Summer breezes comb
late spring rains of golden hair,
fine-stemmed wild oats ripened
in the rocks with a trace of lichen
rouge for looks—our sexy
centerfold to hang and frame
in the back of our minds,
our cluttered caves of thought,
to remember her by.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015, Ranch Journal
Tagged Drought, photography, poetry, rain, weather
But God himself comes often and stays long,
when the castrati’s singing disturbs Him.
– Ranier Maria Rilke (“The Voices”)
Within the quietude of dawn
streaked in yellow flame
between charred black shadows
when the sun peeks low beneath
the branches shedding leaves,
I hear voices in the canyon,
from the ridges and the draws,
of the generations gathered
where women left their track
ground in stone, and men
built barns and fences,
some yet leaning into time
unknown, for a different breed
of cattle and of dreams—
a chorus clear and strong.
And all the working hands
that left no mark upon the land
they still inhabit singing
harmony and peace
within the quietude of dawn
streaked in yellow flame.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016
Tagged A Voice for the Voiceless, Dry Creek, photography, poetry
All this time, decades of learning and relearning
reapplied to new devices designed to save time—
to bank, spend or squander somewhere in the future
with no guarantees made selfish sense, a singular
detachment from the congested urgencies swirling
like autumn’s colored leaves in a quest of rest
and peace. How he craved the storm’s building
energies, the dark electricity thundering rain
to erase time’s tracks, that might freeze the moment
into days and weeks. Old flesh come alive
with the prospect of starting over again, cotyledons
of grass for cows and calves—a refreshed relief.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Terri Drewry photo
Long shadows on blond feed tall,
standing skeletons of oaks from drought,
the gray cow caught talking with an iPhone
to her new, silver-belly calf.
No audio, too far to catch the vocabulary
lesson, the inflection of each murmur
into song, the guttural beginnings of all words—
a universal language of basic sounds
with deep meanings that defy time
and cultures, that survive the latest plague
of progress and the genius of science—
no better teacher than a mother cow.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged Blue Oak, Calves, cows, Drought, Paregien Ranch, photography, poetry
Coyotes connect beneath a Harvest Moon risen
to make light of night shadows, young yip solos
rush into choruses that pull at dog hearts at work—
MPs on patrol, to join them. The wet stinking green
of your jungle war, I think of you often now, pushing
sod at home forever wounded, a momentary flash
of flesh the earth is absorbing, you could not end it—
not even with poetry, though we tried and cried
over miles of lines and poles to your barricade
of stacked straw bales, trailer camped alone
in snow, to dig your way out with words—
with cowboy metaphors for a broken heart.
You see, my friend, it has become a business
advertising fear enough to make us cower
to power and profit, the ultimate redeemer,
the sanctification we endorse to be left alone
with all our hungers satisfied, give or take
a life or two of the fifty-seven thousand—
not the Western adventure for a young Marine
hero. Coyotes connect beneath a Harvest Moon
risen to make light of night shadows before dawn.
for Rod
She knows now,
how to be a mother—
shield innocence
with shadow
and sharp eye,
give meaning
to the soft talk
that reverberates
with familiarity
upon each breath,
the language of cows:
the umbilical stretched
from the warm womb
to grow and graze
a dry and brittle world.
Born in a drought,
she can be a mother
in any kind of weather.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016
Tagged Calves, cows, Drought, photographs, poetry, rain, weather
Heads down, our future grazes green
on the edge of time, on ground
the river met with Dry Creek—
all the round cobbles mined
to build the county seat gone wild
with willows and cottonwoods,
natives claiming space we named
between the Kaweah and Wutchumna
Hill. Nothing is the same for us
or them as they mature to become cows.
Heads down, it is easy to forget
to look up at where we’ve come from.
Weekly Photo Challenge: ‘Edge’
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged cows, Dry Creek, Kaweah River, photography, poetry, weekly-photo-challenge, Wuchumna, Yokuts
Progress parallels the creek,
follows a crumbling dirt track paved
up canyon past the end of power poles
and the double yellow line,
the busy bulk of it beyond
the hazy ridgeline—
beyond thinking past water
when the creek is dry
in September.
Caravans of Christians
craving altitude, the new shine
of fifth-wheels pulling for the pines—
the guttural rumble, leather herds
of Harleys and the bright spandex
of cyclists pass us by
as if we were a landscape
to endure along the way
to something better.
O wonder!
How many goodly creature are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,
That has such people in’t.
– William Shakespeare (“The Tempest”)
I am too old to vote
for the least offensive—
too old to believe
raucous rhetoric,
philosophies that fan
the flames of fear
to obtain heaven
early on this earth.
I have seen enough
bigotry and greed
squirming beneath the raiment
of righteousness—
that need evil foes to exist,
when war is peace.
All the good in this world
is not for sale, cannot be carved
from the heart of humanity,
or extinguished by authority—
it casts no vote but to survive
our nasty campaigns and elections.
Hot days fade early,
black breathes cool upon thin skin
as old men leave town’s comforts
to drive the canyon, narrow
road and sharp curves gone
straight in ’68, leaving legends
on slopes of scree
where the Model T coup
teetered on two wheels
in high school, you asking
where you could have died
half-century back.
This ground has not forgotten,
each rock removed exposes
another memory
of our dead history
into a landslide
of stories hidden
and turned loose on our tongues—
old men exploring
where they’ve come from.
drycrikjournal 