Category Archives: Poems 2013

Always that little bit of friction
among the gods, here and there—
storms and no storms that we
pretend not to notice, not to upset
the balance of all things. They
envy us from their perfect perspectives,
and therein the perfect flaw
that keeps things churning like leaves
within the flesh, old age glimpses
of more going-on on the periphery.

The story starts where the weather left us
blown off course, or digging out from under
too much of a good thing gone bad, where
a writer develops raw-boned characters
to shape the real deal. Dad was shipping
thin steers the day I was born in the rain,
come too late to help. Since, my dry skin
craves a storm, cold raindrops blurring eyes
to cry with joy or pain—for my flesh
to rise and grin at God over and over again.

You ought to know everything by now,
every cow, horse, goat, sheep,
chicken on this ranch, every irrigated crop,

every gate that swings unlocked—
yet you want more paperwork, more
information to punch in your computers,

then hire an army for analysis
before we run out of food. We are old
and tired, our kids split for town.

But you ought to know everything
by now, how to plant some seed
to raise a crop so you can eat.

The metallic sound of machine guns
in the orchard, woodpeckers on idle
smudge pots around Christmas Day.

We played army, built forts
of walnut leaves, killed regiments
of Japs and Jerries as Korea waged.

Only coyotes on my hit list now
that I am older, caring more for
a live calf than a cunning predator

with a taste for veal instead
of a ground squirrel—peace
only a moment between wars.

                    Some photographers take reality… and impose the domination
                    of their own thought and spirit. Others come before reality more
                    tenderly and a photograph to them is an instrument of love                     and revelation. – Ansel Adams

                    Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting                     that is felt rather than seen. – Leonardo da Vinci

The blessing is a breeze—
one more cool breath
on damp skin
I begin to count,
test and tease
to elevate my spirit
mowing September’s lawn.

Few of the harsh natures
we claim we control—
keep confined like
biting dogs grinning
into that same breeze—
can we look in the eye
to find tender reflection:

all the good and evil
gods ingrained
in the details:
the tamarack’s twist
of pain or the hawk’s
hooked beak still
living beyond us.

When in town I say
“Cool” a lot hoping
my age doesn’t show

too much. After a lifetime
of progress, being hip
is not near as urgent

as being ignorant
of instant-everything
that is insulting.

It takes concentration
to write poetry and shoot
woodpeckers at the same time—
glass of red beside a young
Valley Oak loaded with acorns.
They slip in when your head is down
to yellow paper—yackety-yak
and stir the leaves as kittens wait
for something good to fall from the sky.
The bushtits believe there is a god
when we turn the misters on at six,
come flitting in a bunch to bathe
quickly.

We have almost all of the equipment, all the gadgetry
we need to freeze and hold a moment, to contain
and carry with us, to taste and drink from like a canteen

when we are sad or lonely, when we are too tired
to find the chords and turn it to song—too deaf
to hear the Muse beg for her release. Your father’s

Martin has a history before hanging in a pawnshop
we’ll not know, but since it sings beneath your fingers
come the evening of light. We turn songs loose

to find new homes between trees sighing from the heat,
to rest among the shadows of oaks and sycamores—
imperfect melodies of humans, of natives here again.

Shadow, the slant of summer’s bright white
toned down, dawn and dusk bathed in yellows
glowing with promise and new beginning.

How I yearn for days dripping from bare limbs
beneath gray overcast within the woodlands—
the sound of it, each drop fat and collected

before falling—yes, how I yearn for that
assurance of change and a chance of rain.
Here she is, beautiful, dancing on the edge of it.