All of the young bucks
know their place and wait
for business to pick up—
for the boss to be gone
with work of his own
calling him away, far
enough that he won’t know
what they’re up to.
They spar a little, rattle
thin horns, bide their time
in the thick of November—
like it’s always been.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged deer, Dry Creek, photographs, poetry, riparian, sycamores, water, wildlife, young bucks
Once in awhile a fellow blogger will poke a poem out of me. Thanks Evelyne, I feel a little better now:
Herd camped at the gate,
waiting for it to open
to the corral,
to the lead-ups and chutes
for processing
before spitting them out
to rush into another
crowded pen
on the TV news as if
Wall Street’s making hay
with everybody shopping
for the holidays—
as if we’ve traded
mashed potatoes, turkey, stuffing
and gravy with cranberries
and family for a bargain
with a credit card—
as if all the cattle
really want in.
Posted in Poems 2014
Tagged Black Friday, branding, Calves, cows, Dry Creek, poetry, shopping, Thanksgiving
Within the wild grapes and willows,
a world become tame
without humans.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014, Ranch Journal
Tagged Dry Creek, haiku, Kaweah River, photographs, poetry, riparian, water, wildlife
I have no reason to wake up hungry,
but how I miss Estrada’s dark-red
enchilada sauce on my tongue,
macaroni, stuffed rellenos, sizzling
tostada compuestas with chile
con caso, beans and rice—
or all you could eat prime rib
at the Red Barn, south of town—
thick slabs sliced from half a cow,
bloody juice pooled and running
right before your appetite—kids
well-fed at two bucks a head
for hard-working families
out on the town. Visalia was
the place to eat well before
it wanted to be like everywhere else—
before the fast-food similes
from the cities it escaped.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged appetite, Estrada's Spanish Kitchen, poetry, Visalia
Time for a shower,
a quarter, a tenth.
I have the next rain
at my fingertips—
the hunt and peck,
scroll of percentiles
dialed-in
hour by hour
of the good stuff I want—
that naked clay needs
to stay alive.
Nothing’s changed.
We all hang on a forecast—
cuss the messenger
who gets paid
when he’s wrong
or claims he’s right.
It is our nature
where a man’s word
is everything.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014, Ranch Journal
Tagged Drought, Paregien Ranch, photographs, poetry, rain, weather, weathermen
Old black horse, tennis shoes.
I was ten, give or take a year or two,
driving cows and calves up Greasy
well-before they built the dam.
Dad hollering at the bunch splitting,
at me, at God, at everything.
You asked me then when we were done,
if I wanted to be a cowboy?
Tear streaks dried like a second skin,
I cried, “No!” and meant it—
horseback, just below Spoon Rock.
Amid the green, we have become old men,
of all the things we could have been,
going slow, just below Spoon Rock.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged "Hay for the Horses", Gary Snyder, Greasy Creek, photographs, poetry, Spoon Rock, weekly-photo-challenge
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014, Ranch Journal
Tagged Calves, cows, Dry Creek, haiku, photographs, poetry, weekly-photo-challenge
A taste of rain tinkling in the downspout
too light to hear upon the metal roof,
yet under this common wet covering
her scent mends everything
for the moment, for another beginning
and we inhale it—lungs full of new life.
And when we pray, it’s to the Goddess—
mother, lover—for our sustenance,
for the bloom and fruit of flesh renewed
as the damp earth exhales, breathes easily
to taste each lingering drop
that settles upon its petaled tongue.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014, Ranch Journal
Tagged Dry Creek, flower-friday, goddess, photographs, poetry, rain, water, weather, wildlife
Carnival colors
reflected on a breeze—
Disneyland for a duck.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged American Widgeon, birds, Dry Creek, haiku, photographs, poetry, water, weather, wildlife
Dear Dawn, I await you in a cavern
of wet blackness, upstate exhaust hangs
between me and the suns and stars
of my reward, (or as far as I have seen
of infinity), as the dew from the last rain
clings to each unhealthy particulate,
camouflaged to look and feel like fog.
I have missed your smile, bright eyes,
and warm touch across the landscape
of my face, but we inhale this wet veil
holding clay slopes damp, moistening
each cotyledon struggling to break free
from the earth’s grip to make grass,
turn hills green with the circumambulation
of black dots—cows and calves grazing.
Another ugly day without you, feeding
hay in gray, but it ain’t all bad—
I’ll see you when I can. xxooxxoo, J.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014, Ranch Journal
Tagged bad air, Calves, cows, dawn, Drought, Dry Creek, feeding, fog, photographs, poetry, rain, water, weather
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