S.B.T. 77

ranchers
a cowboy poem



in process needing reduction to discrete imagery in illustrating this poem, i had to start an idea - a spur on the bootstrap moves the horse forward and gains speed, and then a wagon wheel turning like a mandala, the old west with some mindfulness of present day (some reliance on factual material. an overload of regretful missteps transmitted in media blatancy to arouse something which has been decided as a matter of 'public policy' and the old wild west next to the big 'hills' that mark a middle a backbone with unmistakable ridges coerced a response recalling honorable methods to renew and comeliness of the folks who worked land lived with animals made peace with mother nature during a free but hardship troubled era the indian culture before the fledgling affairs of state before the buffalo became property and the ghost dance forbidden.
the voice of a prairie woman holds the air with a broad measured peace while entertains no illusion but tenderly speaks they went west and traveled in a dusty muddy grace of what is see hear feel the rocky and true, she opens the door and speaks. they worked, she said, and closes the door to go back to maybe making corn biscuits and beans
in an effort perhaps partially unresolved) to counterpoint details and maintain cattle-rock pacing, the imagery corresponds with and explores complementary space, and the forms suggest the concrete and abstract mix a kind of surreal landscape with motion happenings of a tonal kind.

she opens the door and her thoughts manifest archetypal form a language of overlapping pictures projected onto landscape and behind the children in the barn playing with mouser cats the western wind never rests and the wagon needs fillin

and here was the little outtake that was wiggled back in but then couldnt be left alone a little study piece tango dream unfinished
enjoy



xxx

S.B.T. 76

in my part of the country there are legends of seawidows and the ‘widows walk’ is a fixture atop every old harbor house an architectural testimony to vigilance and the strength of women who prayed for the ships return some perhaps enjoyed the solitude in biding time the sound of the long black skirt and the quickening blood and footsteps when at dawn the mastflag is spotted over the horizon wind engulfed in its own time not a widow yet she sighs smiling and runs to gather potatoes and pluck a chicken 'good morning barrister she waves yes the captain breaches near just over the bar we saw them clear'




between water pearls the oiled mirror bends
the rain where the pipeline darkened and dim
supersedes the horizon and takes us in

between the bearing of the sea and ledge of sky
silk streamers open in figure eight, a pattern of leaf
unravel embark the seagulls fly

between this moment and the next a silver breath an infinite peel
fog horn drawn out in fractal light
a royal flush in a shaded hand, a splay
of rope unwinds a spooling reel

the border of skin between your touch and fingertip lightly
gentles a skiff over waves and time
slips of sand and contour lines follow a gemstudded shore more fragrance of red clay and the tides moving rhyme

between this a line cast fate a blue whale calling her calf my captain
safe crossing through the shoals and the heaves rolling
to awaken and find ye in passage keep
all the gods protection hitched to the starboard
a compass rose and vigilant sleep

__________________
widows walks have long been a fascination since childhood i have had to fight to resist the urge to climb upon them and pace pace pace perhaps some residue of another life long ago xxx

S.B.T. 75

the views expressed do not necessarily
reflect those of the management
neither do they hold any conjunction
with any actual doings in area 51
or otherwhere