Dawn near the Solstice, shadows
seem to shrink in the same places
on the hillsides where cattle graze
towards midday shade, oblivious
to the hackneyed news of war
‘to end all wars’ my whole lifetime
promising everlasting peace—
one way or another now
on the cusp of my reward.
Pale ribbon of dawn—
war fears rise
as somewhere east of here
helter-skelter backroom maneuvers
make knights of pawns.
One more war to end all wars
hangs in the heavens—
one more barren planet
to explore
when your work is done.
Perhaps a better day awaits,
a better way to stifle the narcissistic
egos bent on power, born of greed.
But it must trickle to truly flourish
from the bare ground up.
Blessed are the meek
for they shall inherit the earth.
– Matthew 5.5
Posted in Poems 2025, poetry
Tagged Beatitudes, Jonathon Swift, meek, poetry, trickle down, trickle up, war
Lesley Fry found this thistle (Cirsium occidentale var. californicum) on our Paregien Ranch to add to our wildflower collection.
Summer heat intense enough
to forget the rainy days beyond
the blinding sheets of delirium
framed in flames. The trickle
of the creek shrinks each day
as young cows bring calves down
to shade and well-water
before we gather to wean—
first-calvers looking for relief,
yearning for those days of virginity,
of curious discovery free
from bovine responsibilities.
Never in this world the same,
yet no better mother than a cow—
Happy Mother’s Day!
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged cow, Mother's Day, photography, poetry, weather
Don’t add another number
to my name or address,
to my Real ID, cell
or plastic magic,
Medicare and
(and thank you, Merle)
so-called Social Security.
With so many numbers
how can I be sure it’s me?
Look to the rockpiles,
Monkeyflowers on display
to remind of spring.
Posted in Haiku 2025, Photographs, Poems 2025, poetry, Ranch Journal, Wildlfowers
Tagged Rock Monkeyflower
Like fighter jets after hawks,
they nose dive the dog,
attack from redwood boughs
to protect a fledgling
too soon on the ground.
A community, a murder, a grind,
a merle or murmuration
of blackbirds has moved-in,
displaced the finches’
crimson dance upon the rail
with cocky walks and orgies
of foreplay and flittering sex
anywhere they please—but ready
to herd a rattlesnake
out of the garden and barnyard.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged Brewer's Blackbird, collective nouns, Dry Creek, photography, poetry
The birds are pairing up
as crimson-chested finches
dance and sing upon the railing,
beak-to-beak foreplay,
wing feathers quivering
before making a home
as house-hunting quail
split from their covey
to explore the garden.
A flock of strutting blackbirds
gets acquainted
while combing the ground,
and the killdeer practice
hollowing nests
in the gravel drive
analyzing traffic
before settling down
to hatch four eggs.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged Blackbirds, House Finches, Killdeer, quail, spring
We ride all day 'till the sun's going down
I'm gonna be glad to get out of this town.
- Charley Willis (“Goodbye Old Paint”)
Into Fresno for the first time in years
to carve cancer off my face
with the cars and trucks, all makes,
all sides, both ways, packed parking,
debt-ridden drivers cooped-up
in caves and castles busy being
where there is no place
without more of the same
for miles
and I’m scared—
not of the knife, nor of the scar—
but way too tight for my old heart.
It is a race now, but slowing near the finish line—
time to identify new wildflowers, measure rain
for posterity, data to apply to reason, to a pattern
for those of us who believe not everything is random
chaos, turbulence and tornadoes inside the Capitol
of the planet where the big guns make money
playing chicken, or blind man’s bluff
for the rest of the resources we’ve about used-up
especially space without trace or track
of humankind—
the dogwood creek’s short cast
for snowmelt rainbows where
even a child would not go hungry.
I can go back anytime I want
to escape or wait
until the job’s done.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, poetry
Tagged "Goodbye Old Paint", Charley Willis, poetry, politics, progress, Tex Ritter
Blading the season’s last green grass
for firebreaks, I need to concentrate
far away from the world’s turmoil,
peel the weeds out of the soil
or sever their roots, over and over
the same ground until smooth—
an impatient perfectionist,
carving a twelve foot road
the cattle will travel and dimple
like a golf ball, but will stop fire
if not too windy to ignite
wild oats and tall dry feed
easier than I can throttle back
the flow of pompous rhetoric
that has ignited global animosity.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged firebreaks, photography, poetry, politics
drycrikjournal 