Tag Archives: language

FAMILY

We know the dogs’ bark,
coyote, cat, snake or stranger,
the horses’ snort or far off stare
at movement in the pasture.

We understand the nervous
titter of quail on patrol,
the cackle of blackbirds,
even the lonely owl’s deep hoot

just before dawn along
with the roadrunners’ redundant
chants of answers:
location, location, location!

The Buckeye forecasts spring
with premature greenery,
and the southwest wind
whispers a little rain.

All around us family,
each with a job to do
protecting what we have
in the middle of nowhere.

“Tule Stratus”

I am amused with the new vocabulary of weathermen like “hydroclimate whiplash” during the atmospheric rivers a couple of years ago. I just read a new one, we’re on day 21 of our “tule stratus” as we head to Paregien’s to gather for Wednesday’s branding where hopefully we’ll be above the fog.

NO BETTER MOTHER THAN A COW

 

 

It’s early yet for rain,
for distant silhouettes
of cows and fresh calves
beneath oak trees
                    nurturing poetry
with murmurs and licks
on a young mother’s tongue.

A slow rhythm and meter
for weeks in the womb
that rumble clearly now:
                    single syllables,
                    grunts and moans—
a universal language
instinct pumps
forever between them.

 

SOUTH EASTERN HORIZON

 

20160103-IMG_1055

 

With wild imagination, the sky
speaks in colors and contortions
before storms settle in the mountains,

as gray clouds scout a trail to camp,
a granite peak to rest upon,
run aground, snow and rain.

Three score years plus
of looking up—and away,
daydreaming fleeting poetry

even as a child out the window
of a forced nap—another tongue
with no letters in its language,

only colors and shapes
from every perspective,
no two the same.

 

DISCLAIMER

 

                                                                       That I
                                        may have spoken well
                                        at times, is not natural.
                                        A wonder is what it is.

                                             – Wendell Berry (“A Warning To My Readers”)

Those who work beside me hear
the gerunds and gerundives mesh
with coarser nouns and verbs
that flourish on unlevel landscapes
among the animals and birds,

or whispered under breath
in politer conversation
like adding grain to polished wood—
profane accents and accidents
straining to leap from my tongue.