Category Archives: Poems 2013

Christmas Eve, a veil of dust
hangs and hesitates as if waiting
for a southern gust before the call

of gravity—before falling back
into the same soft groove
cut by hooves to water.

Each particle of time grows
smaller with stirring, forgets who
it was to look down and around

for a friend, wanting to remain—
to settle back into another moment
upon the earth with a little rain.

This short time—these days,
these years, this life drawn
of earth and flesh, her breath

upon my face. The sun is late
to work, punches-out early
on the ridges. Each oak tree

takes a turn within
reflecting on lemon moons
rising without a rain.

We are hooked, we are trained
to follow every movement
of her hand, our eyes hang

on each stray strand,
each new clue
as to her mood.

This short time for lovers
of shadows on the edge
of pagan space rolls dry leaves

that sound like rain
in the dark of our delirium,
our empty wanting waiting.

This short time for family—
for all the hawks and birds,
for the all the animals,

wild and semi-domestic
that make a living together
in this dry place.

‘As If’

Some I remember as mothers
close to the house
calving the first time—

some better than others
raising a calf, breeding
back up the hill

where they came from.
You’ve sorted them
into another pen

with the old and dry,
thin young cows
without a calf,

without grass
or hay enough
to sustain them any longer.

Cutting deeply,
we prune the cowherd
into goosenecks,

save the best wood
for better seasons
when it might rain.

This is husbandry—
no time or space
for frail emotion.

It’s hell to be human
and a joy, as well
depending on poetry

to start your engines.
“Great day for the race!”
my father used to say

as the sun brought
the Kaweahs together
on a flat stream of light

from Sierra peaks
to a crooked string
of cottonwoods

at the bottom
of the watershed,
slow river steaming—

everything was new
and old at once:
that moment.

                                 …carrying through darkness wherever you go
                                 your one little fire that will start again.
                                              – William Stafford (“The Dream Of Now”)

Far too many people in my dream, some dead
trying to divert traffic, but overrun by chaos
spawned by last night’s chili size and onions,

by the two hundred pound rounds of Blue Oak
engineered off the mountain, six empty seats
facing the wood splitter, hands-on instruction

and short entertainment for Christmas
children with more on their minds.
This magic world of possibilities

that’s always been to them
can be deceiving, lead them away
from where little fires come.

Too many grandfather oaks, like generals
overlooking generations of rooted acorns,
occupy the north slopes, troops erect

to the sky—too much silt either side
for landlocked sycamores with centuries
of persistence waiting for the creek to rise.

It was an avalanche of mud and rock,
half the mountain sliding into the Kaweah
to form Pogue Canyon, change its course

before our time—our moment in the canyon
as the planet wobbles on its axis,
finds its balance with the squabbling

of humanity. Close to the earth:
evidence everywhere you look
that someday in this place, it will rain.

                                        Slowly the sun creeps across the floor;
                                        it is coming your way. It touches your shoe.
                                                  – William Stafford (“It’s All Right”)

All the shades of brown are crisp now,
mid-December light, shadows linger
to look like cows frozen on bare hillsides,

leaves litter the dry creek bed as sycamores
show flesh, willows burn in between
like lanterns. Blue Oaks become frightened

skeletons on the run. It is a drought
and it is beautiful, everything giving-up
at once, looking to die. The top heavy

flatbed stacked another layer high
squats and groans down the road,
string of thin black cows following

inside the barbed wire like perfectly
disciplined children—all makes sense.
It’s simple now for quite awhile.

There is a place for solitude
somewhere apart, space
to let the mind run with options,

to explore the unknown,
circle and find new perspective
before gravitating home.

Singing in the backcountry,
my horse and mules
the only souls to hear for days

when I was seventeen, in love
with possibility, the words
fell into place like water

in a river, spontaneous lines
reaching out to touch the tops
of trees and granite peaks

I would never climb—
a place to let the mind run
without a smart phone.

All those uncertain emotions,
suspicions, she brings glimpses
of another world I can’t trust

anymore. Gone so long
to God knows where,
wreaking havoc on TV.

The perfect pastoral scenes
too good to be true—
my mind leaps like a child

rolling downhill
through ripening wild oats
over my head.

I am afraid
to look her in the eye,
afraid she’ll see

my anticipation pulse
with wanting. I am
her supplicant, and

in truth, her slave.
How she controls me!
I look away.

It is easy to be disappointed with gods
bringing only a veil of mist
when we hunger for rain.

We have dismissed our lust
for days and nights of dark storms
that seems beyond our means—

swollen creeks and gushing floods
fade in the distance, flake
like bark from dehydrated flesh.

Only the purple cotyledons
of Red-Stem Fillaree still believe
in miracles, open yet to the heavens,

to the sky. We load the goosenecks
with young girls for town,
shiny and fat with months of alfalfa—

say goodbye to what could have been
better than the auction ring. We know
the gods can’t do everything.