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.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged Drought, Golden Brodiaea, haiku, photographs, poetry, Pretty Face, wildflowers
Once upon a time
everyone of a long-gone people
knew its name.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged haiku, photographs, poetry, weekly-photo-challenge, Yokuts
December 8, 2009
Dependable, Sulphur Peak
faces each day
dressing for the season.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged haiku, photographs, poetry, Sulphur Peak, weekly-photo-challenge
Caged from cattle,
who were her people
pioneering in the foothills?
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged Clara B. Stafford, Effie Hilliard, haiku, photographs, poetry, weekly-photo-challenge
In dry times, the gods retreat
to the granite, forsake the clay
and its inhabitants to fashion
spring upon the open slopes
with skiffs of blooming dots
à la Monet—above the dust
rising between green fading
and leaves curling red, it’s not
quite heaven, but enough.
Claude Monet – 1840-1926
courtesy Wikipedia
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged Claude Monet, Drought, flower-friday, photographs, poetry, wildflowers
A skinny but energetic Hispanic
calls me ‘Boss’ before I step out
into the concrete chute of the Ford garage,
hackneyed patronage I ignore while urgently
scanning the lead-up for a familiar face
in a frightening blur of new ownership—
almost forgetting the smog check I came for,
and an upfront inspection for the cause
and cost to repair the feed truck’s
St. Vitus tap dance on the asphalt
at speeds over thirty after a life
on 4-wheel drive dirt, loaded
with hay or towing a gooseneck. Time
for maintenance for the unretired—
Temple Grandin knows I need a hug.
Pogue Canyon – March 25, 2014
Islands of bare, red clay
on shallow green receding—
seeds that never swelled
to root ceramic slopes
or went with clouds
from cloven hooves—
stare back sternly.
She is dry,
nothing left to offer
the eye—only
the lone calf
grazing shores
for the overlooked
knows no better
world than this.
With rain, even lichen
and moss vie for space—
breathe life into a rock.
Hide of a Herford calf
at a distance—red
lichen living on rock.
I catch myself going back to the barn
to unearth implements and to imagine mules
wearing the edges of their wooden mangers
smooth, each grain widening before I awake.
Rusty scythes lean with pitchforks and hoes
in the corner ready near the door—weapons
if need be. Outside, thirty acres of leafy
grape canes waving have been replaced
by citrus, bright orange ornaments glistening
on bare ground between the skirts of trees.
My eyes adjust to the hames and collars
on the wall, to stiff traces of cracked leather
that can’t be salvaged. All the many hands
gathered here at daylight are just down the road
in the cemetery. The dust inside smells stale
and old, stirred only by pigeon wings and me.
drycrikjournal 