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Ghost Farm

too far
from anywhen
and anything
to be a town
.
just ghost farm
with spirits lost,
plants that never grew
and children
never born.
.
dust
and tumbling weeds
with fingers
longing for a place
that they can hold
to stop and rest
.
but like the farm
they just keep traveling
into the past
from which
they only dimly
can be seen
as soft mirages
of a life
that never bloomed
and love
which lived eternal
but unquenched
in tears of shame
.
the fence
the roof
the windmill
all are falling
into sad and rusty disrepair
while all of those
that never lasted
seek to leave
this dry despair.
.
pain
without rain
.
lives
where on dusty beds have lain
the dessicated souls
of sun scorched dreams.
.
.
by Bil Luther


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Duststorm

looking southward
into hot wind blowing north
an ugly billowing monster
building up on the ridge
some thirty miles away
.
piling up
reaching out
rippling
drawing lightning
from a dry
but thunderheaded sky
black as coal
but not as night
black as the dirt
blowing in from Texas
or hell
its all the same
.
and the eyes water
the dry lips sting
even with the bandanna
and wild dogs
howl
fitfully
.
half of the field
plowed yesterday
is swirling in
like a blanket
.
smothering
choking
blackening my nose
my mouth
my ears
my heart
.
and on the morning after
freezing from the snow
which had backfilled in
from the west
and was now a black
filthy, depressing coat
waiting to expire
into greasy mud at high noon
as the sun
baleful one eyed sun
peeped fearfully
through the night
which did not belong
in the middle of the day.
.
in another time
in a more populated place
one would talk about
misfortune
emergency
disaster
.
but here
where one kind of hell
or another
were common
to the empty stores
the ramshackle vacant houses
and minds
only a windmill complained
bitterly
at not being able to find water,
.
and the tumbleweeds
scratched at the door.
.
.
by Bil Luther


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Hail

.
the dust
thick, and silky dust
tiny motes, near nothing
on my skin, in my hair
.
dust
covers my world
.
the big UTI tractor
lugs down and struggles
grinding the three tandemed one-ways
through the mile square field
.
my dust,
covering the others who follow
with a thick, almost impenetrable cloud
.
only i can see
the single, blossoming, clouds in the sky
moving West, all day
piling up on The Rockies
piling up, and up, and up
.
gathering strength
and moving back
toward us
.
threatening
trailing curtains of water
spilling, on to the ground
.
closer, more omninous
closer, and closer
.
threatening
.
and there is what we fear
the white streaks
which are falling icy stones
.
closer
almost on us
so we begin a long cutback
back toward the shelter
of the gas truck which shadows us
.
finally, fifty yards away
we see the hail,
pounding dirt clumps into crushed earth
raising puffs of dust and fog with each strike
.
in desperation, we shut down
sprinting for the shelter of the truck
stumbling through the furrows
.
watching the hailstones
inexorably approaching
.
the air, icy cold
while the low Western sun
still shines
through the veils of rain
.
myriad short-arced rainbows
spring into and out of existence
.
lightning, striking, randomly, striking
everywhere
.
as we near the truck
the ice stones
some as larger than golf balls
are so close we can hear them,
clattering,
breaking
.
now, the vanguard
of fortunately smaller stones
begins to sting our shoulders and backs
spurring us to run,
faster,
faster
.
diving under the truck's high chassis
panting,
choking in the dust there
listening to the rumble
as the hail,
pounds the distant tractors
and our sheltering truck.
.
then it passes
moving off to the southeast
cutting a mile wide path
through the ripened, unharvested wheat
.
leaving us shivering
unable to move
as we look out on an ice white field
steaming now
as the three to four inch stand of ice,
melts. and rejoins the parched earth
from which it came
.
our day is over
the tractors
are immobilized
as are our spirits
.
God, gives us the afternoon off.
.
by Bil Luther


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Johnny Pop

.
a huge
four foot diameter fly wheel
used like an old time airplane prop
to start a one cylinder engine
.
pop,
pop, pop
pop, pop, pop
.
disturbs the silence of the plain
distracts the order of my brain
.
pop... pop... pop
.
across square miles
of dustbowl dirt
leaving dust behind
in a widening wake
.
pop... pop... pop...
.
dragging a one-way
in this dust filled cloud
filling my hair
filling my nostrils
with smoke and dust
.
pop... pop... pop...
.
waiting for day to end
to sleep
and in the morning
begin
again
.
six days a week
dawn until almost dark
.
pop... pop... pop...
.
mindless
timeless
pop, pop, popping
.
and at dusk
running for a dip
in the algae ridden horse tank
.
just to sluice the dust off
and clear our ears
of
pop... pop... pop...
.
by Bil Luther


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The Tank

.
it smells of life
it's wet and cold
a galvanized pond in a sea of dust
.
the lives it supports are myriad
both within and far without
.
the tracks that surround it
are bounded
only by the horizon to which they run
.
the strange fan-gilled creature
that guards its bottom
is a mystery as to origin
and destination
but stops weary intrusions
with doubt
.
does it bite?
does it sting?
is it growing a wing?
.
sadly,
the dust
cannot be washed away
from the landscape
instead of my body
as the wetness
draws dirt lines
from scalp to the navel
and then into mud on the ground.
.
the rattle of the owner of the tank
is cause enough to bring a sigh
at knowing we are just an instance
of the strangeness
passing by.
.
another time
i felt the coolness
covering me with clean
as running straight
from hell's dark harness
i left the tractor and the sky
and dove into the depths of green
and then on Sunday
wet bandannas
grew like leaves
as we all drank
and washed for breakfast
praying for a drop of rain.
.
+++++++++++++++
are the moments
when we think
we're happy and complete
just small galvanized
stock-feeder tanks
seen dimly in a dream?
.
.
by Bil Luther


