It’s still easy to get lost for a little while
on cow trails leading to water beyond
outcrops of lichen-stained fractured rock
and the thick draws of tunneled Manzanita
that claw the flesh and bleed the will
to find yourself OK with the dialogue
in your mind as you name landmarks
and give them meaning. You should hear
whispers from the old men you remember,
words from birds and see both grace
and fright in dancers engrained in place,
rooted in what remains of another world.
After awhile in a place, the trees we plant,
fertilize and irrigate for summer shade
and privacy need to be pruned to see
the pasture between us and the road,
as cows and calves become autumn’s
evening entertainment waiting
for a rain beneath a waxing moon
and the ridgeline’s jagged shadow
cast across a canyon greening—
the phone rings inside
lamenting the election
and everything it means:
no more robot recordings begging money
and votes four times a day for candidates
and propositions I know nothing about,
yet sure of another set of rules and taxes
to pay for agencies and enforcement
to make the majority feel better
about this crazy world. I need to raise
the curtain, cut another limb to sooner
see who or what’s coming up the road.
I turn away, blinded by November’s
first light, Redbud hearts enflamed
with last season’s feed on green
burning yellows between dark shadows
with the news, with disbelief.
I retreat to calm counsel with cattle:
scattered pairs, calves fresh with life
finding legs to fly—buck and run
figure-eights without direction always
circling back, showing off for mom.
We will work the heifers anyway—
give them everything we can
to make them attractive to Wagyu,
their first bulls. And we will wait,
as we always do, for rainy days.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016
Tagged Calves, cows, photography, poetry, politics, rain, weather
Hide-outs saved for sane
discussions, always listening
between short sentences
for advances within the dry
and brittle skeletons of spring—
we could forever be nervous
deer on the rebound, come back
to ricochet within a shrinking
wild that we have helped consume.
On the outskirts, perhaps
we feel it now approaching, wind
the scent of human arrogance
surrounding us, that we succumb to
out of necessity knowing
we’re headed in the wrong direction.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016
Tagged Paregien Ranch, photography, poetry, wildlife
Heading into winter, black cows yet fat
sucking calves—damp, thick-piled green after rain—
everyone is clean and shiny off the hill, parading
to water early to laze in the shade. Pages
of poetry shuffle across a desk messy with business,
an untitled collection scattered and spread,
collected and clipped faraway in my head
from our family of cows, from short remarks:
our song of words and phrases overflowing
with the water troughs at Windmill Spring,
spilling too spontaneously to require editing.
We needed to collaborate, to escape the loud
and demanding devils too close to home.
In this place, we are blessed with native eyes
and forgotten tongues—where we can relate
long poems in the luxury of untamed silence.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged Calves, cows, Paregien Ranch, photography, poetry, weather
Within a week of late October rains, a forest
of green blades twisting, chasing warm
golden light between canyon horizons,
reaching while we sleep to a waxing moon
sailing south across black starlit seas—
a germination thick as hair on a dog’s back.
Hard clay turned soft underfoot, under cloven
hooves, out of the bleached and brittle rubble
of last year’s feed, a spreading miracle of green
as the earth stirs with another birth of grass.
And we are tied to it, mentally shackled
and physically restrained to work within her
moody generosity, daring not with word
or thought to piss her off—we have our gods
and goddesses we adore, stealing glimpses
every chance we get outside to pause
and praise them. All our totems, the bird
and animal people of the Yokuts know
our names, know our habits, show us the way
this canyon was designed to support life,
here and beyond us, with a crop of grass.
Weekly Photo Challenge: “Chaos”
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged birds, cattle, grass, photography, poetry, rain, water, weather, weekly-photo-challenge, wildlife, Yokuts
The seed beneath the dry, dead grasses
waits, as we have waited to begin again
with rain, to plant themselves, screw and twist
into damp dirt, to swell and burst—first
hands open to feed the living, applaud life,
millions of ovations standing on their own.
Each a miracle rising from hollow, blond
and brittle stems, from the dust of bare
red clay and sandy ground—alive and green.
Our private holiday, hope and relief let go
to breathe freely, to work fully within
this new beginning for one more poem.
I read outrage from old hinterland poets
on Facebook to stir my blood, enflame
my brain, pretend that words might quell
injustice with compassion, find humanity
commonplace, or search old dialogues:
mountains, rivers and streams, for peace—
translations to bring home from foreign
lands and times that seem to work here
for a little while. I read to write
when I’m tongue-tied, lend my gravelly
voice to the ancient chorus and try
to sound nice, only to find assonance
puts most folks to sleep. No one needs
to read anymore, translate marks on paper
into better thoughts than when we started—
now that we have open minds and let
technology have its way with us, do it
all as we lay back to enjoy the ride.
No one needs to saddle-up in the dark,
untrack cold-backed broncs to mount
before going to work—they all had names
and personalities when we were boys.
No one needs to reach inside for more
than what we thought we had in those days.
for Red
Desk light inside, tree frogs hang on the screen door
stroked by the gentle damp breathing of a downcanyon
breeze, deep dark mouth clear to the mountain pines.
No stars, all black, we wait—anticipate cloudy daylight
together, a red sky dawn and rain, slow at first
approaching, its tiny footsteps soft upon dry leaves.
No new amazement, this cleansing of dust, this erasing
memories and tracks that leaves the ground fresh,
that may swell the seed to burst into green cotyledons,
open-handed to receive sky blessings, small miracles-
in-waiting—a chance, we dream. Wishing is not praying
yet among the bone-dry years, broken skeletons
of old oak trees flailing across hillsides in herds
just before Halloween, Buckeyes drip with bloody
leaves while goblins claim what we cannot see.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged Drought, photography, poetry, rain, weather
October 27, 2014
A slice of time incised from ranch
routines, an Indian poet-in-residence
for a week, Jack Kerouac on the wind
escaping Montana’s sub-zero to write
about dreams. He thinks in Crow,
undulating hands stroke the grace
between them, never touching speak,
pleasant sounds of rushing water gush
from his lips I almost understand.
I envy this bear of a man
who brings brightly painted ponies
and the Little Big Horn with him,
the feathered glory of reenactments
and contact with the old chiefs
that breathe past and present here
upon my skin. What a way to go out
to become one with time, turn the soul
loose and gather ‘round the fire
of mountain men, all the old cowboys
and pioneers, all the natives done with
trying to make a living on this ground.
for Henry Real Bird
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged DREAMS, Drought, photography, poetry
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