Tag Archives: photography

THIN FILAMENT

 

 

Wild entanglements
clutch the fate of the planet
with thin filament.

 

MICROCOSM

 

 

                  It was impossible to make it through the tragedy
                 Without poetry.

                      – Joy Harjo (“Becoming Seventy”)

This other world of cows and calves,
of motherhood exemplified, and bulls,
like men, trailing wire of down fences

is yet to be expected. A bumper crop
of rodents and snakes surround us,
the full moon coyote count of duets

and trios draws closer around us
in the half-light. The metaphors
and similes come easily to favor

humanity ‘midst the tragic chaos
where the latest issue of the truth
has come to be disbelieved.

 

SURROUNDED BY SQUIRRELS

 

 

Having slain hundreds, another battalion digs in
to undermine the well and water trough, to scout
the garden for an attack on the last tomatoes.

The quail have made a comeback in coveys,
strings of babies trailing on training wheels
making circles, mornings and evenings.

Before our eyes, another lifelong mate
in the making, Roadrunners packing lizards
and snails to their nest in prickly pear cactus.

The heavy-limbed sycamores shade a ribbon
of green along the dry creek bed, sub-irrigated
Bermuda grass a few bulls graze between bellowing.

Black cows shine on a side-hill grade, either side
of the canyon, or silhouettes in shade gossiping
and grinding cud, having shed their babies.

SUVs, RVs, camp trailers and fifth-wheels
escape the confinement of cities to dodge Covid-19
and logging trucks on a narrow mountain road

to the pines, and I don’t blame them—with
a thousand ways to go, why not migrate
where no one seems to worry about dying.

 

IDES OF JULY 2020

 

 

                              There is an easy beauty in the bronze statues
                              dredged up from the ocean, but there is a worth
                              to the unshapely our sweet mind founders on.

                                             – Jack Gilbert (“The Secret”)

Even the old fence posts, split redwood
from the coast eighty years ago,
serve a purpose more than by design,

unexpected dividends through a lifetime
that can’t be spent or bartered—saved only
in our minds. I had stopped to photograph

the White Tailed Kite’s extended hovering,
treading air against gravity while searching
dry, blond grasses for the movement of a mouse—

expending more energy, it seemed, than a rodent
could provide. My feet grow heavy now
as I circumambulate this uneven ground

following seasons of grass with cows and calves,
praying for relief of flood or drought, hoping
to generate enough to do it all over again.

 

AMARYLLIS

 

 

The bulb Carolyn gave you years ago
rose between three boulders
where we lay the headless rattler

               to get young Katy
               to pay attention—
               running, dancing,
               always on her toes.
               Her shriek and cry
               cut to our souls.

Huge, bright-orange petals,
like tongues aflame
among adolescent coals—

               Summer Solstice,
               105 degrees—

saved to the shade
on the cold woodstove
to bloom for days,

to hold my eye
and expose
a slice of memory.

 

ROADRUNNERS, RATTLESNAKES & SNAILS

 

IMG_0218

 

Light feet at dawn
inspect Iris and Aloe Vera
to crack shells on the rock
border between gravel and lawn.

She curtsies like a ballerina
in a low, feathered quivering,
teasing, anticipating
the dance in a garden arena.

CHORUS:
               Beyond the reach of Covid-19,
               the divisiveness and hate—
               beyond the crazed confusion
               the fools among us imitate.

Birds multiplying here to a dozen
as watchdogs for the unwanted,
the rattlesnakes and snails,
beyond the reach of poison.

CHORUS:
               Beyond the reach of Covid-19,
               the divisiveness and hate—
               beyond the crazed confusion
               the fools among us imitate.

 

OR NOT

 

 

Hard to be a good guy, find
a melody for wannabe lullabies
overwhelmed by hard-rock thoughts

to make things right
or left, red or blue dominions
as if ordained by God

laughing up his sleeve
at the idiocy of humans
fashioned in his image.

We are merely ants in the anthill,
sub-atomic specks of insignificance
trying to get along—or not.

 

DEPENDENCE DAY

 

 

The shelves of supermarkets
are dependent on farmers,
               both foreign and domestic
               dependent on bankers—

               on tractor drivers, irrigators and brown skin labor,
                              both legal and illegal
                              looking for a better life

               to fill the trucks for grocery stores
               that fill our families’ bellies.

We are dependent on the weather and electricity
               to pump the water
               to grow the crops for harvest.

We are dependent on our phones and Internet
               to keep in touch
               with skewed news and friends
               lest we find ourselves alone
               for an hour—lest we begin
               to know our minds
               or even reason for ourselves.

We are dependent on the politicians
               dependent on corporate donations
               as they campaign to stay
               close to the feed bunks,
               instead of representing
               the workingman trying
               to pay for his consumption.

We are dependent on the planet
               as we carve up the heart
               of its landscape, as we spend
               its resources today
               instead of saving for tomorrow.

We are dependent on one another
               for love and understanding,
               for common sense
               and compassion.

And lastly, we are dependent on God
               and hope to hell
               He’s paying attention.

 

ONCE UPON A TIME

 

 

Yea, once a great nation of statesmen and orators
forging principles, annealed by fire, an ethic
shaped with hammer to anvil. Yea, we once were

the envy of the world, yeoman and scholars free
to speak the truth despite their fears—despite our need
to be greater than we are, we fool ourselves.

Four percent of the planet’s population, we are small,
leaving the elite to run this country into the ground
as we consume like feedlot cattle with credit extended

at 25 percent—we have become vassals to the bankers
on Wall Street—our greatness measured by their numbers
with little else left of value to speak or be proud of.

Once a great nation, we are an embarrassment
to humanity, to a once common sense—
we follow the pack like scavengers praying for a bone

until we blindly consume ourselves without wisdom
or compassion. Where are our senators and statesmen?
Have we forgotten who we were, once upon a time?

 

JUNE 25, 2020

 

 

Our day never done
discussing cattle
instead of politics:

all the pig-headed
pontificators hawking lies
like sideshow barkers.

A nation sick to death
trying to get back to normal
we’ll never see again.

We ride this wild earth,
hang-on with gentle hand
feeling for a familiar rhythm.