Category Archives: Ranch Journal

BACK THEN, 1966

 

November 7, 2015

November 7, 2015

 

I escaped the farm
as a backcountry packer
of mules, to the rhythm
of hooves and draw chains—
found my way lost in awe
yet branded in my mind.

There was another world—
girls in town to think about
up and down the Sierra’s spine,
Wolfman Jack on the transistor,
boss and soul, rock and roll
for company by the fire.

I called to faraway faces
over falling starlit peaks,
the granite scree glittering
into Tamarack timberlines
as I lay down each night
to dream on solid ground.

 

APPLE ORCHARD BRANDING 2016

 

Like the old days, hillsides
slick and wet, we brand
between rains, hurried loops

neighbor-to-neighbor, each
bunch a hard-won victory
for work-worn bones.

Morning Advil or Aleve
for squeaky hinges
lubricated with a plastic cup

of Crown, hot meal grinning
with good company.
For a moment we are young again,

but with muted bravado—understand
Tony’s deadpan disappointment:
tonight’s storm retreating north.

Not quite the coup to drink whiskey to,
we want more sore evenings
by the fire, just to hear it pour.

 

THE GOOD SIGNS

 

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Sunday evening, pickup loads of snow
file down the road to town: snowmen
for Visalia, Exeter, Farmersville front yards

to melt and soak into drought-brown lawns
no one’s mowed in years—a hurried
shortcut from mountains to Valley

upon a crumbling blacktop channel—
water that these oaks and sycamores
see only as lumps of white passing at fifty.

The west and south slopes fill-in
with green, purple patches of frost-bitten
filaree that looked like bare dirt,

softly embrace us now as if we were cattle.
Too wet for work that waits outside,
we slowly release winters of urgency

camped at the door and ease into the
vaguely familiar—reacquaint ourselves
with mud and rain, with one another.

 

GIFT, OCTOBER 2011

 

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Bumper crop of acorns,
warm monsoon rains.
The redbud bloomed

confused, drawing butterflies
for weeks—the season’s
last hatch of Monarchs

swarming crimson, orange
and black-trimmed fairies
to the front door.

All a sign of something
unusual, uniquely beautiful—
that superfluous imbalance

charged to an unknown
future—a fleeting gift
to remember the gods

before leaving us
four years dry and begging
for something normal.

 

 

Weekly Photo Challenge: “Weightless” Monarchs

 

Weather Journal 2011-12

Rainfall History

 

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.

                                   ~

I’ve ordered the paper for a new chapbook I hope to put together on rainy days before Elko, instead of the larger collection with a working title of BEST OF THE DRY YEARS, that I just wasn’t happy enough with to complete, needing yet the more normal perspective of some rain.

This poem and photo have appeared here previously, but not on the same page. HOMEMAKING is the title, this photo on the cover (as of this morning). I truly love formatting these chapbooks, rereading and editing some good poems in this one for the past two days.

 

BACK TO LIFE

 

October 5, 2013

October 5, 2013

 

The ground swells with the storm,
penetrates to granite rock
leaking rivulets in predictable places

and I want more to flood memory
of the dry years, smooth their track
chiseled in the walls of my skull, yet

outside myself: a perfect miracle
as the earth takes slow swallows first.
I am this place despite my selfishness,

my impatience and vengeful desire
to forever purge this drought
as my flesh comes slowly back to life.

 

TIME TO RIDE

 

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With crystal clarity, stars throb
before the storm moves in at dawn,
black air clean clear to infinity,

leaky bucket worlds peeking-in
the window as I wake from sleep—
another promised day of needed rain.

Once, we took the day off,
went to town, visited neighbors,
congratulated nature for the extra holiday.

A machine takes messages
from a nine-to-five real-world
ordered to make hay on rainy days—

and I listen, hoping no one wants me
but time, time to ride the prolonged rage
of a loud and sudden thunderstorm.

 

EL NIÑO FOREPLAY

 

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Long on promises, she moves closer,
a slow seductive dance lightly touching,
barely brushing the roof before she leaves

in the dark. I am too old to chase
blindly, and wait instead for words
to fall upon the page when she returns—

or not. I believe she means business.
How she loves to tease the be-Jesus
right out of me. It makes her feel good

too see me uncomfortable, vulnerable
to her every gesture, the stormy look
of these hills wrapped in gray gossamer

dawn waits to unfold at first light
if I’m lucky—if I’m patient enough
to let her have her way with me.

 

THESE YEARS OF DROUGHT

 

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No frost, morning warm—
flotilla of round clouds,
a raft of ships scouting

for a dark fleet, big guns
on the horizon. A welcome
invasion of the flesh:

earth, roots, bark, blade
and mind’s eye open—yet
now afraid of a real rain,

to be drunk with it—
to let go and be ravaged
at last, to turn loose the dry

and dusty lines of poetry,
my plodding momentum tied
to bare dirt and empty skies—

afraid to howl, to learn
the language of the gods,
to speak in tongues

and dance with trees
far from my secure delirium,
these years of drought.

 

NEW YEAR 2016

 

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Eight inches gentle rain, yet
the creek shrinks up canyon,
drawn back by thirsty ground.

Hills slick in shadows stretched
up draws, yet not a trickle
leaks to cobbled beds.

Slow sips, four dry years
not yet quenched, the gods
have been merciful—

brought dusty flesh
back to life with grass
green between the feet

of dancing naked trees
along the creek. Our hearts
pump with its flow—

though nearly idle soaking now—
pound with its raging
promises of spring reflections:

Wood Ducks courting
beneath long-limbed canopies
of sycamores dressing.

I yearn ahead, scout
the moving parts
we’ve yet to play

as I write this
moment’s gift
of today.