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Baca County Broom Corn [ft]

.
Green broom corn fields
reaching to the horizons
corn cut by men
with small curved blades
trudging down mile long rows
reaching up, cutting
reaching up, cutting
reaching up, cutting
.
dropping the stalk with its straws
into a basket
moving the basket
repeating
repeating
repeating
.
men being paid by the row
.
the cutters brought in
from Oklahoma and Texas
in open sided trucks
stretching in a line
to the horizon south
.
Broomcorn Woolies
"Woolies"
.
God knows where they slept
there were no camps nor tents
.
God knows where or what they ate
no restaurants would serve them
.
Indians
Hispanics
homelessly dirty whites
all scorched, wrinkled by the sun
dirty, unkempt, "Woolies"
.
but where could they wash?
relieve themselves?
where was any
human compassion
supporting their plight?
.
at the drug store, they bought, and drank
Lucky Tiger hair tonic
60% alcohol
for no liquor store or bar would serve them
.
at the grocery store, they bought, and ate
day old bread, lunch meat and lard
enough to provide energy for the day
for no restaurant would serve them
.
they wandered in the shadows
afraid to be seen
seared by any lights
stumbling out
to pluck at sleeves
asking for money for food
.
i gave one three dollars
all the money i had
four hours of my own wage
.
later that night
him, sitting on the curb
drinking wine from a bagged bottle
.
i asked him
"where's the food?"
he mumbled
.
i grabbed the bottle
smashed it in the gutter
and walked home
collapsing into fitful sleep
.
the next day
i asked my brother-in-law
if i could work his fields
the broom corn fields
along with the Woolies
.
i was an athelete
track and football star
i was a well driller
lifting huge weights
and setting them down
but
at the end of the first hour
reaching up, cutting
reaching up, cutting
dropping the stalk with its straws
into a basket
moving the basket
repeating
repeating
.
gloves shredded
hands cut, bleeding
ready to chuck it in
exhausted in pain
ashamed
.
at the end of the day
which i forced myself to reach
my row count
was half any Woolie's in the field
.
would that i could have
replaced that broken bottle of wine
would that i could have
empathized
with his condition, not mine
.
post script
as we left the field
before climbing into the truck
i spotted a huge jack rabbit
lounging at the end of a row
.
i asked Jake for his shot gun
and blew it down with thunder
.
the ubiquitous dogs devoured it
along with only a part of my guilt.
.
by Bil Luther

[ft]
Brooms used to be made out of the stalks and tassels of broom corn.
It grows to about 7 feet in height with the stalk accessible only by
reaching up over your head to cut it with a small blade, much like a
linoleum knife. There were a few sparse kernels at the ends of the
tassels which were shaken off before being bundled and shipped.

At one time Springfield was know as
"The Boomcorn Capitol of the World".

With the advent of plastic brooms, broom corn went the way of the Dodo
and is no longer a significant cash crop.
.
.

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Line Rider

.
Summer .
we ride the line
following the posts and wire
mile after mile
looking for sags, breaks
leaning, broken posts
.
dismounting
cutting
hammering
tearing leather gloves
cutting hands
breathing dust
sagebrush pollen
.
always following the wire
the barbed, rusting
endless
wire
.
Winter
a blizzard
blinding, horizontally sweeping snow
.
broad brimmed hats
designed to block the sun
do nothing now
but keep heat from escaping
too rapidly from our scalps
.
we ride
the wind at our backs
like the herds we seek
who do likewise
trying to escape
the icy wind and snow eventually
winding up
at the fence lines
we have tended too well
.
milling
milling
packing down the snow
it builds up
above the fence line
and they walk away
scattering
where the wind takes them
.
and for weeks
we try to find them all
to bring them
reluctantly
home
.
Spring
'Round up time'
bringing them all in
reducing young bulls to steers
spiking them into squeeze chutes
with electric prods
where worvils spurt
from under their hides .
the larvae of horseflies
.
catching
holding
dehorning with saws
.
branding
emasculating
with special knives
.
turning them loose to run
in blood scent madness
.
I'm positioned
across from the chute
to meet these newly made steers
to divert them
from the steel barbed wire beyond
.
screaming and shouting
waving my hat
until one
who has lost it all
refuses to turn
ducks its bloody head
and rams me through
the wires and barbs
tearing my shirt off
stumbling over my body
to escape
.
i laugh, hysterically
i'm drunk
we're all drunk
it's a party
and we're as drunk
as we need to be
to do this bloody work .
this is the way
we make the food we eat!
.
Fall
that's all...
.
.
NightRider
.
darkness
is a pressure
on the beams of light we cast
.
this modern mare and i
this power she-thing
riding out the night
.
her growling engine
drowns out all
except the words I sing
while ripping soil
wide open
with the plough
.
the night, split
with rainless lightning flashing
whose thunder accompanies
the balls of fire
that run along the wires for miles
.
my goggled eyes wide open
to flashing beams
far out, carving caves with light
.
follow the furrow
follow the last round's furrow
remember where
the gullies are
and pull the reigns
.
resting
now
under her belly
in the warm
and carbon dioxided air
dreaming while awake
asleep while thinking awake
.
riding more
the furrow long
much far long too long
.
then rabbit runs ahead
the furrow holding it in place
until it bursts
in... to... flames...
and hence escapes
.
while i, dreamless now
curse and pull the mare back in
from yards away from where
the furrow runs
the followed fallow furrow
which we follow more
until
the end.
.
morning never
comes
soon enough.
.
by Bil Luther