It sounds like a drug
for the infirmed
or a dressing for horses’ hooves
or a government program
to keep poverty alive
and consuming—
it sounds soothing
to the summer-baked subconscious,
a galactic reprieve
before the leaves rain
in gusts
before the first storm
stirs weathered flesh.
Autumnal Equinox
just rolls off the tongue.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2024, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged autumnal equinox, photography, poetry
Dilated and making bag,
first-calf heifers choose to graze,
closer to our familiar voices
over morning coffee. Perhaps security,
or our loving pride they feel
long distance as we imagine
a pasture full of calves clinging
to a mother’s shadow, the buck and run
as they get older like the thirty years
before them. We begin another season
of grass with rain, with feeding hay
ready to face the future with them.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2024, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged Calves, Calving, family, first-calf heifers, photography, poetry
Wilma submitted poems to Dry Crik Review on her typical scraps of paper most of which I published. One, however, I did not publish because I could not decipher one word in the poem from her handwriting. I scanned it to Betty Blanks, who has recently authored a book “Pick Up Your Pen And Write: The Life of Wilma Elizabeth McDaniel” http://wilmaelizabethmcdaniel.com, to help me out. The word was ‘ping’. Til now, this amusing poem has never seen the light of day.
FAKE FORTY-NINER
We knew Ardell
had been acting crazy
for weeks
he grew a beard
stalked around
muttering to himself
I gotta go now
to Jackass Hill
to Poker Flat
and Angels Camp
I gotta pan some gold
race me some frogs
kiss me some CanCan girls
I really gotta go
He drove away in his Pinto
with the ping
towards the motherlode
on Golden Chain Highway 49
We didn’t hear from him
until his bonanza petered out
he phoned collect
the Pinto gave up in Jamestown
December 22, 1918 – April 13, 2007
I had the pleasure of reading some of Wilma’s poetry at the Tulare Historical Museum last night. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/wilma-elizabeth-mcdaniel
One poem I read:
REMEMBERING FARM WOMEN
As a child
I watched them
and I remember
a woman’s defense
was anything in reach
Her weapons were few
and always begrudged
Why did men imagine
they deserved the velvet touch
the nightingale’s voice
from a woman who plowed
when planting got behind
and prayed for rainwater
to wash her hair
Why did rough farmers
dream of girls
from the Ziegfeld Follies
when wives were vomiting
with another pregnancy
a gusher of poems
that poured out of the house
on Highland Street
and watered the town
- Wilma Elizabeth McDaniel (“The Gusher”)
They fall from the sky
like hawks at play
and dive into our poetry,
perfect words
we cannot claim, but do—
to hunt the periphery
for a place to light
to transform a poem
into something better.
I am reading Wilma
in Tulare next Saturday—
revisiting her real Okie poetry,
searching for the one
that breaks my drought
into a flood of verses,
a gusher of poems
that poured out of the house
on Highland Street
and watered the town
Posted in Poems 2024, poetry
Tagged cosmic, inspiration, muse, poetry, Wilma Elizabeth McDaniel, writing
All the thirsty hearts
have sucked the dog dish down
beyond the reach of the panting Titmouse,
nervous little bastard bobbing
empty-beaked at his favorite waterhole
below the nozzle, hose and bib
during this two-week heat wave
of highs in the teens, like every summer here
in the San Joaquin.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2024, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged heat, photography, poetry, water, weather
Around the corner
the future waits alignment
of the moons and stars.
Posted in Haiku 2024, Photographs, Poems 2024, poetry
Tagged haiku, moon, photography, poetry
Before the day breaks over
the black silhouette of Sulphur Peak,
the Mourning Doves moan
from dreams and the quail beckon
broods with marching songs, while
Roadrunners call long distance—
rehearsing harmonies
humanity would do well
to learn and listen to.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2024
Tagged Humanity, melodies, mourning dove, photography, poetry, quail, Roadrunners
The same old song at dawn
remains unchanged at dark—
the Roadrunners’ refrain
across the pasture,
lest we forget
world affairs…
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2024, poetry
Tagged photography, poetry, Roadrunners, world affairs
Not enough gold left
in the last of the poppies
as spring fades away.
Posted in Haiku 2024, Photographs, Poems 2024, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged Golden Poppies, haiku, photography, poetry
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