Best Chaparral Poems
Santa Barbara, Summer 2017
Monday
I walked on the bluffs above the sea.
Orange poppies bloom in the dunes.
I discovered
the labyrinth:
smooth stones spell the path.
Peaceful pilgrimage.
Tuesday
Walked on the beach and smelled:
Tar from the oil seeps,
fennel,
coastal sage,
eucalyptus.
And, of course, the sea.
Wednesday
Hiked in the foothills.
The grass is brittle and yellow;
the land sizzles.
Spiky shrubs, spiny scrub oak.
The chaparral is ready
to burst into flames.
Thursday
The eucalyptus trees
on Ellwood Mesa
are dying
from the drought.
Where will the butterfly sleep?
Friday
The sandpipers
hurry to the surf, neck forward,
to peck with long bills.
They scurry inland before the next wave
as if they are afraid
to get their feet wet.
Snowy plovers skitter
like cotton balls on wheels.
Saturday
The infinite ocean
under an infinite sky.
A white S among the reeds,
the egret can teach me
poise and patience.
Sunday
Found a piece of seaglass.
Translucent blue,
The edges smooth
Worn by water,
Sanded down.
Beauty from adversity.
I think I will write a poem about it.
November 1, 2017
For contest: From my Diary
Sponsored by Broken Wings
Tarnished gray, as the doves you have scattered away
you were yelping as if the moon were your prey
Eclipsed by the sage you then vanished from eyes
disguised by the chaparral, just as clouds hide the sky
With cunning assurance, you were closing the distance
Watching me closely, no resistance between us
~
No one can profess to have full understanding
of the secrets existing, ......or the spirit that binds us.
Yet, we are as one, and as creatures we dwell,
upon sacred land, upon ancient tales
You've followed me closely, with caution, a friend,
I feel a new spirit, that drifts in the wind
__________________________________________
8/14/18
Contest: Wolves and The Moon
Sponsor: Julia Ward
Night spills over the day like India ink from a well
bleeding into the deep crevasses of hill and dell
running into clear cold streams once shimmering, bright
painting Prussian blue the trees on the high chaparral.
Night edges the golden hour of Autumn days so bright
merging with the harvest moon, the solstice at midnight
melting in to sleepy hollows, pale and bloodless blue,
cajoling colonies of bats to bank and soar in flight.
Night caresses the winsome lovers silhouette.. adieu
as its hold is weakened toward a shade of baby-blue
A painter's pallet is the night of hues, shades of light
the sovereign signs of fantasy as darkness ensues.
*Interlocking Rubaiyat where the rhyme of lines 1,2&4
of verse one are taken from the end word of line 3
in the verse before, the last verse returns the end rhyme
of line 3 ;)
I’ll go a ridin’ no more through blue stem or chaparral,
Just lead my horse to pastures of green.
I’ll watch those rose ruby suns ease on past the ol’ corral—
Think back on the things I’ve done and seen.
Oh, you can’t go on a ridin’ for all your livelong days—
You’ve got to know when to settle down.
You’ll gently pet your ol’ horse as you put her out to graze
And soon life won’t seem so bad in town.
But when blue bonnets and the high plains send their callin’ card,
Your restless feet start to feel that itch.
Then it don’t matter if you’re stove-up or your butt is lard—
That feelin’ calls to the poor and rich.
Just once more I’ll go a ridin’ in the sorrel and sage—
Testin’ my ol’ horse for all it’s worth.
And I know that time cannot stop me, even at my age,
From ridin’ free of the reins of earth.
Many many moons ago
leaving the porch
of a south-facing canyon,
I hiked to a place
where the foothills
narrowed,
Where the asphalt road
ran astride the reservoir lake
into which kingfishers
dived at will,
and Great Horned owls
hooted at passerby,
And crickets chirped
in the castor bean
in the broom grass,
in the sumac and sorrel
and the scrub oak
and the sage,
I walked with gathering dusk
upslope to the ridge
where one lone bat
in diving approach,
plunged to air
as kingfisher to lake,
As owl to moon
or as moon to owl
or as owl to owl,
two owls upon the perch
fated couple
to a lifelong mate.
