Alone in the dark
that shrouds anemic green
and short-stemmed fiddleneck
thinking February seed,
the joyful gurgle
of a shrinking creek
gulps over cobbles
to sit beside me
on a cold and moist
down-canyon breeze.
Painted black,
all sounds normal
as if a sign.
Alone in the dark
I color hillsides leaking
beneath gray skies.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2020, Ranch Journal
A single pod of seeds, the bare
redbud volunteer, come spring,
will obscure my view of the road;
the world beyond this black morning—
beyond the owl in the oaks above me;
the cobbled mumbles of the creek.
With the hillside chorus of coyotes
and canyon’s replies, the ridgeline
holds-up heaven’s brilliance
in a sky of stars—unabashed
and unafraid of any circumstance
that may engulf us all.
Another cold dry front
rests upon the tops of hills,
shapeless clouds, a haze
upon steep south slopes,
red clay like brick—
green pales to gray
as we brand calves
one by one
we may sell early
with their mothers.
I brace against the familiar
drama, growing numb
as my stiff new rope
slides through the palm
of time’s softened hand,
warming as it searches
for my frayed
wrapped-cotton horn.
I quote my elders
dead and gone
as they visit
the branding pen.
Don’t worry, Dofflemyer,
E. J.’d say.
It’s gonna rain.
It takes years to get here
with cows we like—
unwritten contracts
they understand
as we discuss
our options
of who goes first
and who gets what’s left
of hay.
Of the two of us,
I am the dreamer
and believer—
a luxury
you have allowed me
facing facts
as I grow gray.
for Robbin
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2020, Ranch Journal
On our way home from the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko, Nevada, Robbin and I replay a collage of meaningful moments, fragments of conversations, poetry and music as we cross the Great Basin. Avoiding I-80 and Donner, taking the longer, southern route over Tehachapi instead, it has become like Groundhog Day, both coming and going over the years as we cross the pastel sagebrush expanse of the high desert.
Since 1989, I’ve watched the Gathering evolve from strictly traditional recitations to more contemporary expression rooted in a hands-on, rural ethic of the livestock culture where a man’s word is still his bond, where neighbors trade labor and the land offers a living for those tough enough to endure the whims of the weather. With more hugs than handshakes, it has become a reunion where respect remains high, but we’ve lost a few of the best along the way.
With many new faces, an obvious effort to inject some youth into the offering, it was invigorating and inspirational. Included in a great session with poets Forest VonTuyl from Oregon, Jonathon Odermann from North Dakota and singer-songwriter Tracy Morrison from Idaho, I was assured that the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering will survive with renewed energy and originality. My kudos to the staff for locating so much young talent residing in the West.
I always look forward to visiting and reading with one of my favorites, Patricia Frolander, past-Poet Laureate of Wyoming, pictured above. Robbin and I will continue to replay the moments as we get down to the business of branding calves. It’s good to be home.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged Elko, National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, photography, poetry
every valve
leaks a little
there is no
stopping the flow.
– Gary Snyder (“Fixing the System”)
I worried once
about wasting water,
steady drip
at the trough,
at the hose bib,
at the gate valve
green year-round
gathering tree frogs,
snakes and cottontails.
Raining crystal drops
rising with Greenheads
from the tailwater
of the irrigated pasture
on a Sabbath
with my father
instead of church:
he spoke into the clouds.
With the gravity
that holds us close
to this earth,
always a little
leaks by
to remind us.
The old granite stones, those are my people;
Hard heads and stiff wits but faithful, not fools, not chatterers;
And the place where they stand today they will stand also tomorrow.
– Robinson Jeffers (“The Old Stonemason”)
Some like headstones thrust into the earth,
or weather-carved phallic outposts
natives knew by name, those are my people,
my landmarks nodding now as I pass.
They have grown cold and taken shape
from the fires of molten violence—
cracked and fractured piles, wisdom
scattered in the grip of gravity at rest
to hum as homes for rodents and reptiles,
a tunneled settling of colonies to feed
a wilder world. Some pulse with life,
dress with thick green moss, after rain.
But those tattooed with colored lichen
first draw the eye to unravel art,
question what they seem to say—
all good listeners, patient to a fault.
I once dreamed I might have been
a mountain man in another life,
trapped cats and coyotes
instead of beaver—
learned to view the world
through untamed eyes
assessing sign as I became
the prize and placed my twigs
and scents accordingly.
I sifted dirt
to hide the jaws
while writing poetry:
bird-wing fluttering
from a fishing filament
still fascinates me.
Posted in Haiku 2020, Photographs, Poems 2020
Tagged coyote, photography, poetry, trapping, wild, world view
Five Western Bluebirds
at the local water hole
after the fog lifts.
There is a hidden pack of cigarettes
waiting
after the patches, gum
and incessant vaping,
the midnight bellyache
and rattly ambulance ride
to a chair in Emergency
visited by young, head-scratching
teams practicing medicine
by consensus
find nothing wrong
and send me home—
and the second ride
two days later
across the parking lot
from the Doctor’s office.
There is a hidden pack of cigarettes
waiting
after Sepsis
and the gut-wrenching antibiotics
and mind-bending pain
medications:
I build loops in my sleep
and shoot bighorn sheep
from my hospital bed.
There is a hidden pack of cigarettes
waiting
six months later
after the surgeon tells me
what I cannot eat
or drink—after we agree
to wait a little longer.
Courtesy: The Summit Post
If ever there was a table set
on the John Muir Trail,
it was picked clean
between meals
by Steller Jays
impatiently waiting,
screeching, falling
from Tamaracks
in the midden around
a black circle of stones.
The trail is wide
through Rae Lakes
beneath Fin Dome—
slick leather soles
on the Serpent’s back—
my name is in the box
above the fractured chimney
where I held a tourist
pregnant from falling.
Saved two risking one.
I leave again without the work,
without the pack stock,
without the traffic on the trail
whenever I want
to cast clear water
to green submarines
cruising a hidden lake
that I suspect
the world has found
and picked clean.
for Tim Loverin
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2019
Tagged Fin Dome, John Muir Trail, Kings Canyon, photography, poetry, Rae Lakes, Sierra Nevada, Steller Jays
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