Of all the deities,
she rises quickly
as we spin eastward
into the present tense
illuminated in a dark sky.
The gray seems blue,
oak trees in fright, filigreed
with filtered light rising free
of earthly probabilities—
after all is said and done.
The natives need wild gods
and goddesses to endure
the nonsense, the unfeeling
truth with no hues offered
for love or compassion.
Busy days before a pineapple express arrives
with a forecast two-inch rain before Christmas,
we wait with a glass of wine for meat on the fire,
for the Wagyu bulls trucked from Idaho in the
super moonlight over Donner, down Highway 99
to be unloaded, we watch the ridgeline, see a coyote
laughing in precursor clouds, hear him giggle
across the creek and we are lifted with our eyes
to all the celestial possibilities we don’t want
explained. It is enough to be found and noticed
as the moon peeks through the oak trees, to be
together like children howling with what they see.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged moon, photography, poetry, rain, super moon
The clouds you ride are tissue-paper thin.
– Red Shuttleworth (“If You Had a Tail Fins Caddy”)
High on the mountain, two isolated cows surprised
graze thick fog without wet bags, act guilty found
in one another’s company before their inevitable trip
to town when we gather, the price of truancy
they seem to know or hear through my eyes
and the mist between us, or pure imagination
that blooms personified from my disappointment.
A little too content to be on vacation from maternity
and needy nurseries, the mother in me understands.
Up here, the footing is treacherous, each tentative step
measured against all the break-through, downhill
possibilities—up here the poems hang in oak trees.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged cows, Paregien Ranch, photography, poetry
Warm green December, grass ahead
of fewer cattle, young bulls work
at making friends in a perfect world
of tight fences and swinging gates
everyone respects for a little while.
On the uneasy edge of drought,
we will imitate fat calves lazing,
content to watch the show unfold
into the ordinary—nothing remarkable,
but with any luck a change for good.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged cattle, Drought, grass, photography, poetry
No wet redwood reflection, I look past black morning,
scan the radar for a chance the last forecast stalled
before it got away to who-cares-where into the future
on the other side of the Sierras, then search for stars beyond
the gray for an out-of-habit game plan between rains:
soft warm earth too wet to work too far from home.
Forty years ago I slowed, took the Fowler exit off
Highway 99 for Madam Sophia’s neon sign of things
to come my way from the landscape of my palm:
low range of callouses spilling into the deep canyon
of my heart—she read both hands and lit a candle,
saw lots of water in my future and I was glad.
Dawn is gray above the green and last year’s bleached
dry feed, chorus line of sycamores undress white limbs,
show flesh between their rosy leaves to tease a good
hard rain to bring the creek to sweep its cobbled bed
of four-years’ deadfall in a rush to wipe out water gaps:
fixing fences into a future that’s not quite guaranteed.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged Dry Creek, fences, Madam Sophia, photography, poetry, rain, water, weather
Sun glints from their feathered breasts
like ornaments in the crumbling Live Oak
that watched women grind acorns
when it was small, lost between the rocks
that have seen it all. First light near
the Solstice blinds the mind of time,
moments independent from our histories
and the monetary cravings of humanity
that are enough—once or twice a year,
after a rain, to awaken veneration
streaming through a mountain gap
to pick this old dirt—to expose
the tracks of moccasins in midden
walking with native gods, just long
enough to become a believer again.
Dear Paul, I write in fear for damn-near
all the gods, the large and small, the holy
and profane deities that will evacuate this
brave new world, flee under fire: open
season, no bag limit for their wild diversity.
We must hone keen eyes and listen closer,
old ears to the ground and its grumbling,
save space between the lines to nourish
and receive epiphanies and not lose faith
in the hapless hands and hearts of humanity.
The rain gods have returned on time to keep
the green alive in this canyon, hope beyond
the numbers and the market to carry on
the old ways, light fires for chunks of meat
to celebrate their visitations with friends
and family, nod and lift a glass to common
senses. The large and small will gather
in our dancing shadows, dodging smoke
upon each arriving breath from up or down
canyon—open space for them all around us.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged Paul Zarzyski, photography, poetry
You escape your sister dying
as we make friends with death
at dinner: leftovers and bottles
of red wine to replay our side
of magnificent dear departures
rich with pride, all the ashes
left to live in symbolic places—
living monuments wrought
by hand to absorb our grief.
We knew them all, see them
stand around the table being
near, each fine quirk strong
as when they breathed mirth
into their last words we call
forth as we remember them.
We move up a growing list
with boozy laughter knowing
we’ve done well, been lucky
despite diminishing diversions
well-beyond this moment full
of exceptional examples.
for JEG
Green blades and stems reach
beneath the dry turned gray
with recent rains—mildewed
protection from the cold holds
moisture before decomposing,
relinquishing steep and rocky
promises to tender chance, to
the next generation of grasses
to become heir to this ground
as we come off the mountain
with Manzanita loaded,
chain saw lashed, descending
slowly, talking about nothing
but what rumbles in our heads
and hearts—our December
ceremony saving, spending,
banking energy the old way.
for Bodhi on his birthday
drycrikjournal 