Tag Archives: poetry

LET THEM TALK

 

                    How comes it that he wrote a book
                    of five thousand words?

                               translated by Arthur Waley (“Po Chü-I on Lao-tzü”)

“Let them talk,” old Tom Davis said,
“to see what they don’t know.”
has worked well-enough for me—

yet I write incessantly: lay bare
my innocence and ignorance
on recyclable paper no cowmen

dare read. Out here, the approach
to good or bad speaks for itself,
and is remembered—but in between,

the indomitable art on the wing
is humbling and leaves us speechless.
Already, I have said too much.

 

 

 

“Po Chü-I on Lao-tzü”

FORT VISALIA

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Most days, they can’t see
outside the fort, foothills full
of native ghosts in wild skins

and fine feathers, or the clouds
that boil, fume and sometimes
storm for the fun of it.

Busy with new rules to keep
the stockade safe, they can’t hear
the coyote’s wail in the street—

we live outside its walls
by the same laws
the bird and animal people left us.

 

 

NOIR

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This side of darkness,
we bring them closer
from beyond the pagan deep.

 

 

SPRING TRAP

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Lovely, even when
blind determination
grows into a spring trap.

 

 

COCKTAIL AT DUSK

The startled rock pigeons fly in a bunch from the pasture ahead of a drab figure making a game of the hunt, with extra bounds in the short grass for fun. Between them ground squirrels scattering that I can’t see. Bobcat, Coyote in the glasses at 400 yards? A long tail stops to listen to me holler at the house as it leaves, and then again as I repeat myself, winter hair shining like a well-groomed German Shepherd at dusk, looking back over its shoulder at a human outpost in this world. The good dog growls beside me.

 

Calves big, pups ahead—
even fine specimens
can make a living fun.

 

 

LIKE FARMING

Sometimes it takes a week or more
for the words to sink in,
get past the callous crust,
irrigate, grow roots
and flower in the brain.

My scalp must be littered with debris
of brittle stems, wild seed and chaff
hidden in a forest of gray follicles
waiting to germinate
after a good rain.

But I get it now—see the words,
not the speaker, on paper—
each packing its own weight
in an even flow across
a cultivated field of furrows.

Golden Brodiaea, Pretty Face

Triteleia ixioides - April 10, 2014

Triteleia ixioides – April 10, 2014

 

Even at a distance smiling
in a cheerful crowd.
I see your face.

 

 

Perhaps the most photogenic wildflower, the Golden Brodiaea or Pretty Face begs to be looked upon, straight down, a flat plane of cheerful faces with a fixed focal length looking up without a care in the world. Their bloom is plentiful this spring, showing above our short feed making one last growth spurt, one last gasp before turning and heading out early. At a distance in the green, the clusters appear to be single yellowish flowers, indistinct lush splotches dotting north and east slopes in the low clay and the granite draws. Each cluster much the same, yet uniquely different in bloom and detail, I seem to photograph them every spring.

 

WPC – Rock Monument (3)

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Once upon a time
everyone of a long-gone people
knew its name.

 

 

WPC – Morning Monument (2)

December 8, 2009

December 8, 2009

 

 

Dependable, Sulphur Peak
faces each day
dressing for the season.

 

 

WPC – Forgotten Monument (1)

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Caged from cattle,
who were her people
pioneering in the foothills?