Purple clouds up canyon,
an armada approaching
white skies at dawn…
battleships burning pink,
fleet afire and fading
into a bluer sea.
Purple clouds up canyon,
an armada approaching
white skies at dawn…
battleships burning pink,
fleet afire and fading
into a bluer sea.
Burning twin Valley Oaks
gone dead in the drought,
undermined by the creek—
four-foot trunks
of smoking coals
two or three centuries old
stirred with the skid steer
three times a day
religiously
have left a hole
in my tangled world
across the creek
I cannot replace:
timelessness trapped
in mottled shadows
embracing me
each time I passed
beneath them.
* Really “DAY THREE”, (today is Saturday, not Sunday). Excused from Jury Duty, I lit the fire Thursday morning after Erik Avila pulled the trees out of the creek with an excavator for Kaweah Delta Water Conservation District on Wednesday.
The ranchy part of this common confusion for us is that we’re busy, we work at something everyday, doing pretty much what we want—no “hump days” with weekdays and weekends pretty much the same, we tend to lose track of what the name of today is. That’s my story and I’m stickin to it.
More low snow on Dry Creek last night, 0.27” of rain from a fast moving storm that has slowed or closed traffic on the Grapevine and Tehachapi this morning. Our hills have been too slick to gather with horses, so we’ve gone afoot the past two days so that we can brand next week.
Posted in Photographs
TV insanity,
old men posturing
Twitter and Facebook—
I expect the world
to make sense
like Shakespeare’s last act,
not of an age
but for all time.
My metaphors are wild
company, retreats
I might better know
in deep seclusion,
tracks to follow
and fill with form
to stand as proof
before me.
Like Slick Sweeney
packing a broomstick
to shoot his buck—
left horns and guts
intact, hide and flesh
looking back
to leap clean away
when he said bang.
Low snow up canyon, cold
rain at dawn, vernal pools
in the pasture stand full
waiting for Wood Ducks,
waiting for spring.
Sycamores stripped naked,
their white limbs wave
from across the creek
upon these ponds of water
in the evening sun.
Headlights slash the darkness,
a caravan of jeeps
and 4-wheel drives
whine down canyon—
weary songs back home.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2019, Ranch Journal
Tagged photography, poetry, snow, Sulphur Peak
Red, white and blue remind
of the friends who went
and never came home,
and those that did
that can’t forget
who they had to be—
of my father
and those before him
who believed
my Country, right or wrong.
How can I not be proud
of them, yet disagree?
I submit my flag
has been stolen from me,
waved to obfuscate debate
and silence truth.
But I submit my flag
as the genius to create
a more prefect Union,
establish Justice,
insure domestic Tranquility,
provide for the common Defense,
promote the general Welfare,
and secure the blessings of Liberty,
to ourselves and our Posterity
in the face of future
charlatans and Kings.
I submit my flag
as the backdrop
for partisan stage plays
where heroes become outlaws.
My Country, right or wrong?
Dry cordwood stacked, I crave
unpredictable clouds of change,
the cold and ice, the hail and rain
and the look of snow-capped green,
black cattle grazing an angry gray—
fancy whiskey in a glass with you
inside, woodstove sucking air to flame.
No matter what the pundits say,
it doesn’t change a thing.