Tag Archives: photography

Gesundheit!!

 

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Living where we work, our exposure and resistance to ever-evolving, human contagions is limited. And though our immune systems may be naïve, we’re seldom sick. But since a busy Christmas here with family, kids and grandkids, Robbin and I remained sequestered at home to ring in the New Year by counting our blessings after each barrage of consecutive sneezes.

 

 

NEW YEAR’S EVE 2017

Self-medicating between bouts
of consecutive sneezes
and my repeated gesundheits,

your eyes raised to invisible lines
of poetry you’ve been writing
in the kitchen that you squint

to read, and then erase,
edit with a fingertip:
family gifts at Christmas

multiplied as germs exchanged
from big box malls to stockings full
all-across America—and more

you couldn’t decipher
or I can’t remember, trying
anything to get better.

 

CLOUD OF SMOKE

 

Rough Fire - July 28, 2015

Rough Fire – July 28, 2015

 

                    The beauty of things—the beauty of transhuman things
                    Without which we are lost.

                         – Robinson Jeffers (“Granddaughter”)

I claim the disheveled refuge of age
addled by magic devices beyond
the amalgamation of basic elements,

the dirt and water, the living foundation
from which we spring and are akin,
intriguing as a relative to trees that dance

and rocks that talk about the past,
solid and lasting. A balancing act:
my slow retreat just short of the attic

I am promised, mercifully sequestered
‘Someday Soon’ with Ian’s tune.
I want blaring sing-alongs to leave upon!

                    I’d be down that road in a cloud of smoke
                    For some land that I ain’t bought bought bought

                         – Guy Clark (“L.A. Freeways”)

 

WAKE-UP CALL

 

photo: Jaro Spichalova

photo: Jaro Spichal

 

I steal a look into the blurry morning mirror
after a second cup of coffee: a gray Medusa-do
replacing decades of darker curiosities

that recollect the Brylcreem coifs, the forelock
dip, loose strands dangling like my connection
to rock and roll—to the replaceable, double-A hearts

of Ricky and Elvis inside my Zenith transistor
a long ways from town—from the here and now
before I turn away from the worn-out look

that chuckles back at me. But this is the way
to wake up to reality, like Perseus, with only
quick glances into Athena’s shiny shield.

 

CHRISTMAS 2016

 

photo: Jaro Spichalova

photo: Jaro Spichal

 

                    Wherever the mind dwells apart is itself
                    a distant place.

                         – T’ao Ch’ien (“Drinking Wine”)

We have been there, idling across pastures
like cattle to ridgetops with focused eye
turned blurry with the mind’s appeal to wander—

an easy trek in open space, we gravitate
to isolated places where granite rocks
take the shape of animals, where oak trees

dance with sweeping boughs and speak
a language without words we comprehend.
When we come home to flesh, to the clatter

and complicated clutter of more mortal busyness,
our senses shocked and fogged with dismay,
we become the aliens for a moment on this planet

returning with translations, with fresh offerings
of peace and poetry—we nod to all the animals,
leaving little gifts of good-will along the way.

 

ZEITGEIST or TOMATO SOUP SKY

 

photo: Bodhi Rouse

photo: Bodhi Rouse

 

Never figured on a sunset,
children, grandchildren around
a smoky Live Oak fire,
the SoCal storm bleeding north

                    above a frost-bitten garden—
                    dry stem tomatoes
                    and peppers hanging
                    like ornamental gifts
                    for Christmas.

I thought I escaped California in 1970
to ride back through time, didn’t think
I’d camp in one place this long.

Never figured on iPhone photos,
satellite dish for shade—
or planning for a future
that depends on water
and obsolescence.

 

Winter Solstice 2016

 

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It’s habitual, looking to the mountains for our future, the Kaweah Peaks over Remy Gap in the southern Sierra Nevada above, not completely dressed in snow from the last storm on December 16th— another forecast for the 23rd. Ideally, the snow is laid in while it’s cold enough to freeze before mid-January, then slow melt to feed our rivers and replenish the groundwater in the San Joaquin Valley, once the most productive agricultural region in the world, or so I was told in college.

