No ceremony, no celebration
when we arrive, when we allow
the shroud of time to embrace
all fears and then dispel them.
We hang on the edge, hold
each breath until the next
turn of the sun. How could we
have known such peace exists
when we were chasing rabbits
for the sport of it, wasting time?
Ask the old dog in the shade
if he is satisfied with his magnificent
dreams, with his clever editing
now that he knows he’ll never return.
Who would we be without them?
I wake to dreams running
with Japhy Rider glowing old,
each awakening begins
a new act, a new setting,
new and easy conversations,
and we are grinning.
I am small in all this,
absorbing each moment
as it unfolds, and fall
into that fuzzy parallel plane
where souls gather,
the dead and alive—
where scientists and governments
cannot touch the caring core
of humanity, where Wall Street
wanes. I wonder now awake
if he remembers me
from last night’s sleep.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015, Ranch Journal
Tagged Dharma Bums, DREAMS, Gary Snyder, Humanity, Japhy Rider
Outside, early summer heat stifles
the mind, bakes a hard crust
upon the brain beneath straw lids—
eyes roll and detach within flashes
of white light, falling towards delirium:
I cannot breathe or see connections,
I cannot think, I cannot write.
Small comfort that I am not alone
within this fuzzy circumstance.
Harassed by a squadron kingbirds,
a Great Blue glides and lights
upon the gravel, stands tall
to claim any open space,
grounded for battle. All supposed
sentiments have escaped to shade,
gone north to cooler climes.
Summer in the San Joaquin,
a damn hard time to write.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015, Ranch Journal
Tagged Great Blue Heron, kingbirds, summer, writing
Like furious gods,
magnificent thunderheads
rising above us.
So many ways to see the world,
all the details waiting near at hand
since we were children, yet
we take the well-worn road
without thinking. I was so sure
I knew the way around the brambles,
but you were there to open doors
when we were rebels, to suppose
other orders at play or work.
Now the bells toll, ravens wait upon
our window sills—we cannot pick
how or when we’ll go—
but where we know by the details
of our destinations. God give you
strength, old friend, to see the best.
for JCN
Upon reflection,
sky becomes a cooler blue
and the hills less steep.
Off the road, three geese
feel safe, wait for barley hay—
one without a mate.
drycrikjournal 