At this very place
I saw my mission unfold
in ceremony of solemn joining
in deepest respect
this wedded pair
framed aside starlight,
Framed within angles
of better aspect
placing male to left
female to right,
then married them there
till death do they part,
He in a cassock of feathers
all attention to duty
she with a blink
of a solitary eye,
I with a wave
of the official hand,
"I decree thee man and wife"
I the chaparral poet of authority
captain on this ship
I do wed thee,
witnessed by bat and kingfisher
cricket and castor bean.
And so my sudden voice
startled both to flight
he with wings to eclipse
the moon, the sky
she in silence
winged forever to his side.
When cowboys sprawl 'round the camp fire after the days work is done,
They strum guitars and tootle harmonicas and sing to have fun.
Real cowboys don't sing Honky-Tonk or She Done Me Wrong stuff.
They leave that to rhinestone cowboys, considerin' it to be so much fluff!
Real wranglers sing about ropin' dogies and fixin' barbed wire fences,
Roundups, brandin' time and the magnificence of God's grand expanses.
They sing of home on the range, rodeos and dinin' on bacon and beans,
Cattle stampedes on stormy nights, the old corral and dance hall queens.
They harmonize about ghost riders in the sky who've met their fates,
Tumblin' tumbleweeds, cool water, tin cups and eatin' from tin plates.
They sing about bein' back in the saddle again and the streets of Laredo,
And belt out songs about horses named Old Paint, Ol' Dan and Tornado.
They yodel the cattle call and sing about when the bloom's on the sages,
And croon about their yellow rose of Texas and their pitiful wages.
Real buckaroos sing about Christmas in the bunk house and rye whiskey,
Cattle drives on the Lone Star and Abilene trails and a life so very risky.
They sing of the grumpy foreman and when the works all done this fall,
And tweedle about ragtime cowboy Joe and many a barroom brawl.
Real cowboys sing about ridin' the range, the chaparral and dusty trail,
And leave Hank Snow to warble about lost love, honky-tonks and landin' in jail!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Potato Mountain
I will arrive
an habitual escapee
from the rabbit warrens
of central planners
By ferreting north
in search of
breaks in the maze
rifts in the grid
I will follow
a stream beside
the climbing track
and yet higher
To a saddle below
the great ridge
southward along
eastern slopes
To a fine summit
of long vistas
and white gravel-skirts
exposed to sun
Exposed to eyes
sweeping round
the slow wide circle
of arcs in passage
Years to degree
degree to century
century to millennia
beyond human sight
And my own frail
footsteps in iron soil
blown to oblivion
by winds now shadowing
My identical track
passed beehives
thickets and copse
up the potato
To a summit
of concrete pylon
red dirt
and folk art
Where unknown infidels
posed the creative
issue of their
anonymous fancy
In the form
of starch-fat tubers
affixed with parasols
to shade them
And toothpicks to
give them arms
and bay leaves
to make them hair
Hats to render
them style
atop bald and oblong
pates of brown
Wings of sumac leaf
sleek and waxy
to impart mottled skins
flights of fancy
But they cannot fly
like chaparral birds
fitted to wind
and wildness
Unmoving the potatoes
await their fate
on a flat stage
above the world
Three days pass
their number reduced
in gathering erosions
and mathematical decline
Four days
the mule deer
has found them
yet still proud potatoes
Pass from deer
to lion to
slow beetles
upon the soil
And there the
once magnificent
and well-arrayed
vegetable host
Submits bravely to
mechanical escorts
in the brief free fall
to worlds below
There was a day on TV
Where westerns were all the rage
You could take your pick
From your TV paper page
Together our masked hero the Lone Ranger
With Tonto kept outlaws in a spin
Have Gun Will Travel was the card
For black dressed professional gunfighter Paladin
Wagon Train kept rolling along
Seth Adams the leader
Flint McCullough chief scout
Old Charlie Wooster was the feeder
Rawhide kept the cattle moving
Gil and Randy kept control
In Dodge City it was Gunsmoke
Marshall Matt Dillon was key role
On the ponderosa it was Bonanza
Where Ben Cartwright was the boss
With his family of three boys
Adam, little Joe and Hoss
Wells Fargo was the stagecoach
Where Jim Hardie was the star
Now these are only some
For they were many more by far
They were the Virginian and the Rifleman
Laramie, Maverick and Cheyenne
The High Chaparral not to mention alias Smith and Jones
These made us all a fan
Cowboys where are you?
