After fifty years of forgetting
bras and draft cards burning
in a pile on the quad, the colors
red and green every night on TV,
Viet Nam stares me in the face
on a gate that protects the scales
where we weigh cattle, far
in every sense from those days.
A silent nod for Rod and Bill,
for Joel and Waddie, for all
the cowboys who can’t balance
surviving fifty years to zero.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016
Five years of service: docile daughters
who have daughters of their own
camouflaged in black with bone,
he’s left his stamp, gets along
without much help, keeps the peace
when all the bulls are grumbling
on vacation in the shade. Another world
within the one we own, he could be
human, but with a better disposition.
for Loren Mrnak
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged Mrnak Herefords West, photography, poetry
Education was cheaper in the old days
when we memorized dates, declined verbs
and parsed sentences to pieces—
fell in and out of love like puppies
chasing the next pair of shoes
to try on, or not—that’s how we learned
about ourselves. All my teachers are gone,
or busy getting old, but their younger selves
reside in my brain, fuzzy faces reminding me
that honesty is terribly hard to come by.
Everything we need to know is almost free:
an easy payment plan as long as I remember.
Doctoring eyes again this a.m. in our last big bunch of weaned calves, a problem exacerbated by tall feed. Temperatures have been running over 100 degrees, the creek’s quit running, summer’s here.
We’ve another small bunch of calves yet to gather and wean and then we’ll be done with weaning. Dark mornings and high heat have tempered my posting here. Not much in the mood for poetry or photography, but nothing stays the same ( I hope).
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged photography, Ranch Journal, tall feed, weaning
The trails are gone,
hats above a sea of wild oats
like navigating ground fog
blind to rocks and ruts
in a slow gather
bringing tunnels together,
cows and calves. All the brags
of tying knots above the withers,
dally wraps around the horn,
ring tame and distant—
even the best broke horse
can’t resist temptation.
courtesy: Wikipedia
My black and white
horseback heroes
still shoot it out,
subdue evil,
herk and jerk to leave
the hitching rack—
the Westerns Channel
as I lay down
to take a nap,
now knowing how
each episode
always ends—
familiar voices
comfort me
to believe the West
is wild and safe
from all the mean
and greedy men
we’ve seen since—
a lullaby guaranteed
for sleep.
Two weeks into weaning,
we celebrate real progress,
the gather, sort and haul—
the harvest down deep-rutted
dirt tracks, 4-wheel drive,
low-range gooseneck tow,
bawling calves to the asphalt—
our early peach
tequila margarita,
just-picked berry
and last season’s lime
juice frozen into a star.
Blank page and pencil,
this year rattles
everywhere we go.
We begin to gather
all the good news
showered upon us
from the sky,
harvest the grass
in the flesh of calves,
and like every year
we will weigh them,
measure our good fortune
with a number
to judge a season by.
We will turn the cows out
back to grass, back to homes
they’ve made on ground
good for little else
but wildlife—four-month
vacation with the girls
gossiping in the shade
without bulls
or nagging children
to disturb them.
Not a bad life
when it rains.
Cultivating a native life,
we pause for totems,
let them tell us
what they think—
who they are.
Some count on us
to stir the grass
and follow,
and some to listen
when we drink
coffee or wine
outside.
Claiming the roost
of loving crow mates,
a Golden Eagle lights
for a closer look at us—
and we are blessed.
Finding his feather
left ahead,
we believe
in something
more common
of the wild,
of talismans
from moments
we never forget
and hope to leave
as much.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged Golden Eagle, photography, poetry, TALISMANS, TOTEMS
Photo: Terri Drewry
In a world tall with grasses,
wild oats and rosy thatches
of dry filaree, we seldom see
our feet upon the earth.
In frequented places
like water troughs and barns,
like vegetable gardens
saving trips to town,
we are prejudiced—
react without a thought
against a race of snakes
that want no trouble
to claim the space
in which we travel
with a shovel.
for Terri
drycrikjournal 