All the places
I worked and played
too hard
are wearing on me
for this moment
I have trailed
with discarded rhymes
and poetry
even I don’t quite
understand
why I had to kiss
the wild so deeply,
why I had to walk
the fence
and dream beyond
the barbed wire.
Posted in Deck Poems, Photographs, Poems 2024, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged age, photography, poetry
Black morning’s fresh
downcanyon breath
primes old flesh
to ride first light
as it breaks the ridge
like yesterday’s charge
easy and alive in my mind.
All the good horses gone,
I’m ready for a stranger
that can walk out,
hold a cow and wink
through loose tethers—
actually believing
it could be hours away.
Only this time
we’ll do it better.
April calves load easy here
for unknown destinations
looking back to say goodbye
to someone lost
in the muddled moment’s
brain fog.
Old between brothers,
we remember stories
the other’s forgot—
a thrill on spry legs
to dance through time
as if young all over again.
Posted in Photographs, POEMS 2023, poetry
Ever so gentle, these waves of wild oats—
easy undulations into the wide swath
of bright-yellow White Mustard
in the disturbed ground
where we fed bulls
drought after drought.
If ever I could reinvent myself
as easily with storm after storm,
shake the slow walk and run
with breath aplenty, mind sharp.
Hazy days of snapshots flashing
uninvited or young among old men
now gone in the photograph
of the branding crew Rochelle took
when Craig was still alive
hanging on the bathroom wall
with south slopes of pure gold,
wet spring after the Drought of 1977.
Ever so gentle, these waves of memory,
stories only searching names,
ever so gentle, they come to me.
Posted in Photographs, POEMS 2023, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged age, branding crew, Drought, Drought of '77, flashbacks, Holland Corrals, memories, photographs, photography, poetry, rain
March 10, 2011
Once the invincible gambler,
I was weaned on cowboy heroics
to wear the scrapes and scars
of chance and circumstance
stiffly—my bones now groan
ground under the pressure
of time, worn smooth as cobbles
in a creekbed. Stride shortened,
my feet slide searching for stability,
having danced this earth as one
in my collected dreams aboard
four great horses I’ve outlived—
I am learning to change my mind,
to find the flavor in a moment
I’ll not savor another time.
Posted in Photographs, POEMS 2023, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged age, chance, change of mind, circumstance, horseback, photography, poetry, time
The fine dust upon old tools I have forgotten
as I clean the shop: my brace and bits, some
long-enough to chew through creosoted
railroad ties while scraping granite gravel. Mighty
hugs to my shoulder in long, youthful spurts
that warmed the birdshot bearings out-of-round
where there was no electricity to hang a gate
miles from the asphalt. It was my third.
I wore them out. I knew no other way.
I recognize the dead scent of time as mine
on the shelves, in wooden boxes no one makes
anymore, protecting stiff-leather headstalls
and rusty bits we’ll never use again. I must make
room for the cordless handyman, especially
since this old battery has begun to run down.
Posted in POEMS 2023, Ranch Journal
Tagged age, dust, poetry, rechargeable batteries, time, tools
No time to rush! Let me linger,
relearn the mantra,
absorb the moment.
Time will escape me soon enough.
The forecast storm is bogged-down north.
We’re wet enough
to have a spring—
wildflowers blooming in our dreams.
Feeding horses, I catch the mist—
each tiny drop
upon my tongue
tastes like this passing moment.
Posted in Photographs, POEMS 2023
Tagged age, photography, poetry, rain, time, urgency, weather
Lesley Fry Photo
Spectacular weather yesterday on the Paregien ranch. Above 2,000 feet in elevation and twenty 4 x 4 minutes from the asphalt, it is a magic place rich with native and anecdotal history. Currently, the feed is short but still greening since the 1.45” we got on the 6th, 7th and 8th of this month. The cattle have left the flats for the slopes and ridges where the new grass is growing faster, protected from frost by the remnants of old feed. Early last week the prognosticators canceled today’s rain, but have now forecast a significant amount for Thursday into the weekend. (We’ll see.)
While pumping water, looking for the neighbor’s errant bull and measuring the corrals for a much-needed makeover, Robbin and I spent the morning with the Fry/Fox family cutting Manzanita and Live Oak deadfall for our woodstove because of my tendonitis. With our many hands, what fun we had!
It’s been several months since I carelessly cut a tree in the road that knocked me down, damaging the rotator cuff of my right shoulder. And about a month since compensating for it to pop a tendon, sounding like a gun shot, in my left forearm. Enlisted now in medical protocol and procedures, it’s taken a couple of weeks to confirm the damage with an MRI. Apparently surgery and long recovery is my best option. I see the Dr. again in 4 weeks, meanwhile I’m supposed to do nothing.
I am amused that only children and seniors measure their age in half-years, kids because they want to be older, and seniors, I suppose, eager to numerically reassure themselves of their existence. I’m 74 ½ and need to act my age. My life, our life, on this ranch has always been physical and it’s been too easy for me to forget I’m no longer fifty or sixty building fence or bucking hay. But to have our good friends and neighbors volunteer to help us get some firewood in was truly a wonderful gift on a beautiful day. Thank you Chuck and Lesley Fry, Katy and Cody Hanson, and Allie and Shawn Fox. You guys are the best!
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged age, firewood, Live Oak, Manzanita, medical procedures, neighbors, photography, rain, tendonitis, weather
Chain saw heavier, I cut arms
off skeletons littering pastures
and canyons after years of drought,
a battleground where old oaks lost
touch with water—most barkless now
tipped-over or in tangled piles
beneath authoritative trunks
begging purpose, begging cremation
or stacked close to the woodstove.
Old habits and rituals finally slow
as the limbs grow heavier despite
the pleading of the heartwood.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged age, cordwood, Drought, habits, oak trees, photography, poetry, rituals, skeletons, woodstove
It’s not easy to get glimpses of myself
among the young men in the branding pen,
awkward young bulls bellowing
as they wrestle fat calves to the ground.
Yesterday, I carried the nut-bucket
and dope instead of riding with a rope,
instead of sliding a wide loop
beneath two feet. I can feel it, see it
in my mind, the smooth dance and dally
round a cotton-wrapped horn, rolling
calves and slipping slack when needed—
but my metronome has slowed.
I don’t wish to be among the old chiefs
who stayed too long to become obstacles
in space and time just to be aboard,
just to lend a neighbor’s hand, like always.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2021, Ranch Journal
Tagged age, branding pen, community, neighbors
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