A convergence of wills,
young mothers to be,
moving to new country.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged cows, driving cattle, Dry Creek, haiku, photographs, poetry, weekly-photo-challenge
We could be cattle, days
with no names like ticks on a clock—
each dark silence, welcome escape
from two years of want,
or stampeded substitute gods
overrun with adulation,
bringing feed and water to
damned-near everything.
Only now, with well-timed rain
and drizzles freeing cotyledons
from the clay, watching the young
bulls get acquainted with cows,
do we forget the drought
to see our future grass
and heifer calves—sure
that tomorrow is Tuesday.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged cows, Drought, Dry Creek, gods, photographs, poetry, water, weather, wildlife
Once in awhile a fellow blogger will poke a poem out of me. Thanks Evelyne, I feel a little better now:
Herd camped at the gate,
waiting for it to open
to the corral,
to the lead-ups and chutes
for processing
before spitting them out
to rush into another
crowded pen
on the TV news as if
Wall Street’s making hay
with everybody shopping
for the holidays—
as if we’ve traded
mashed potatoes, turkey, stuffing
and gravy with cranberries
and family for a bargain
with a credit card—
as if all the cattle
really want in.
Posted in Poems 2014
Tagged Black Friday, branding, Calves, cows, Dry Creek, poetry, shopping, Thanksgiving
Fellow blogger menomama3, Life in a Flash and Wuthering Bites, has asked that I share my writing process.
To begin with,
I get up early, my writing habit for years. It’s black outside except for one unobtrusive mercury vapor light at the horse barn, not a sound in the canyon. This is my time. No ringing phone, no demands from the outside world. My mind is fresh from whatever dream possessed it while I slept and relaxed. Often a dream lingers inexplicably, sometimes a day or two with vivid images and interactions or just a fog of feeling I can’t explain. But bottomline, my mind is all mine for a couple of hours.
Staring at a blank white sheet is not as intimidating as it used to be, and more often than not I already have a line strumming in my head, perhaps one garnered from my sleep. If not, because this is my discipline to write every morning, I have several collections from poets I admire on my desk that I may open randomly, and many on the shelf if the ones close at hand don’t help my inspiration.
In either event, the first line goes down. It may become the third line, last line, but in the process, that’s unimportant. By the third or fourth line of the first stanza, I’ll probably reorganize the first line anyway, or trash it altogether. I edit while I write, unlike many poets I know. My poetry is somewhat lyrical, and this jousting around in the first stanza or two, I think, is to set the meter or rhythm of the poem. I tend towards internal rhyme, it seems, and lean on it heavily to establish, or reestablish, meter.
I may approach the page with strong purpose, but most of the time I don’t know exactly where I’m going, and that’s the fun part. This grazing livestock culture relies heavily on metaphor, on personification, on anthropomorphic (new word, Suzanne?) explanations, and with that, a unique vernacular I also try to utilize in my poetry, as my own way of thinking.
I depend on details that I visualize to turn a line in a poem, a cause and effect, hands-on approach, and allow myself to feel the action, to become vulnerable and human, hoping to connect with readers beyond my world.
And why?
Reclusive by nature, the cattle culture has been under siege for generations. Hollywood has not helped our reputation, nor have a half-dozen well-meaning campaigns originating in town to oust us from the land, often in favor of development or other extractive industries. Our livelihoods are dependent on the renewable resource of grass. In it for the long term, we do everything we can to keep the ground, and our cattle, healthy. Land and cattle, we are one family, and that comes first.
Projects
come when time allows, I have several in my head: a chapbook with a working title of The Dry Years (surely to sell like hotcakes) and a perfect-bound, larger collection that will include the chap; also an eBook of photographs and haiku, when I can find a format as kind to the photographs as wordpress has been.
Posted in Photographs
Tagged Calves, cows, Dry Creek, Gary Snyder, Gary Soto, haiku, Jim Harrison, photographs, poetry, red sky, Robinson Jeffers, water, weather, Wendell Berry, William Stafford, Writing Process
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014, Ranch Journal
Tagged Calves, cows, Dry Creek, haiku, photographs, poetry, weekly-photo-challenge
Dear Dawn, I await you in a cavern
of wet blackness, upstate exhaust hangs
between me and the suns and stars
of my reward, (or as far as I have seen
of infinity), as the dew from the last rain
clings to each unhealthy particulate,
camouflaged to look and feel like fog.
I have missed your smile, bright eyes,
and warm touch across the landscape
of my face, but we inhale this wet veil
holding clay slopes damp, moistening
each cotyledon struggling to break free
from the earth’s grip to make grass,
turn hills green with the circumambulation
of black dots—cows and calves grazing.
Another ugly day without you, feeding
hay in gray, but it ain’t all bad—
I’ll see you when I can. xxooxxoo, J.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014, Ranch Journal
Tagged bad air, Calves, cows, dawn, Drought, Dry Creek, feeding, fog, photographs, poetry, rain, water, weather
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged Calves, cows, Dry Creek, haiku, milk, photographs, poetry, weekly-photo-challenge
It’s a waiting game now for our bare hills to take on a shade of green as the first cotyledons of our grass seed break the crust left after Friday and Saturday’s remarkable rain. It’s not typical to begin our rainy season with 1.76” on Dry Creek, or 2.62” in Greasy Creek. Usually, we hope to get a half-inch to start the grass, but more often than not fail after our first storm event.
Everybody’s hungry and there’s really not much to eat, actually less immediately after a rain, other than what we are feeding our cows. With some calves two months old and growing, demanding more from their mothers, it’s starting to show on the cows, less fleshy now than a month ago. We’ve been increasing the amount we’re feeding right along trying to keep everyone in shape, hoping that when the grass comes that the calves will keep right on growing, and that our cows will be in good enough shape to cycle and breed back when we put the bulls out next month.
All very subjective. Working around slick roads elsewhere, we fed the girls above a day early yesterday as we drug our road up into Greasy Creek to fill in some of the gullies and ruts accumulated after the past two years of not enough moisture to effectively smooth them out. And good that we brought a little extra hay, as the calves were as glad to see us as the cows.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged Calves, cows, Drought, feeding, Greasy Creek, photographs, rain, weather
Now soft in places, red clay slick
feeding cows in the brown
bare flats beneath naked hills
loose piles of last year’s alfalfa,
each dry flake spaced to fall
into small green haystacks
where cows camp in an undulating
line within a cloudy chill
until this promise of grass
changes the color of everything
we have known for too long.
Looking down, plodding still,
eyes occupied with searching for
the first cotyledons to break free
from the crust, glad hands open
to the elements believing in more
good rains. Vote for those who know
growth without water won’t work.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged cows, Drought, Dry Creek, photographs, poetry, politics, rain, water, weather
We’ve been getting ready for a week—
cleaned the gutters and the woodstove,
stacked and corded oak and Manzanita,
brazed a soup bone with plenty meat
and vegetables, just in case the neighbors
drop by to watch it rain—some more.
Inch and a half overnight, we take
and release a deep, moist breath.
For all ingredients, just add water.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014, Ranch Journal
Tagged Calves, cows, Drought, Dry Creek, photographs, poetry, rain, Vegetable Soup, water