first throbs of heart
driven by instinct apart from the cowherd.
Sometimes we cannot see, cannot find
what she has hidden, despite curious coyote
pups skulking in the shade, ravens in trees.
Sometimes we miss the miracle of cycles,
the circles of rain—think each day the same.
These old hills come alive, inhale in long
shadows of oaks shedding leaves and acorns.
The invitations have been sent, bulk mail
on gusts to everyone, but only the wild respond.
We are born to see the light.
Ask the new calf this morning
early, after its first day
of incessant licking while
wobbling along her belly,
to nose the warm bag
swelling with nourishment,
just to close its eyes
when put to bed that first time—
back into that blackness
safe between a fallen limb
and the trunk of an oak tree.
Everything is new and disconnected
when its eyes open again
to see what it smells
or stumbles over, listening
for a voice, always known,
to find her beautiful.
Posted in Poems 2011
Awaiting daylight, a loose script plays out
between slowing-moving heifers, curious
and confused by so much visiting,
a load of hay for the next female graduates
and a pasture full of bull dreams, early
postures for winter release, bellows
at the feeder while a pump fills a tank,
with the well-worn routines in between—
an hour and a half of darkness and
a good storm of words away. This is not
for the young—way too tame to corral
the blood, the mind, the heart pacing
the gate to a panorama of possibility,
another plane beyond this mundane plod
through days and seasons changing,
our cycles of grass and calves, promises
sure as thick-bodied sycamores cling
to the creek bank, or like cobbles caged
in their tangled roots. Awaiting daylight,
our script unfurls again into the infinite
and moonless black, awaiting rain.
Posted in Poems 2011
Another Babysitter
Babysitter
Blond on Black
drycrikjournal 