Whoever you are,
we work for you,
for the future of the wild,
for cows planting and harvesting
grass, for the easy burger
drive-thru, your leather shoes
and the steak on your plate.
You pay us once a year
when the calves are fat,
before the feedlot
and the killer plant,
we work for you
everyday of the week—
whoever you are,
we work for you.
The dry casualties,
more cordwood and deadfall fuel,
litter the landscape.
RAISING HELL
We don’t talk about
the drought, anymore:
four years dry,
we have adapted
and survived our fears—
scratched for water,
sold half our cows—
but ready for storms
to raise some more.
WIND SONG
Perhaps we are cursed
to stay busy, put our shoulders
to the rock, embrace it—
move the planet
with small accomplishments,
little marks never permanent
that become our joy:
like new fence
guitar string tight
keeps neighbors strong,
picked by the wind
to play its song.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015, Ranch Journal
Tagged accomplishment, Grapevine Spring, staisfaction, water, work
My other voice just beneath the skin,
its echoes muffled by convention
and chained from reason’s reach
to speak only to me, quickly and quietly—
my unholy voice of blatant honesty
I can neither temper nor ignore,
telling more than I truly comprehend,
amazes me: a brief non-sequitur
with a keen edge, blade like a mirror.
I have grown deaf to crowds chanting
simple mantras as demigods tremble—
I’ll keep my counsel with my wonderment.
Too early to know
what the day brings—
plans mixed with dreams.
Ridgelines stay the same
except rooted trees
lose their leaves
or dress in early spring
with iridescent greens
hard to imagine from August.
But the errant clouds help,
forecasting change
beginning each day.
The hills black,
faint pink cloud
over Sulphur
in first light cool.
Nights grows longer
with the shadows
when we dream
of winter storms,
four years dry.
We feed our future hay
until the time comes
we have nothing else to do.
Any day now—soon,
any day, the pundits say
we might wash away.
We dig for water,
bring David and the backhoe’s
hydraulic muscle:
big jaws and steel teeth—
hope and pray to break some loose
to water cattle.
California’s map
in flames, burning inside out
to greet El Niño.
It’s always been about the girls
on this landscape, grass and water
notwithstanding: the basic elements
of endless awe as maternal blooms
before our eyes with faint reflection
from whence we came.
We have lent all we know, watched
generations grow into mothers—
it’s always been about the girls.
The Big Casino, neon flashing with the sound
of coins in an empty bucket, we gamble
with the future, bet on multi-billion dollar
promises to win whatever philosophic war
of wills we don’t need to fire our passion
anymore. All the poor casualties, battlefields,
bombings and body parts we’ve seen
severed and separated from survivors
we ignore. We want an enemy to blame
here-at-home and over choppy seas
as if directors of movies made for profit—
played for our insatiable entertainment.
One more reason to postpone town—
my list of necessities buried in a yellow tablet
of half-poems, songs you want to learn to play
on your father’s Martin—we are almost
self-sufficient with the garden, fresh limes
for our evening Tanqueray watching cows
come into water before grazing up hillsides.
Some waddle now, heavy with calf. Summer
seems to want to leave early on gusts,
shadows longer on the cusp of change
we mustn’t miss—another day of details
to keep us closer to the home we’ve made.
drycrikjournal 