Memories of you is our lot
On TV we can’t see
Is this our last shot?
poetgord@2013
sweet pungent
fermented hay
dark and warm
slithers of light spit
through the cracks of the
warped weathered wood
old pie tin lies in the dirt
in its corner
where the mean old bull snake
drank milk with the cats
and kept the rats and rattlers
at bay
there's a buzzing and a hissing
on the other side of this rickety door
inside this old abandoned barn
I decided to explore
I'm about to shove through
but before I do
I look down to see
an Arizona black coiled up
its cold eyes
drawing a bead
whoa there little fella
didn't see you
used to be
I'd blow your head off
tan your hide
and roll you up to toss
in a cigar box
with the others
now--I don't know why
you seem like
such a harmless guy
you didn't strike
well then won't I
and I like the light
reflected off your shiny scales
and the way you glide
so smoothly and methodically
over rough wood
nothing anyway
through that door
just old leather
bridals and reins
broken down boots
and rusty tools
outside
light blinds
squinting to see
corroded red tank
shot full of holes
every idiot with a gun
can't resist
putting in another one
and the dusty chaparral
stretches up to the cool pines
as far as this trail goes
I follow
just a
not quite
snake bit
Arizona boomer
kick'n around
couple of days after
that bloody November
moon
(I set my alarm to)
yeah
whatever it means
sometimes its better
just to keep moving
with the sweet
sun on your shoulder
no rush
whatever I'm looking for
it's gonna find me
even the snakes
and the bloody moon
Cookie, fire-up yer chuck wagon 'cause th' round-up is begun!
Us cowpokes is gonna cull th' herd frum dawn to th' settin' sun!
We is gonna supply you wid th' cookin's fer our chuck tonight;
Heaps uv good ol' Rocky Mountain oysters broiled fer our delight!
It'll be a hot an' dusty trail as we drive 'em frum th' chaparral,
An' herd them cantankerous kine fer brandin' in th' ol' corral!
It'll take a heap uv sweat an' a lot uv cussin' to git 'em movin', alright,
But it'll be worth it, 'cause we is feedin' on Rocky Mountain oysters tonight!
Usin' our cuttin' hosses we'll rope an' wrestle th' bulls to th' ground.
There we'll brand an' neuter 'em as they beller an' kick around!
We'll be bruised an' kicked fer little pay but that'll be alright,
'Cause we is gonna enjoy a feast uv Rocky Mountain oysters tonight!
Us cowboys works hard wid little pay rollin' 'round in th' manure,
Convertin' bulls into steers; that's more'n them city fellers could endure!
But that's okay, 'cause at round-up time we gits a special treat;
Tonight we is gonna enjoy a feast uv Rocky Mountain oysters to eat!
It had been a hot and dusty week chasin' them wily steers thro' the chaparral.
And, later, sweatin, cussin' and brandin' them wild critters in the old corral!
It was Saturday night and he was headin' for Rocky Ford to have a little fun.
His jeans was janglin' with his pay from the boss for the work that he'd done!
He drove down the dusty road in his Ford pickup truck, a beat-up '86 One-fifty.
Clad in his best jeans, Stetson hat and Tony Lama boots - he looked mighty nifty!
In the rear window was his fishin' rod and Henry repeatin' rifle reposin' on a rack.
His old huntin' hounds Pete 'n' Spooks enjoyed the ride cavortin' in the back!
He longed to sate his thirst with Colorado Kool Aid, commonly known as Coors,
At his favorite waterin' hole, Cliff's Saloon, the one with the swingin' doors!
He figgered on kickin' up his heels dancin' with the gals as the night wore away!