Much has changed since the 60s when Visalia was a town of 16,000. Now a city populated by 124,000 people drawing on groundwater resources year-round. The growth of Valley towns has also displaced some of our best agricultural ground in a short span of fifty years. The implementation of flood control structures on nearly every river on the west slope of the Sierras since, regulating surface water flows, have also had a severe impact to groundwater levels in the Valley. Add the wild cards of drought and more deep wells, less low snow as the climate changes, ours is not a hand to bet on long.

Well-meaning, but onerous, water legislation will not create more water. Nor will the monies set aside to build more dams, especially since we haven’t filled the ones we have in years. But for us, and most foothill livestock producers, we look to the Sierra snowpack this time of year for our future summer stockwater, the small leaks in granite cracks that feed our springs providing water for cattle and wildlife.

 

ERRANT BULL

 

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The wire goes cold.
Red tail-hair hangs by a barb in a tangle.
Horned-bull bellowing in the flats
among the heifers close to the Solstice
half-moon waning—mark it somewhere
                    on a mind wall,
                    potential trouble in a poem
                    filed in cyberspace.

The wire goes cold.
A trumpet blares from my buttoned pocket,
beneath a zippered vest and heavy Carhartt
look-a-like advertising Purina Hi-Pro,
coils and split-reins in a gloved left hand,
small loop in the right with a flying U ready
to remind the bull he’s half-way home
and it won’t stop bugling
                    as if nearby
                    the cavalry
                    was just over the rise.

The wire goes cold.
We text and vox from the ridgetops,
from what our eyes have gathered
from the ranch. No emergency—
Cowboy Celtic wants to Facetime.
As we push the heifers another field away,
                    I call them back
                    and we yak
                    and they ride with me,
                    see green country
                    and cattle to the gate
                    just above the ears
                    of my horse.

 

TENUGUI

 

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1.

Other worlds beyond,
beneath the canopies
of the woods gone wild
to shed their leaves,

naked near the Solstice,
unending limbs entwined
unseen unless I move
outside my cluttered mind—

ignored and warmed
by the murmured songs
of smaller gods
I sense when I am gone.
 

2.

It is a mistake, you know,
to map your favorite fishing hole—
to let trout leap from photograph
to fire in the company
of hungry strangers. Best
leave your luck to the mystic
and the magic of cryptic poetry
felt before it’s understood.
 

3.

I imagine a narrow wild rag,
your gift of Raijin thunder
and lightening coming—
an angry Japanese print
I might wear anywhere
outside to get attention
from stormy weather,
for the bladder full of water
slung over his shoulders
we might all profit by.

 

BATHING IN MILK

 

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I watch cows for affirmation
of living simply well without

                                               you know,

those self-centered addictions
like bathing in milk, all the mirrored
poses dressed in wet white film

                                               completely

pure, all the grass or chopped alfalfa
rivers dripping tears of pearls
on the carpet, on the floor

                                               wasted

in front of the hungry—without
that arrogance we are famous for
flaunting—as if the devil cared
about another soul crowded into hell.

Right after a rain, they know the grass
grows taller and stronger at the top
of these steep hills, pausing long to graze
between each step of their calm ascent.

 

RAIN UNDONE

 

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Radar says the rain is done
pelting the tin roof, giggling
in the downspouts, in the black
super moonless, all-night storm
I slept through mostly—says

rumors of miracles and magic
cannot be reasons for the present
cold and wet upon my bare chest, or
flashlight drippings, diamonds
sliding down the rain gauge.

I believe what I want, personify
the needs of the smaller elements,
the addicts in our dry community:
all the off-the-wagon drunks afloat
with the miracle of rain undone.

 

 

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