Category Archives: Poems 2014

PROCESS

 
Down at the County Seat they have believed
big is better, in growth before maintenance
to attain full-employment and prosperity,

hoping for crumbs from corporate plates—
our wide-eyed chiefs hypnotized
by shiny beads and synthetic blankets.

The colonial model has arrived
for one last, lasting extraction from the land
leaving it useless, ripped naked—its precious,

fresh water exposed for fifty years
of the same reasoning and excuses
for following the wrong dream.

Few people learn from their own mistakes,
and fewer yet from the mistakes of others—
but not admitting them is just plain ignorance.

 

 

Valley Voice: Cemex Lemon Cove

Valley Voice: Cemex McKay’s Point

AMERICAN GOLDFINCH, RAGLE SPRINGS

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The wild flocks
to spring water, to man’s sweat
and galvanized intrusions.

 

 

BIRDS IN BRONZE

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An endless dream: art
awakening in mottled light,
coin at its feet.

 

 

WPC — “Dreamy”

WILD GOD

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                         By division we speak, out of wonder.
                              – Wendell Berry (“To Gary Snyder”)

Alone and small within
the Sierra granite, day or night,
I ached for more

than horses and mules
to share the deep
disarming awe at each turn

of the trail, pure snowmelt
reflections of heaven
rippling beneath me,

the infinite blackness,
as I lay down to sleep,
perforated with galaxies

that surrounded me
like lantern light twinkling
off mica-flecked rock.

Perhaps it was that Sabbath
when greenheads rose from the cattails,
drops of water trailing their ascension

and my father’s long pause
to speak beyond religions
that drew me to the wild.

 

OCTOBER 2014, GREASY COVE

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You ask me now,
in this moment, waited
for my full attention

                         which I have refused,
                         too preoccupied with each rich
                         moment-at-hand.

My patient other voice,
ever-reasonable and calm,
ready for a pause

to pose the obvious, weigh
the load and look
at the short end of my string.

But I am busy listening
to my call carry across Greasy,
to cows bailing off the far ridge

leaving dust trails in trees,
to the diesel’s purr
beside me, promising hay.

To their slow plod up—
they trust that we
will do as we say.

 

 

SLOW BURN

7:40 p.m. PST, September 23, 2014

7:40 p.m. PDT, September 23, 2014

 

A little hair here and there
burns across the canyon,
a darkening charred shadow

rising in a wake of even light,
summer days and nights
behind us, behind the ridge

that stands between us
and Antelope Valley, Wuknaw
spilling into the fringed

and frayed urgency beyond.
We have a glass, of course,
discussing cattle—instead of

people—measure likelihoods
for feed and water ready
with another plan, if need be.

Light a cigarette, fill another
glass reflecting decades
of canyons worn upon our faces.

 

 

THREE RIVERS CEMETERY

Naked slopes, steep manzanita red
with rock and leafless oaks, fall
into the slow Kaweah and reach

into the blue from the headstones
of pioneers, terraced family plots
facing west, all looking up

as generations gather, heads bowed.
How many times has Earl sung
to this timeless skyline, how many

of his cattle calls still reverberate
in these canyons? No cowboy song,
he picks “School Days” for her childhood

chums, gray octogenarians recalling
the twinkle beneath jet-black hair.
Simple sendoff with simple words,

everyone of us believing she will be
welcomed “In the Garden”—everyone of us
converted for a good, long moment.

                                                  for Barbara Brewer Ainley

 

 

Obituary

 

ITCH

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Born contortionists, both man
and beast, we all find ways
to reach an itch.

 

 

NAKED WAVES

In the dark, waiting once again
with calves for dry green hay,
listening for the diesel engine

climbing at an idle in the canyon
far below, they dream of grass,
tall thick blades caressing legs,

briskets and bellies, udders
full, the sweet scent of cuds
swirling in waves of plenty—

but we can’t see beyond
the dry and dusty moment:
down limbs beneath skeletons

of oak trees given up
their last leaves with rising
dust trails of quail, families

leaving in a cloud for thin cover.
Cut deep and soft, cow track
highways all lead to water,

meander on efficient grades up
and over short-cropped ridges—
naked waves in shades of brown.

 

FARM HANDS

We keep the old alive,
youthful in our minds
so clouded with time

we cannot find the facts
anymore—all the young
questions that can’t

imagine old wrecks
as useful, the flathead
Fords and rusty relics

in a designated row
behind a grove of fruit trees—
boneyards marking

a feeling of many
shoulders at night lifting
a much slower wheel.