When Zinfandel heavens part between rains,
we lift a glass of Cabernet at dusk
towards their fleeting magnificence
before the storm, beyond our reach
or responsibility, helpless but to bask
in the fading light of certain truth.
When Zinfandel heavens part between rains,
we lift a glass of Cabernet at dusk
towards their fleeting magnificence
before the storm, beyond our reach
or responsibility, helpless but to bask
in the fading light of certain truth.
nothing left but a river flowing on the borders of heaven.
– Li Po (“On Yellow-Crane Tower, Farewell to Meng Hao-jan Who’s Leaving for Yang-chou”)
Branding big calves an hour from the asphalt,
snow-laden Sierras dressed in diaphanous clouds
a stone’s throw across the North Fork canyon
from these corrals too short for modern cows,
we talk about the pressure-treated posts you set
six foot down back when I can’t remember.
Away from the world for years, you are both here
and beyond the Great Western Divide,
a fuzzy white river flowing south to somewhere.
for Gary Davis
The stage is set with
few days between rains
in years between droughts—
green hills hang fire,
begin to breathe
before they flower.
Knee-deep white egrets
comb blades of grass,
step lightly slowly
as tree frogs gather
to rehearse
an all-night chorus.
In his Model A, Bill DeCarteret stopped by our branding yesterday along Dry Creek Road. His visit with Tim Loverin, owner/operator of the Cedar Grove Pack Station, and me was much too short. We’ll do it again soon.
Purple clouds up canyon,
an armada approaching
white skies at dawn…
battleships burning pink,
fleet afire and fading
into a bluer sea.
The gods
abhor halters and stirrups, even a horse
blanket to protect our asses is forbidden.
– Jim Harrison (“Poet No. 7”)
Handful of mane, wrap
of hair gripped and entwined,
I plowed the pine duff on the Kern
with my chin loping back to the picket line,
bell mare clenched between my legs
when she shied.
A pigeon-toed bay,
my legs and heart
grew into.
A plucky kid
leading mules and people
over granite scree
to snowmelt meadows
framing heaven’s
blue-cloud reflection
I could have died
half-dozen times
were I not so close
to the hands of gods
and goddesses
that may have placed
a rattler in the corner of her eye
for entertainment.
for Bill DeCarteret
“Mountains, Mules and Memories”
Posted in Poems 2019
Tagged Bill DeCarteret, Jim Harrison, mountains, Mules and Memories", poetry
Burning twin Valley Oaks
gone dead in the drought,
undermined by the creek—
four-foot trunks
of smoking coals
two or three centuries old
stirred with the skid steer
three times a day
religiously
have left a hole
in my tangled world
across the creek
I cannot replace:
timelessness trapped
in mottled shadows
embracing me
each time I passed
beneath them.
* Really “DAY THREE”, (today is Saturday, not Sunday). Excused from Jury Duty, I lit the fire Thursday morning after Erik Avila pulled the trees out of the creek with an excavator for Kaweah Delta Water Conservation District on Wednesday.
The ranchy part of this common confusion for us is that we’re busy, we work at something everyday, doing pretty much what we want—no “hump days” with weekdays and weekends pretty much the same, we tend to lose track of what the name of today is. That’s my story and I’m stickin to it.