An unrelenting beast serene, the sea
laps land into sand–and man’s short trail
of broken glass into translucent jewels–
yet neither heart nor compassion
ride upon her constant undulations
cresting white before they crash
within the foamy broth of time, stirring all
into another fresh instant. It should be
she, when we pray for storms, or for
relief from lustful passion. I do not care
to know her well, embraced inland
at a distance, my words come carefully.
Dead cedars, yellow pine
roll off the mountain
on trucks, great rounds felled
after drought
down a narrow road
to be ground
into toothpicks, I’m told.
Under the leaky flume
on the Middle Fork,
a Kenworth edged
the ’57 Ford wagon full
of kids and groceries
to a stop, red bark
dripping, hanging like hair—
we held our breath.
Breaking black silence,
a diesel rumbles upcanyon
at four, piggyback, phallic
trailer tongue angled up,
pointing to Eshom
as headlights pass,
to remove the last
witnesses
to Ghost Dances past.
Clinging to a willow branch
above the cattails, singing
across the pond at dawn,
this world is small enough
for herons and mud hens,
a loan goose and bullfrogs—
all the drama necessary
for a rich full life
of trying to get along.
The poles were new
after the Flood of ‘55
serving granddad’s pump
in the river,
serving cross-arms,
serving Osprey
nests of sticks
shorting-out
and burning-up
into a hard rain
of spring, 2010.
Platforms now above
the wires, they watch
from a distance
of distrust.
Busy with cleanup,
little time to say hello
or come much closer.
Posted in Haiku 2016, Photographs, Poems 2016
Tagged haiku, photography, poetry, turkey vulture
Coming through the dry
blond stems of wild oats,
late spring rains
in their eyes, two black
virgins weave their way
to water as they discover
the near reaches of womanhood
that simmer within—come
to a boil from time to time.
And they are beautiful,
and innocent—just unable
to see what’s ahead.
Through distant time and space
the child comes along just to see
how things turned out—
expectations shed like clothes,
courses changed as we ricochet,
learn the hard way.
I will never have those eyes again,
never yearn to star in dreams
that now surround me—
come alive with color and texture
as momentum slows, ready now
to make the most of it.
Fences down, cattle wild,
my father warned, ‘Don’t
let the ranch run you—’
when it was like slaying
a dragon or stealing a ride
to dream of such control.
Armloads of cucumbers
like firewood to the kitchen
for pickling after boxes
of vegetables to give away
each morning, we could say
the same about your garden—
knowing that acreage
has nothing to do
with the life we choose.
The difference between 105 and 110 degrees
is fifteen hundred gallons more each day
for a hundred head of heifers
five degrees
thirty minutes
one pint of gasoline
to keep them happy
and alive, without worry
about water—
about engine, pump or pipeline.
Grazing to and from the shade,
our twilit landscape in motion,
we know this slow dance
of summer, this plodding grace
of man and beast.
Gas for water,
morning altar
in the summer.
drycrikjournal 