In dry times, the gods retreat
to the granite, forsake the clay
and its inhabitants to fashion
spring upon the open slopes
with skiffs of blooming dots
à la Monet—above the dust
rising between green fading
and leaves curling red, it’s not
quite heaven, but enough.
Claude Monet – 1840-1926
courtesy Wikipedia
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged Claude Monet, Drought, flower-friday, photographs, poetry, wildflowers
A skinny but energetic Hispanic
calls me ‘Boss’ before I step out
into the concrete chute of the Ford garage,
hackneyed patronage I ignore while urgently
scanning the lead-up for a familiar face
in a frightening blur of new ownership—
almost forgetting the smog check I came for,
and an upfront inspection for the cause
and cost to repair the feed truck’s
St. Vitus tap dance on the asphalt
at speeds over thirty after a life
on 4-wheel drive dirt, loaded
with hay or towing a gooseneck. Time
for maintenance for the unretired—
Temple Grandin knows I need a hug.
Pogue Canyon – March 25, 2014
Islands of bare, red clay
on shallow green receding—
seeds that never swelled
to root ceramic slopes
or went with clouds
from cloven hooves—
stare back sternly.
She is dry,
nothing left to offer
the eye—only
the lone calf
grazing shores
for the overlooked
knows no better
world than this.
With rain, even lichen
and moss vie for space—
breathe life into a rock.
Hide of a Herford calf
at a distance—red
lichen living on rock.
I catch myself going back to the barn
to unearth implements and to imagine mules
wearing the edges of their wooden mangers
smooth, each grain widening before I awake.
Rusty scythes lean with pitchforks and hoes
in the corner ready near the door—weapons
if need be. Outside, thirty acres of leafy
grape canes waving have been replaced
by citrus, bright orange ornaments glistening
on bare ground between the skirts of trees.
My eyes adjust to the hames and collars
on the wall, to stiff traces of cracked leather
that can’t be salvaged. All the many hands
gathered here at daylight are just down the road
in the cemetery. The dust inside smells stale
and old, stirred only by pigeon wings and me.
From the embrace of shade,
shelter from the elements,
we watch the world.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged haiku, photographs, poetry, weekly-photo-challenge
Dark portal reserved for spring
without an address
or need for a door.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged haiku, photographs, poetry, sycamore, weekly-photo-challenge
“We may be living on an atom
in somebody’s wallpaper.”
– Wendell Berry (“Dust”)
1.
Between worlds, the sun leaked through
the shingles of Granddad’s dark shed
where the pixie dust would dance, sparkle
within light beams, as my sister and I
urged invisible steeds to town adventures—
fly aboard the manure spreader stored
for the future, the iron wheels and idle
wagon tongue would wait to take us
to wild dimensions for young dreams.
2.
The friction wears us smooth and fine,
cobbles, sand and dust. In the dry years
midden rises under hoof on a gust,
generations lifted to cloud the light
that smell like deer hides and taste
like acorns—tiny planets inhaled
behind cattle drawn to gather here
to wait and see how serious we are
about leaving what feels like peace.
3.
Through a stained glass window high
above the hand-hewn beams in the adobe
Chapel atop the prep school’s hill,
the call of selflessness floated on motes
that framed the sermon, moving me
from the wooden pews filled with two
hundred other vacant blue blazers
into another world for a week or so, yet
clings still to particles that float in space.
To cowgirl-up is just
one more day to ride
to build another loop.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged Alie McKee, branding, haiku, photographs, poetry
Certain privileges, prerogatives
to come and go as she pleases,
she’s more like a cat than a cow,
sometimes leaving reasons to return
now, like ex-lovers can, dancing
at safe distances out of reach
and out of touch. I don’t begrudge
her company, her gossamer veil
or frivolous wet kisses—she does
what she wants. We don’t have to be
in love, but his ground needs more—
and repeated thunderstorms of lust.
drycrikjournal 