DRY CRIK Journal

At 28, he sleeps standing, head heavy
in September sun, inches from
its shadow. He cannot hear me

for the sounds in his dreams:
the sudden crack of manzanita
or the chorus of bawling calves –

and men. I see the faces gone,
shake hands again and ride within
the old horizons on the edges

of our eyes – and grins. We were
the band that ran these hills
with cows. We were the hands

and proud to hold the wild within
these dark shadows, come alive
as he shrinks into the ground.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 6:09 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Driving en route to a gig in Galveston on the 16th, Jack stopped by before Ike’s landfall in the Gulf, a delightful visit for Robbin and I while he assessed the hurricane’s impact on his tour of Texas. It was forty some years ago when I first saw Jack at the Ashgrove, a true breath of fresh air for a country kid enveloped by asphalt and concrete when I was in school in Los Angeles.

Some twenty years later while in line for my first Poetry Gathering packet, I introduced myself to him in the Elko Convention Center. He’s a spry 77 years young, hopping in and out of my four-wheel drive, opening gates, as we checked some calving cows in the upper reaches of the ranch. One hopes to have his energy at his age!

Also be on the lookout for his new CD, a yet to be titled collection of Blues that demonstrates another range for Jack’s voice and style. He was off in the dark at six this morning in his rental car headed for Austin and his next performance at the University of Texas on the 18th where he will open for Guy Clark at the Texas Union Ballroom.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 8:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Though temperatures are still running in the hundreds, shorter days and longer shadows spell impending changes in the foothills. The buckeyes turned brown months ago, and now are beginning to take on their redder, Halloween colors amidst the green live oaks. And no sooner than we get the last calves shipped than a new crop of babies begins to hit the ground. Coyotes are thick, cow tracks erased by their pads overnight on some cow trails. Instinctually, cows consume fresh placentas to eliminate the scent of their newborn calves. We’re looking forward to cooler weather, maybe even a little rain in 30 days.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 3:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

            The beauty of things was born before eyes and
                sufficient to itself; the heart-breaking beauty
            Will remain when there is no heart to break for it.
                                    - Robinson Jeffers (“Credo”)

Each stone fit into a wall of words
works across the landscape, holds
sweet notions close and chaos out.

A remnant seam along the draw,
where you saw rattlesnakes rise
entwined, kept the Bequette hogs

fat on acorns so their Durham cows
wouldn’t slip their calves, remains
after my father hauled smaller rocks

into a wall of his own. Only boulders
left, I marvel at the days and years
inched-out of the bottom with bars –

the deliberate rhythm of a heart
working at the edge of a moraine
shaping poetry to last a century.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 6:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)