On the dark side of the Blood Moon
eclipsed by the shadow of the Earth,
who knows what’s brewing,
an alien bivouac in the tabloids—
all the government secret rendez-vous
with who knows whom or who
is calling the shots, the ICBMs
and loaded drones to kickoff
World War III, a real diversion
from the truth that may not matter—
a puff of smoke to the galaxies,
nothing for the rest us.
The sycamores are pushing leaves
against green hillsides along the creek—
thin clouds smeared upon blue seas
above fresh snow upstream, and we
old timers wait for the wildflowers
we remember, their names and faces
begging for a moment in the sun
far from the news in Washington.
Thank God it finally rained after months
of fog, the only moisture to keep the grass
alive, and only now does it start to grow
after the frost and freezing mornings
that make strong feed. You can see it piled
behind the heifers, instead of puddles,
licking themselves as if their coats
were combed with gobs of Brylcreem.
It’s the little things that tell the story
I’m looking for—Baby Blue Eyes,
Mariposa Lillies and Pretty Faces
to greet me spring mornings.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2026, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged heifers, photography, poetry, strong feed, wildflowers
Sunday morning’s horoscope suggests
why not write some poetry
planets aligned for me to be
feeling especially inspired or artistic
and I try, despite the broken tooth
too short to extract with vice grips,
crumbling, throbbing with coffee.
Devastation at the distant feral cat’s
food down at the shop, a raccoon,
I suspect, stuck in the small door
cut in its thirty-gallon cover.
I envision the coon panicked, flipping over—
kibble scattered like gravel,
empty dishes upside down, secret
humor as I reclaim the mess.
And the weeds we sprayed yesterday
from the welcome rains that washed-out
all the fences across the creek
between neighbors, their cattle
headed south, tentatively exploring
our empty pasture across from the house.
Dark shadows shrink upon the green,
a picturesque pre-spring day
in-the-making. I sip cold coffee and wait.
Posted in Poems 2026, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged astrology, catfood, everyday, photography, poetry, raccoon, rain, watergaps, weedspray
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.
Posted in Poems 2026, poetry
Tagged animals, birds, communication, language, nature, poetry
We filled buckets of mushrooms
my mother’s grumpy father and I
freshly instructed at ten
what toadstools looked like.
I brought my share home for a panful
of wild slathered in garlic and butter
but got the blame
for my father’s upset stomach.
Back when I was invincible,
riskng chance with circumstance,
I filled buckets on my own
as the ground warmed after rain.
And today, freckled-capped colonies
claiming fresh green beckon me,
pink or brown underneath,
to taste one more time.
I count the barks in the dark
before sunrise, dog on the job
as I try to cypher who intrudes
our tranquility—so much like
tragic news in the daylight
hunting humanity and me
after the primal bellowing
of bulls echo the canyon,
or the solo owl in a nearby oak
searches for an answer,
as joyous choruses of coyotes
find one another
before the day’s work
of stalking rodents
or claiming carrion.
Earthbound, they can’t fathom
the news I hear and read,
feel it clutch mind and heart,
the wounded part of me
cut both ways
for being human.
Gray rain at dawn,
colorless silhouettes of sycamores
filigreed, having lost half their leaves
to the Christmas gift of storms
after a month of fog—we pray
the world beyond will pause
for a breath, follow suit,
find a common sense of peace
like black dots of cattle
grazing ridgetops, chasing green
reaching for the heaven sent
miracle of rain.
Handy in the wild, I dodged death enough
to not fear it, and wore the bluster like a shield,
my coat of arms that some men envied,
while old men touched eyes quietly aside
predicting my comeuppance someday soon.
Some escapades were tales circled back to me
I had forgotten, or in retelling, so embellished,
unrecognized. Today I can’t lay claim
to what could have been fumbling with the facts.
IGNITION
The hillside Blue Oaks beneath the fog
round as mushrooms upon December green,
darkened mounds that have survived
the seasons for centuries speaking
what I can’t translate, yet admire above
the sycamores that hem the creek
as they catch fire—flaming colors
on the thirteenth successive day of fog
warm heart and mind despite the gray.
****
MURMURATION
The starlings swarm like bees,
murmuration, hundreds synchronized
in flight by unspoken cues to flare
and light en masse to peck and graze
the green, before that cerebral notion rises
into the sky with a synchronized dance.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, Ranch Journal
Tagged Blue Oaks, fog, photography, poetry, starlings, sycamores, weather
Around Christmas,
I’d wake to my father
asleep on the floor
facing the fireplace
of the old Coffelt house
with high gray ceilings,
his brown sweater
reeking of #2 diesel
and I’d lay beside him
as he snored.
He’d been up and down
all night checking temperatures,
lighting smudge pot sentries
whose flaming helmets
surrounded his father’s
orchards of oranges
to turn back a freeze,
or climbing towers
with spinning turrets
to start the flathead Ford’s
twin prop wind machines.
I begged to go with him
block to block
passing Ike Clark’s lean-to
of old scrap boards catching fire
from two lit smudge pots
and bottled heat
with him asleep
on gunny sacks of straw.
Dad pulled him free
as we watched the shelter
disappear.
My mother suffered most
the suet that leaked
inside the house
from the black cloud
that hung over
Exeter’s crop of gold.
to ship East
and the new dress
she bought for a Christmas
party in Visalia
she never got to wear
because the freezing weather
claimed my Dad.
She never forgave him.
Posted in Poems 2025, poetry
Tagged freeze, Ike Clrk, oranges, poetry, smudge pots, wind machines
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