Might as well consult the stars
than to foretell the weather’s future
on the whims of giddy goddesses,
gossamer waves blazing above
these palomino hills—cow trail dust
rising before the sycamores turn
to shed their autumn clothing
while shepherds and sailors await
a certain weather change.
Posted in Photographs, POEMS 2023, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged goddessess, photography, poetry, rain, red sky, weather, weathermen
Not quite the answer
to a thousand prayers,
for weeks of dry cold,
green grass graying
and crispy filaree
dirt-brown at a distance—
the red sky afire
startles the senses
and rattles the leaves
of sycamores flaming
before dawn’s light
along the creek, all
waiting to undress,
to bare white limbs
reaching for a hard rain.
Though still understocked from the drought, we’ve been a busy gathering this week, patching fences, feeding hay. We’d have gladly postponed this morning’s branding if yesterday’s rain had measured more and the road too slick to get up into Greasy. But the 0.11” was a pleasant change and rejuvenated the color of the surviving green, if nothing more. The bulls have been busy trading places, demolishing fences around the Gathering Field. We’ve got our fingers crossed that the cattle will be there when we and our crew of good neighbors arrive this morning.
photo: Bodhi Rouse
Never figured on a sunset,
children, grandchildren around
a smoky Live Oak fire,
the SoCal storm bleeding north
above a frost-bitten garden—
dry stem tomatoes
and peppers hanging
like ornamental gifts
for Christmas.
I thought I escaped California in 1970
to ride back through time, didn’t think
I’d camp in one place this long.
Never figured on iPhone photos,
satellite dish for shade—
or planning for a future
that depends on water
and obsolescence.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged California, photography, poetry, red sky, time, water
December 10, 2015
1.
Small at first, rivers spill
High Sierra snowmelt,
water pure as it will ever be
falling to the call of gravity
and time’s relentless roar
over granite smooth, worn
by cataracts and cascades
dressed in rainbow mists
ascending to the whispers
among a million pines—
a timbered mat of arrows
headed to the sky.
2.
We have been there
in our perfect innocence
before our courses
changed the world
as it changed us.
I think it was the waiting
for the war I never served
that made me see that
spilling the blood of boys
could not kill ideas
or forever eliminate
a differing philosophy.
3.
Like water pooled
I am damned again
in someone else’s business
at the whims of men
I’ll never understand
beyond their lust for power
and their addiction to greed
while dancing to the tune
of men and women working
with their heads and hands.
I stay the slope and cling
to the sound of the river
chasing lyrics on paper
since the war—poor poetry
released like mist ascending
to the muse that must
report my plodding progress
to goddesses and gods.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016
Tagged mountains, photography, poetry, red sky, rivers, water
First sign of a convoy at dawn
scout the sky eastward, small raft
of red on blue, I photograph
a promise of rain—then check
the Internet to bolster old saws
for shepherds and sailors
at the mercy of fickle gods
of weather and wonder
if our lover has returned—
how long will she stay?
Kindling split, we will be warm,
ignite the fire, cut wood and
carry ashes out until spring.
We are ready and prepared
to say goodbye to drought.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015
Tagged Drought, Dry Creek, haiku, photographs, poetry, rain, red sky, weekly-photo-challenge
March 10, 2014
Riding rafts of red above
clouds of dust,
we could breathe for a moment.
Posted in Haiku 2015, Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged Drought, Dry Creek, haiku, photographs, poetry, rain, red sky, signs, weather
He was headed up the road smiling,
wearing a short-sleeved 1950s Hawaiian shirt—
a faded, light print on heavy, coarse muslin
with cuffs—happy with heaven or
from wherever he’d come.
He had time, an eternity—
wanted to see the barren heifers
you grain-fed, killed and gutted,
see the color of the fat—stopped-in
to ask me to go with him.
Years mean nothing in a dream.
We can replay, edit as we like,
take time-outs to maneuver the maze
of surprise details and survive
the fears we’ve disguised wide awake.
Some of the close ones arrive to reassure us
that they are well after escaping life—
that all we had hoped for them,
and they for themselves, exists within—
and from wherever they’ve come.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged DREAMS, Dry Creek, photographs, poetry, red sky
Day breaks into rafts of red,
early weather precursors for sailors
and shepherds in any shade
this side of the Sierras
as the sun bathes Nevada
with long shadows.
How we crave the changing
light on green, yellow willows
set afire as white-limbed sycamores
undress beside the creek—
how we need the miracle
of moisture to hold us altogether
before this ballyhooed
Storm of the Century lands
somewhere north of here.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014, Ranch Journal
Tagged Drought, Dry Creek, photographs, poetry, rain, red sky, water, weather
drycrikjournal 