Tag Archives: poetry

THE DREAMT LAND

 

 

for Mark Arax

The ground is sinking
to where the water used to be
all across the San Joaquin,

agriculture’s deficit spending
leveraged into fortunes
for California’s kings.

This side of the Sierra divide,
it’s always been ‘boom or bust’,
flood or drought,

nothing normal
in between
to bank on

but drill more wells for nuts:
almonds and pistachios,
another million humans

to farm like cattle,
corral in cubicles
they can’t afford.

With the nature of California,
paradox or conundrum,
a constant battle.

 

CROWS AT CAMBRIA

 

 

The crows know what time
the maids come to clean—
leave their cart of sheets and towels,

TP and soap, coffee and especially
creamers unattended.
They wait on the roof.

Black fledglings watch the plastic peal,
peck when they can to help,
nothing’s spilt.

It’s part of the price
to stay on the coast
where no one seems to notice.

 

A COYOTE’S WORLD

 

 

Daytime buzzards circle gunshots
and the dogs bark at three in the morning
when the pups arrive to consume
my pruning of a bumper crop
of ground squirrels, squads that raid
garden and orchard to harvest fruit
before it’s ripe, leaving nothing to glean.

In sixty days, the heifers will be calving
for the first time, confused and alone
licking a wobbly, wet calf clean
of the scent that draws the coyotes
who watch and know the habits
of all of us in a world
without crimes or rules.

 

BLESSINGS

 

 

I’ve heard stories I don’t remember
embellished into local myths
no longer true, no longer claimed

as I age, as memory fades
as it should from the far context
of most outdoor youths.

Oh, how we howled like a pack
of coyotes in these canyons—
louder yet in towns avoided now.

But a man learns not to dwell
on guilt, what can’t be helped
to please the righteous—

evolutions of imperfection
honed into an existence
we’ll soon live without.

 

RARE

 

 

Hot early—
pack water,
perspire more,

find a breeze
to face
with a distant grin

and measure
the daylight left
until you’re done.

 

AFRAID

 

 

                  When I got a little older, I changed.
                                    Maria Lisa Eastman (“War Bridle”)

Summer winds breathe fire
with a bouquet of hollow wild oats
bent on chance and luck—
but we cannot look away
or ever dream relaxed.

One would think with age
and long experience, a man
would become emboldened
with skid-steer-bladed
firebreaks and phoschex

that always help, but time
has proven reason often
beyond the comprehension
of some of us who wait
for the smell of smoke.

 

ELECTING WATER

 

 

The creek still runs dry,
spends itself as it shrinks upstream
on oaks and sycamores

                  despite the goosenecks,
                  despite the cowboys
                  hauling calves to town—

                  despite the busloads,
                  despite the caravans
                  of weekend Christians

looking for God in the pines.
The County had to move the road
after the Flood of ’55

and rebuilt bridges in ‘69
where the canyon narrows
and the creek runs dry.

Still talk of a dam
every election year
as if it could make water.

 

MONTEREY SAND

 

 

Neither cowman nor a threat
to his counterfeit Brahma cows,
he shuffled afoot at eighty-five
with a flake of grassy alfalfa
tucked under his arm, led them
out of the brush into his splintered
board pens mumbling under
his breath—dried spittle of snooce
upon his gray unshaven chin.

Like loading deer to help him
haul his calves to town, kept
his cash in the freezer of the fridge
before they robbed and tied
to a chair for two days and nights—
before his girlfriend missed him
with his POA in her hand—
before she sold him downriver
to move to Monterey sand.

 

* * * *

POA: Power of Attorney

 

BUGS AND BUTTERFLIES

 

 

Families of milkweed make stands
in a mountain pasture of long-blond feed
where last year’s pods burst with seed

spun within the floss of silky filaments,
scattered outposts of native settlements
I have avoided except for nods of respect.

Host to bugs and beetles, wild bees
and butterflies, they get-along
together well, without and despite us.

 

 

RECKONING

 

 

I would have flown had I known where
the rainbow ended, slogging knee-deep
down a vineyard row before kindergarten—
I believed everything my father said.

Pulling sound and intension from empty
pages, painting pleasure, an additive curse:
over granite scree to the Kern River canyon,
the roar beyond the beaver ponds reflecting

white clouds on blue islands between sugar
pines quivering from the nose of a rainbow trout
spreads across my flesh, opens a lifetime up
to great escapes that conserved my sanity.