Tag Archives: Dry Creek

NEWS OF THANKSGIVING

 

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.

 

NEAR THE RIVER (RIPARIAN)

IMG_1109

 

Within the wild grapes and willows,
a world become tame
without humans.

 

 

Early Morning Writing

IMG_7330

 

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.

 

JUST BEGUN

IMG_0061 - Version 2

 

No small accomplishment
bringing life to this world—
a job just begun.

 

 

WPC(1) — “Achievement”

TRACE

IMG_1251

 

A taste of rain tinkling in the downspout
too light to hear upon the metal roof,
yet under this common wet covering

her scent mends everything
for the moment, for another beginning
and we inhale it—lungs full of new life.

And when we pray, it’s to the Goddess—
mother, lover—for our sustenance,
for the bloom and fruit of flesh renewed

as the damp earth exhales, breathes easily
to taste each lingering drop
that settles upon its petaled tongue.

 

AMERICAN WIDGEON

IMG_0972

 

Carnival colors
reflected on a breeze—
Disneyland for a duck.

 

 

XXOOXXOO

IMG_0929

 

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.

 

INDIGNANT

IMG_0920

 

Interrupting a face full
of the good life
can draw disturbing looks.

 

 

WPC(4) — “Minimalist”

DAY ONE

IMG_0931

 

Since Day One, drawn
to the fire, meat and music—
new words to an old song.

 

 

WPC(3) — “Minimalist”

 

STRAWBERRY CLOVER

IMG_4984 - Version 2

 

Wild explosions in orbit
just above the green feed
around our feet.

 

 

WPC(1) — “Minimalist”