Tag Archives: wild

HOT AND DRY

Cooper’s Hawk

under a rainbird’s shower,

yellow eyes

 

mermaid and frog

before taking a drink

at the ‘sip and dip’.

 

Too hot to hurry

in the heat

we all grow tame.

THE DEER

                               The deer in that beautiful place lay down their bones:

                               I must wear mine.

                                           – Robinson Jeffers (“The Deer Lay Down Their Bones”)

Secreted within steep brush and granite

to browse the fresh and tender Buckeye leaves,

the fragile innocence of deer seems tame—

safety but a bounding leap away.

Were we so unengaged to see ourselves

as novelties, we might pause more often

to look out upon the urgencies of men

and women inventing new shenanigans

to keep us shackled to our egos

as redundant and unnecessary weight—

were we so rational. How we envy deer

their shrouded bowers where they can feed

themselves. Nearly as free as deer

in the rocky cliffs above, the doe can see

the calves we have been looking for.

STIMULUS CHECK

Some come quickly now,
a phrase to trigger more
coiled upon the ground
 
while others hibernate for days,
for weeks and months,
as if they might be dead
 
without the touch of rain—
that hard and brittle
mindset to survive
 
like deep-rooted filaree
with all its colors,
with all its seed
 
waiting for a kiss.
I know no other way
to pen prosody.
 

THIN FILAMENT

 

 

Wild entanglements
clutch the fate of the planet
with thin filament.

 

TRAPPED

 

 

I once dreamed I might have been
a mountain man in another life,
trapped cats and coyotes

instead of beaver—
learned to view the world
through untamed eyes

assessing sign as I became
the prize and placed my twigs
and scents accordingly.

               I sifted dirt
               to hide the jaws
               while writing poetry:

bird-wing fluttering
from a fishing filament
still fascinates me.

 

FOR COMPANY

 

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We grow wild beneath
the Red Tail’s cry
for company, beside

the dragging sound
of snake bellies
on well-drained dirt.

We fold our petals, sleep
to insistent tree frog songs
as the moon dances

upon the rippling creek,
mumbling constantly
of where it comes from.

And when we bloom,
we draw bugs as lovers
to inspire seed, clusters

of small town colors
beneath the Red Tail’s cry
for company.

 

THE RIDE

 

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We know the sound, feel it
pound our flesh, reverberate
in our skulls, draw sinew tight

to hold on—to the moment
fleeting, bucking, kicking loose
the last of common sense.

No ordinary ride in the park
upon watered lawns spaced
between pampered shade trees,

we recognize the scent
of rain on sudden gusts,
feel skin shrink, follicles lift

us up, and the sweet cud
swirling above bovine beds,
flat mats of grass awakening.

Not quite wild, we are captive
in a maze of weathered hills,
fractured rock and families

of oaks where shadows slip
and voices stalk—whisper one
more metaphor upon our lips.

 

OUTSIDE MUSIC

 

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                                                                                       “listen to that music.
                                               The self we hold so dear will soon be gone.”

                                                       – Gary Snyder (“Anger, Cattle and Achilles”)

I’ve packed a rifle since I was ten
following cow trails in these hills
listening to music: the Red Tail’s cry,

its feathers rush overhead,
plummeting for fun—a calling
to another life without accouterments.

In time, we collect clear moments
of ourselves, fresh glimpses stamped
and saved that weigh nothing, cost

nothing, yet live behind our eyes.
No word for the first murmur
of a cow to its wobbly, wet calf

forever branded in our brains—
no word for the outside music
played with poetry and song.

                                               ~

 

Weekly Photo Challenge (1): “Careful” / “Full of Care”

 

TEN LITTLE INDIANS

 

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You could hear them

from the squash and cucumbers,
from the tomatoes where the rattler
stretched upon damp dirt to cool his belly,
in that no man’s land of prickly pear
and grape canes claiming shade trees
on the periphery of ripening vegetables—

their incessant tittering within: military
training before their first tour of the garden
scouted at the peak of heat days before,
our lawn of weeds this side of roadrunners
nesting in the cottonwood under
the surveillance of a pair of crows.

The only green for miles of hard
baked clay and blond dry fuzz,
a microcosm of good wet years,
the wild moves in, gathers to include
us—horses, dogs and feral cats—
into a sustainable family.

Tree frogs on the move, hopping
sojourns at dusk and dawn bring
the King snake tracking Garter snakes
that ignore us, stay out from underfoot.
We have no choice but to share
our little space and water in a drought.

We will count the covey into the future,
measure training into evenings, watch
for Bobcats and Coopers Hawks on patrol.
No place for soft hearts, politics,
or too much attention—no one wants
or can afford to run for election.

 

DAMP WIND

 

When the wind blows up canyon,
first light gray,
I am the old red horse,
twenty-five, bucking in place.

We never loose it, that wanting
stirred and satisfied—
to be wild again
when everything is right.

We feel his feeble effort,
hooves barely off the ground,
our whoops and cheers
howling on a damp wind.