I don’t expect to see
in the same way now
and I’m not the wise
old man I wanted to be—
after all, this new ground
hasn’t changed much,
the rain still drains
down the same canyons
in my brain, a ruffled
landscape come alive
in my skull that I must
work around, it seems.
The rafters rain with dry debris of nests
under construction, as finches dance
with crimson breasts upon the railing
crooning springtime love songs.
Hillsides splashed with islands
of Golden Poppies burn together
engulfing green, white skiffs claim
the flats with gilded fiddleneck as
the tender and translucent leaves
of oaks test unsettled weather
gusting within all living flesh
flushed with a mix of urgency and awe.
Killdeer claim the gravel drive, guard
speckled eggs that look like granite
as the crow pair cruise the layered
limbs of trees for homes, their own
secreted away in canyon Blue Oaks
as burnished eagles sweep the grasses
at feeding time—a great and brutal cry
fills the eyes as this troubled earth
awakens with unrelenting passion.
The solace of ridges
I cannot reach
but with my eyes,
I have shared
with generations here
put to rest before me—
while the lower ground
churns with the business
of getting bigger,
milking the earth
for all she’s worth,
building fortunes and cities.
We are not prepared
to go hungry, thirst
without water to irrigate
a meal. We must learn
to look beyond ourselves
to see our children’s
future, work together
to shape a world
that’s not a living hell.
Back to basics with the loss of power that lasted until late this morning due to an isolated thunderstorm yesterday afternoon bringing nearly 3 inches in an hour or so. Robbin and I got the dominos and candles out.
Cattle people trying
to manage grass
in the West
dare not cuss the rain
or otherwise risk
pissing-off the gods
that might be related
to the ones who care
for the ill and dying.
Seed
Rain
Grass
Seed
all the basic elements
we need
to continue living.
Evening conversation dwells
on a thin cow, vaccine
protocol and the dog’s limp
without a hint of politics
beyond the barbed wire—
beyond this ground and grass.
We don’t want to know
what makes the news—
what makes the outside world
tick with greed and power.
Evening conversation dwells
on more important things.
It could be heaven
if the girls across the canyon
cared, if they worried
about the time of day
or year when green
turns straw-blond dry.
They are spared
the human condition—
graze until they die.
What will you do? She asks. I will
continue north, carry the past in my arms, flying into winter.
– Jack Gilbert (“BRING IN THE GODS”)
Might we say
we leave the past on the page,
chapbooks bundled in our arms
heading north into the storm—
time-faded faces,
moments tagged
into poems.
We know their names
and cherish visions
with vibrant clarity
like a bell chiming
on a wind gusting
across the canyon
of time behind us.
Three score and ten
more, I am reluctant
to let go
of this life
in exchange
for something more
like fulfillment
everlasting.
The tourists came
from Germany,
parked outside the pen
along the road,
brought cameras
and watched us
head and heel,
stretch and throw,
cut and vaccinate,
burn a brand
in a swirl of smoke.
We held our breath,
exchanged languages,
said goodbye
in pleasant tones
we understood
as universal
between bunches.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2019
Tagged branding, Craig Ainley, Matt Wells, photography, poetry
The Elko undercurrents
often missed by journalists,
the thoughtful streams
of love and long respect
retained for old friends—
those profound associations
not secreted away,
but obvious.
My right hand offered
held in his both
as he contemplates
my eyes, and I his.
We breathe deeply.
Two gray old men
standing silent,
face to face
stretching time
within a loud crowd,
we block the aisle
beside a tableful of friends,
warm food and wine.
We know we are rare
birds in these fast times,
reading, writing poetry—
reaching for what we know
exists: like the language
of horses, cattle and people
who live on the land
it takes a lifetime to learn
and understand.
for Joel Nelson
Posted in Poems 2019
Tagged Elko, Joel Nelson, Machi's, National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, NY Times, poetry
When Zinfandel heavens part between rains,
we lift a glass of Cabernet at dusk
towards their fleeting magnificence
before the storm, beyond our reach
or responsibility, helpless but to bask
in the fading light of certain truth.
drycrikjournal 