But traces in quiet fog:
ridgeline of the barn roof,
cold parts of the corral
float in and out of gray
closing in upon our fire—
forms of horses look
for hazy movement
in this fuzzy moment
shut away from hills
and towns beyond, the world
and its miseries. All
we have accomplished near
at hand, close to fading
into nothingness
and I am relieved
of the weight of urgency—
perfectly helpless
to change a thing.
Posted in Haiku 2015, Photographs, Poems 2015
Tagged Dry Creek, haiku, photographs, poetry, Sulphur Peak, weather, weekly-photo-challenge
1.
In the shallow ground and clay,
mats of filaree cling like crimson moss
after frost as if holding their breath for rain.
Yet warm enough for mustard bloom
in ungrazed traps for cattle, bits of yellow
at the tender tips of leafy greens—
all of the same seed that natives came
from Badger to gather when I was young.
White heads of Shepherd’s Purse nod
in bloom above the short-cropped blades
of lusher grass as if already spring.
Steep south slopes struggle, more mottled
brown than green—we beg and wait for rain:
busy fixing fences, branding calves, feeding hay
to bloating cows after years of drought
as high-pressure herds a warm jet stream north
to feed Alberta Clippers East with unwanted snow.
2.
We crave some sort of normal
that has become a hazy dream:
of cattle fat and happy, of time
to idly wile and waste
that old men will never see again.
Yet full of trust, trailing tidbits
from the gods, we chase it
like the feed truck still believing—
and that is normal despite extremes.
Posted in Poems 2015, Ranch Journal
Tagged branding, cows, Drought, Dry Creek, feeding, normal, poetry, rain, shallow ground, weather, wildflowers, Yokuts
I used to think that inside the deep heart
of the world gone wild, that we all wanted,
craved, needed, or would acquiesce to,
a yet to be identified
common soul:
a ‘peace and love’ tranquility
where we all got along
with our dreams—
a musical, moaning chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’
that kept us busy feeling fine as frog hair,
trying harder to make life better for everyone.
But how could heaven’s everlasting light
be so great without a dark side, without the moon
rising in new places dressed in different phases
behind the skeletons of oak and tops of pine?
Rain and storm for free.
Life from dust, the miracle
of green reaching up
to seed itself
against adversity
should be enough to brave the skullduggery
of all the power-hungry opportunists that slink
and lurk in the shadows. And what of poetry
rooted in the illusion of pillowed clouds?
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015
Tagged clouds, dark, grass, photographs, poetry, rain, seed, storm, the deep heart of the world gone wild, water, weather, wildlife
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged Drought, Dry Creek, photographs, water, weather, Wordless Wednesday
1.
After the flood of holiday cheer
and four black and frosty mornings
into the New Year, I have lost track
of the names of days
celebrating work:
friends gathered,
calves branded,
meat fired
and bottles emptied—
the hugs and handshakes
of neighbors, persistent
habits etched deeper
in the hard ground
worn around our eyes—
deeper yet into souls,
our pupils as pinholes
to grand landscapes
either side, missed
by the migratory headed
somewhere up the road.
2.
We live within a dot on the map,
a speck of dust on a spinning globe
in space and time without end,
holding firm to our moment,
looking back and ahead at once:
no finish line in sight.
3.
We pace our plodding, take all week
to get the work done, to savor details
of small accomplishment in a hazy
scheme of keeping track of seasons
shaped by rain, or lack of it—
our spiritual sustenance comes
with the crescendo of storms
we pray for, almost everyday, keeping
busy while we wait for an answer.
4.
In the winter, we invest in the future
measured by firewood stacked outside
the door, like last year’s crop of acorns
stored by natives, wild and domestic,
we are prepared in this place
to loose track of days scattered
like native cattle into strays
chasing the good grass back home.
Colder in the old days, we lit smudge pots—
met New Year’s Eve with the all-night roar
of wind machines to stir the air, save
an orange crop bound by sentries, plumes
of flame down every road and dirt avenue—
starlight twinkling madly in a black sky.
Up on the hour to check the temperature,
Dad slept on the wood floor by the fire—
wool sweater, reek of diesel, ready to rise
while we dreamed of what we missed
in the country—like Mom’s new dress,
the festivities and friends in Visalia.
She learned not to cry, let disappointment
spill so easily, especially onto others—
a farmer’s daughter, a farmer’s wife.
for Mom
Posted in Poems 2015, Ranch Journal
Tagged agriculture, citrus, family, farmer, poetry, rural, smudge pots, urban, weather, wind machines
If it is Apollo’s steeds chomping at silver bits
I hear behind the ridge, eager to tow the sun,
bring the light like any other day, the future
to this cold, dark canyon—the last of the old load
of days to be dropped off before the New Year—
I’m ready early, hacking my last goodbyes
on paper, screening blessings from the dust
and drought behind me, I trust, having measured-up
to something I can’t see, head bowed, dragging
my feet in yesterday. We must lean into our collars,
move the wheel into new country, scatter virtue
like vigorous seed and hope for a bumper crop.
Posted in Poems 2014, Ranch Journal
Tagged 2014, Drought, Dry Creek, New Year, poetry, rain, water, weather, wildflowers, wildlife
Come December, they are slow
to leave, cleave to the screen door
to warm by the woodstove
before the freeze, waiting with housedogs
for an opening—for an afterthought
pausing between the in and the outside,
the delivery of groceries or a child
as wavering door stop. They are slow
about dying, cling to the window glass
while looking smugly at the frost,
or fly haphazardly to bump into flesh,
rudely investigating every orifice
as their last chance and place
to continue the race—with such purpose
as to enrage a well-awakened Saint.
Blue Oak rounds too big for the woodstove
collect near the splitter in a pile—energy
stored in rings of sun, years of rain—
the severed dead, hard and dry inside.
We look ahead to ceremony, prepare
as we go, set aside the burls and forks,
too twisted to split, for the outside fire
and generations of flickering faces.
I see my mother in my grand-daughter’s
eyes, leave us for a moment for the flames
lapping the remains of a stump—the call
from beyond that burns within us all—
she is drawn away. It is the coming back
to her mother’s lap, her bemused recognition
of going somewhere within white coals
beyond this half-circle of family
that I see my mother in her face
while the meat cooks. We talk, lift glasses
in the smoke that swirls undecidedly
around us, just out of reach of the flames.
Early tracks upon the morning frost,
someone will rise to stir the embers,
to rekindle conversation from cold night
hoping to keep the celebration alive.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged celebration, Ceremony, Christmas, Drought, Dry Creek, Fire, photographs, poetry, rain, water, weather, weekly-photo-challenge
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