The ridges are crowded with generations
of relatives and old friends
who came with this ground—
a native ascension
a pardon from heaven
for those whose roots won’t let loose
of the baked clay and granite
the weather has chiseled
into crumbling headstones. Easier
to hear their voices, feel them near
as I grow older, closer to them.
(click to enlarge)
Privilege and luck
to know and work with fine men
while getting older.
A part of them sticks
to the sides of gaping holes
they have left us with
to load semi-trucks
with ripened grass on the hoof—
cowmen to count on.
Returning home yesterday after a moving celebration of the life of Earl McKee, Robbin went through some her photos trying to determine the age of our old dog, only to run across her photo of Tom Grimmius and Art Tarbell on Dry Creek, two more from the old school that are no longer with us to help get the job done. Reminding me of H.C. “Bud” Jackson’s “The Good ‘Uns” about Cleo Denny and other local and progressive cattlemen, published in 1980.
Posted in Haiku 2019, Photographs, Poems 2019, Ranch Journal
Tagged Art Tarbell, haiku, photography, poetry, Tom Grimmius
Carolyn Duferrena Photo
Robbin and I had a delightful visit with Carolyn Dufurrena here on the ranch last August where she interviewed me for this article in Range Magazine,
“Bard of the Southern Sierra”.
My thanks to C. J. Hadley for her continuing support of the people, the lands and the wildlife of the West—
“The Cowboy Spirit on America’s Outback”.
Wild inspiration
to ignite each arm of grace
with blooms for a room.
Posted in Haiku 2019, Photographs, Poems 2019
Tagged Century Plant, photography, poetry
Three greenheads beat wings up canyon
into the rosy hue of dawn clinging to the ridgeline—
predecessors leaving me to shape the last
couplet before I find my place among them.
I catch glimpses quaking in the leaves
of a redbud, in the shadow of an oak trunk
and especially reflected in the eyes of cows
awaiting direction as proof of the spirits
that occupy this place, my home—that wish
to appear through cloudy lenses of my own.
Crowded outer space,
red sputniks and satellites
between us and God.
One-night bloom well-spent
at once—a dazzling display
of brilliance gone limp.
A short leap before
we look back, freeze and believe
we are invisible.
The air is clear, clean—ridgelines
sharp with thunderstorms elsewhere,
too late to prolong the dream
of an everlasting spring.
The mottled transition of grasses
against crisp shadows holds,
drawing from ample winter rains
to become a painting, a pinto—
a young, firm-muscled overo
with good withers, soft mouth
and big heart, so seductive
as to lose myself to ride
these slopes for the first time—
like your eyes this evening,
hands reaching to touch softly
without the weight of words.
Awaiting words on the wind,
sharpened pencil and
yellow, short-lined pad—
the first leaf lifts
as I sneak a look
at the next page
searching for poetry
that feels good
in my hand.
drycrikjournal 