Category Archives: Poems 2015

SHOOTING STARS

 

Sierra Shooting Star (Dodecatheon jeffreyi) - March 3, 2015

Sierra Shooting Star (Dodecatheon jeffreyi) – March 3, 2015

 

No wildflower man, but of all he saw
worth a mention once or twice
in his lifetime—suggesting value

in the time invested for a boy’s
inspection. Too delicate to touch,
what could we know of grace

refined by harsh survival,
each tangent honed to fit and fly
by millennia of failures?

Perhaps heaven-sent by night
to find transcending daylight
well-apart from the myopic zeal

of mortals, these long stems arched
above the grass on steep and damp
north slopes just waiting to be seen.

 

RAIN IN THE GROUND

 

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Perfect for early bloomers,
Fiddleneck, White-veined Mallow,
London Rockets pale the pasture.

Rain in the ground, thick Filaree
overreaches like loose-fringed
lettuce for more—more of the same.

Grass ahead of the cattle, it’s war—
every seed battling for real estate,
real dirt damp, for sun and rain,

green hills puddled with spilt paint.
Everything perfect on it’s own, yet
I fret with the brittle momentum

of lean, dry years—months of dust
and hay—a hard pace that interferes
with becoming forgiving as this ground

exploding in all the colors of rain.
Desperately, I reach through
early morning black for light.

 

560’s DAUGHTER

 

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Slick-eared,
she went ungathered,
missed the party,

missed the branding
ropes and vaccinations—
they wear the same look.

Not wild-eyed, but
about half-guilty,
half-sad they didn’t

RSVP. Still a chance
she’ll make the cowherd
like her mother.

 

SPRING DAWN 2015

 

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Just short of heaven,
dust and ashes come alive
to color hillsides.

 

 

WPC — “Reward”

 

HOMEMAKING

 

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                        Perhaps man has a hundred senses, and when he dies
                        only the five senses that we know perish with him,
                        and the other ninety-five remain alive.

                              – Anton Chekhov (“The Cherry Orchard”)

The past walks here, all the dead
horses and livestock men grazing
a hundred and fifty springs—

all the promises and passion spilled
upon this wild mat of grass and flowers,
naked lovers idly pinching petals

along the creek for centuries
within the mottled shade
these same trees have cast, yet see

to keep alive. We have had
our moments here, left ourselves
so wholly that we rise and rest

among them, add our song
to the canyon, our cries to the sky
to forever make our home.

 

HOMECOMING

 

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On the low, rocky ridge,
a Roadrunner moans for a mate
in declining octaves—first awake

February mornings, ever hopeful
for a better day of circumnavigating
barn and garden. Then returns

to hear his song carry to the creek
that has found the river now
for the first time in years, tying

dry ground, this canyon together—
breathing easier, whole again,
it spreads coolly through us

as Wood Ducks skip upstream
to feed beneath the canopies
of old oaks and sycamores.

We have learned the call,
draw him closer with an answer
only more rain can bring.

 

NEVER ALONE

 

Easter 2013

Easter 2013

 

I made a joke of it:
attending funerals
as the price of survival—

saying goodbye, adios
as their souls ascended
to meet eternity, look

down occasionally
on our plight
of being human

and whisper in our ears.
With no wants,
they must envy

the depth of our passion
and its sensitive
entanglements, our pride

erected and dedicated
for their inspection.
We are never alone.

 

 

WPC(3) — “Rule of Thirds”

 

REAL LIFE

 

Whitetip Clover (Trifolium variegatum) - March 24, 2013

Whitetip Clover (Trifolium variegatum) – March 24, 2013

 

In the dark I hear the heartbeat
of another world on this planet
the newscasts miss, we overlook

amid conflicting calculations
with new angles on the numbers
to chart a course to reverse them—

eyes spinning within a slot machine.
Light applause on the roof
answers with one more encore

wrenched from early morning’s
black sky, each green blade,
thick as dog hair in these hills

puddled with brightly colored petals
already reaching for first light.
In the dark I hear the heartbeat

of wet ground growing stronger,
inhale its sweet breath
all-around me releasing life.

 

 

WPC(2) — “Rule of Thirds”

 

TOWARDS TONOPAH

 

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Left 100 miles
towards Tonopah, dry hay
for California.

 

 

WPC(1) — “Rule of Thirds”

ALMOST MARCH

 

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Thin veil of snow on the Kaweahs—
granite shows on peaks undressing.
The creek slows and disappears

as the thirsty earth drinks miles
from the river, puddled behind a dam
that will not fill the Valley’s furrows.

Tan medallions, last spring’s leaves
quiver from brittle fingers of oak trees
sprinkling green hills, giving centuries

of rainfall back as decomposing homes
for smaller survivors. It is not over
despite a forecast chance of rain—

dry seasons last, leave evidence only
years of floods can erase. Almost March,
the buzzards have returned early

circling an easy harmony of generations
gone—each clear voice rising,
we hear assurance and good advice.