He reckoned he could even afford a steak with the beer on his meager pay!
There was a honky-tonk band with a pianer, drums, fiddle and 'electric git-tar,
And Rita wailin' "he done me wrong" songs as Cliff dispensed spirits at the bar!
The cowboy was havin' a rip-roarin' time but Cliff announced last call for booze.
The cowboy spent his last few bucks orderin' for his pals a final round of brews!
It was nigh two AM when he got to his truck and roused his sleepin' dogs.
They paid him no mind at all and kept on snoozin' like a pair of oaken logs!
He weaved his way along the dusty road on his way back to the dreary ranch,
Anticipatin' next Saturday night and Colorado Kool Aid for his thirst to quench!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
The land sizzles.
Brittle grass
yellows the hills.
Live oak draw sparse circles
of shade.
Spiky shrubs
cling to the parched slopes:
red stemmed manzanita,
spiny scrub oak.
Hot wind rustles the leaves.
The chaparral holds its breath,
waits for the spark,
to burst into blaze.
Later,
in the ash covered ground
under charred trees,
seeds waken and stir.
8/1/2017
Brisk, northern winds blow across the heavy sand
The desert arena is chilly and bright
The summer animals are hiding
Not a lizard, tortoise or snake in sight
The distant mountain peaks hold ice and winter snow
Chilling the temperature on the desert floor below
Brisk, northern winds blow across the heavy sand
Cleaning the desert air, leaving it vibrant and crisp
Ice particles and frost cling to the dormant chaparral
Sleeping, dormant, waiting for warmer summer days
Silent sage and chaparral
Gather ‘round the old corral,
Like the cowhands way back then
When the Old West did begin.
Too soon gone are all the days
Of the cowboy and his ways—
He’ll be herdin’ now no more
Like he did in times before.
He’ll soon sell his saddle, too—
Thinkin’ now that he’s all through,
But he lingers ‘round the gate
Still uncertain of his fate.
Though no wages does he draw,
He still works for grub and chaw
And still by the fire at night
He tells stories of his plight.
Too soon gone are all the days
Of the cowboy and his ways—
He’ll be herdin’ now no more
Like he did in times before.
Yet, still he comes ‘round the spread
Like a phantom of the dead—
We let him stay in the bunk
To spin windies and get drunk.
But his days now dwindle fast,
Still sad those times did not last—
But that cowboy never dies
In our songs and words and lies.
Too soon gone are all the days
Of the cowboy and his ways—
He’ll be herdin’ now no more
Like he did in times before.
Silent sage and chaparral
Gather ‘round the old corral,
Like the cowhands way back then
When the Old West did begin.
I am from my daddy's drunken heart, beating so fast as though flung from a
furious circle of women who are welcoming the men back from the hunt.
I am from my mother's matted eyes. My mother, a lil' orphan girl who often was
told, "Step back, black! You too po." My mother, who cried out, " I have my sisters
to love." My mother, who beat up the world to protect me.
I am from my cousin Cora's womb, which wasted away, but only after seven
babies grew into children who lived in a ditch to escape the streets and ate out of
garbage cans.
I am from the son of God, the Mother Hen of the world. Careening down a dark
alley, I run into myself, leopard legs, little streaks.
I am from the Yoakum Chaparral Chalet, covered in chicken grease and bathing
in a washtub.
I am from Jasper, Texas, grasping my knuckles into the cement as I am dragged
to death.
I am from music, Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring" and Ellington's "Catch the A Train."
I am from gardens, honeysuckled and herbed, growing health and healing.
I am from nerves, stressed, tired and tangled.
I am from the hospital today where I watch my dad's eyes grow big and his body
shrink. I watch my mother skate into the room nodding and dreaming.
I am from the bottom of the Atlantic, screaming Holocaust, millions of dead
bones chilled and cried out, "Murderer, thief, betrayer."
I am from the eighteen hundred block of Isabella in Houston's Third Ward where
Mr. Evans used to sit on his porch and nod and Mrs. Turner used to sit on her
porch and talk, and everybody said, "Hey Baby, how ya been doin'?"