All the places
I worked and played
too hard
are wearing on me
for this moment
I have trailed
with discarded rhymes
and poetry
even I don’t quite
understand
why I had to kiss
the wild so deeply,
why I had to walk
the fence
and dream beyond
the barbed wire.
Posted in Deck Poems, Photographs, Poems 2024, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged age, photography, poetry
I am lost to the race, off course
to pause among the tree frogs
headed home to flower pots
after a night on the window glass
below the porch light
ambushing moths. Or the quail
bailing from the grapefruit tree
at first light to awakening titters
before scanning for hawks.
There is no itch for riches
or the prizes advertised
at the Finish Line.
Posted in Deck Poems, Photographs, POEMS 2023, poetry
Tagged Finish Line, photography, poetry, quail, the race, tree frogs
Who needed drugs and alcohol when you were a kid shaping thunderheads into dragons and the like— who needed any more than what the sky provided?
Summer falters, stumbles
into October with rumors
of rain, weak weathermen
wishes for a change,
not enough to start the green
nor mildew the old feed—
just a welcome change
for cattle and coyotes,
ground squirrels and us.
Manes and tails float
in a sky blue sea,
acorns and oak leaves
litter the landscape,
long shadows reach across
the canyon like ground
burnt by fire, cordwood
waiting under every skeleton
the drought has left behind.
With nearly 20″ of rain here on Dry Creek, and more at the higher elevations of the ranch, we have green grass and even a few early wildflowers. Click to enlarge to see the cattle we have yet to gather and brand at the end of the ridge, slick slopes in every direction.
The ground is so saturated that the septic system for our guest house is working in reverse.
BADLY BIGLY
We believe that the cream
rises to the top,
but when it really rains
so does the shit.
(one of our deck poems)
All eyes will be on the Oroville Dam as seven days of Pineapple Expresses are forecast for the Feather River watershed, 70 miles north of Sacramento.
Posted in Deck Poems, Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged Oroville Dam, photography, poetry, rain, water, weather
Canyon gray,
light warm rain,
glass of wine at dusk,
and we enjoy the sound
of small drops
on a metal roof,
tinkling ricochets
in stereo downspouts
that insulate
our momentary sighs,
escaped breath rising
on words overheard
only by the gods
and fickle goddesses
somewhere overhead.
Not the storm predicted,
not the flood
to erase the drought
that won’t release its grip
for years, if ever,
talons sunk in our flesh—
this crease of earth and rock
that’s heard it all before
from generations of oaks
and sycamores, cattle
people and natives,
all sighing at once.
Posted in Deck Poems, Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged earth and flesh, rain, weather
Like the old days, hillsides
slick and wet, we brand
between rains, hurried loops
neighbor-to-neighbor, each
bunch a hard-won victory
for work-worn bones.
Morning Advil or Aleve
for squeaky hinges
lubricated with a plastic cup
of Crown, hot meal grinning
with good company.
For a moment we are young again,
but with muted bravado—understand
Tony’s deadpan disappointment:
tonight’s storm retreating north.
Not quite the coup to drink whiskey to,
we want more sore evenings
by the fire, just to hear it pour.
Posted in Deck Poems, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Whoever you are,
we work for you,
for the future of the wild,
for cows planting and harvesting
grass, for the easy burger
drive-thru, your leather shoes
and the steak on your plate.
You pay us once a year
when the calves are fat,
before the feedlot
and the killer plant,
we work for you
everyday of the week—
whoever you are,
we work for you.
You could hear them
from the squash and cucumbers,
from the tomatoes where the rattler
stretched upon damp dirt to cool his belly,
in that no man’s land of prickly pear
and grape canes claiming shade trees
on the periphery of ripening vegetables—
their incessant tittering within: military
training before their first tour of the garden
scouted at the peak of heat days before,
our lawn of weeds this side of roadrunners
nesting in the cottonwood under
the surveillance of a pair of crows.
The only green for miles of hard
baked clay and blond dry fuzz,
a microcosm of good wet years,
the wild moves in, gathers to include
us—horses, dogs and feral cats—
into a sustainable family.
Tree frogs on the move, hopping
sojourns at dusk and dawn bring
the King snake tracking Garter snakes
that ignore us, stay out from underfoot.
We have no choice but to share
our little space and water in a drought.
We will count the covey into the future,
measure training into evenings, watch
for Bobcats and Coopers Hawks on patrol.
No place for soft hearts, politics,
or too much attention—no one wants
or can afford to run for election.
Ripe raspberry stain
on a yellow tablet—
one of several waiting
when I got back
from busy somewhere in the heat.
First-year canes producing
delight again and again.
You speak with gestures—
this paper blessed
with remembering.
Happy Birthday, Robbin!!
Posted in Deck Poems, Photographs, Poems 2015
Tagged gestures, raspberries, raspberry stain, yellow tablet
(click)
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