What has happened to the world,
the people, the planet,
now that we can measure
parts per billion,
the distance in light years
to the nearest black hole.
Crowded in corrals,
we are bent beneath the weight
of useless information
shouldering our way
to the EXIT gate
to shed the burdens
of mind and flesh—
lifetimes spent
trying to escape?
What has happened to the world,
this magic planet,
its Mother Goose,
her golden eggs
the rogues are after
mining the moon?
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, poetry
Tagged golden eggs, moon, Mother Goose, photography, poetry
When the rains come right
and knee-deep green feed hides
beneath Fiddleneck in the flats,
we forget the bare, baked slopes
cut by dusty cow trails plunging
to the murmur of the diesel truck
spilling alfalfa flakes the length
of undressed pastures—lost bawling
calves and slow thin cows.
So blessed to have disremembered
the lean dry times, we believe
the miracle is normal, that Hera
and her daughters will set-up camp
and stay a fruitful future for man
and beast, creeks in the canyons—
a tangible fantasy for the thriving
when the rains come right
to change our way of thinking.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged Drought, Dry Creek, miracles, photography, poetry, rain, spring, weather
We know better than to claim
success when the grass is belly-high
and Dry Creek runs year-round.
We know the fickle temperament
of the wild gods and goddesses
who have few rules and no obligations
to monied interests, no crusades
to justify their integrity: certain
dominion over man’s campaigns
to domesticate their nature
for a dollar—that will, in time, undermine
humanity’s conceit for much less.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025
Tagged nature, photography, poetry, politics, power, weather
Dim light above the kitchen table,
wet wedding rings beneath ceramic coffee cups,
shod horses fidget in the aluminum gooseneck
outside before daylight.
“Are Bud and Monte comin’?”
“Nope, just you and me, Babe,” he grins
showing teeth beneath his moustache.
“Any stars?” she asks. “It’s s’posed to rain,
you know, sometime today.”
“A few holes in the clouds is all,”
as he looks up at the ceiling.
“With a little luck
we ought to make it up the hill
before it gets slick,
get the cattle down
and be home by the fire
before it gets too wet.”
After a pause and long swallow, she asks,
“You know what day it is?”
“Thursday, I think”
“Is that all?” she lets trail on her way to the sink.
“Oh, I’ll be goddamned:
Happy Valentine’s Day!”
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2019, Ranch Journal
Tagged photography, poetry, rain, Valentine's Day, weather
1.
Crows circle,
coyotes skulk
and a Red Tail watches
on a bare oak branch
for a ground squirrel
to wake and warm
atop a rock at dawn.
Everybody’s hungry
in February.
2.
Cold marble ceiling,
precursor to another
stream of storms predicted
to test the levees,
erase the landscapes
of man’s mistakes,
but likely missing
a golden opportunity
for humanity.
3.
The imbalanced weight
of man’s achievements
and herded hostilities
wobbles the planet’s
tipsy equilibrium
between war and peace,
the struggle for power
over Nature
to right herself.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, poetry
Tagged development, Humanity, nature, photography, poetry, politics, power, weather
Night showers, cold damp dawn,
intense coyote octaves shrill—an eerie
screaming claims the canyon
as I search for forgotten details
for the morning’s branding,
worried for baby calves
before the crew arrives
for coffee and last minute
plans. What rarity has triggered
this assault on silence, what wild
imperative, what joy requires
such passionate agreement?
What have I missed
not learning the language
after fifty-five years?
I really dislike word press. I have wasted too much time today simply trying to pass along a comment on your blog entry today about coyotes. Before I moved to la la land north, at the ranch I used to enjoy this vocal minority calling to each other from valley floor (even if at times it sounded as if it was coming from just outside our bedroom window) to the upper hills and then beyond into the canyons and back again. Lonely. Eerie. Beautiful.
Keep on writing, my friend. You weave beautiful poetry beyond telling city folks about life (mostly work) on the ranch up Dry Creek Road.
s
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, Ranch Journal
Tagged coyotes, Dry Creek, photography, plaace, poetry, silence
Light rain like fog
gray in the canyon
closes the world away—
privacy to contemplate
the prolonged moment
that asks no questions
of the no one
you have become
among the mountains.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2024, poetry, Ranch Journal
Gabe Arroyo would make his rounds
like a jovial Santa at Christmas
with a pickup load of honey and Patron
on the ranches where he kept his hives
for the winter—have an early morning toast
to the New Year:
1 generous shot of Tequilla
2 shots of fresh-squeezed orange juice
in a glass of pomegranate nectar
leftover from Robbin’s jelly. He’d get a jar
and we’d have another round or so
his son-in-law could drive him home.
Gabe’s gone, but we make merry
with his holiday spirit
as if he were still here.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2024, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged Christmas, Gabe Arroyo, honey, New Years, old days, photography, poetry, recipe, tequila
Last year’s fine hair,
dry and hollow-stemmed
screens renewed green
sheltered in rocks
that once were one
mind, one set of eyes
to record the wild cycle
of new roots from old
seeds of life — hope
and grace apart
from the rubble
of mankind.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2024, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged Dry Creek, photography, poetry, rain, rocks, seed, weather, wild
First rain
the gophers clean their houses,
stack tailings high
where the Great Blues wait,
stand like statues,
like soldiers across the pasture
for the slightest movement
of well-worked mounds
to stab a meal—then toss it up,
catch open-beaked
and let it slide
down a snaky neck.
My father loved them,
loved the fact
they were working for him.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2024, poetry
Tagged Dry Creek, gophers, Great Blue Herons, photography, poetry, rain
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