nyc in 1838

K. Wayne Thornley

I thought I heard my woman cry, but no, it was the dogs of my heart. 

A hard night and a hard day. The mass was in Latin, 

And was hollow in the way that the wind is sometimes hollow, 

And for a moment I was a boy again. 

The moment passed, leaving me as empty as ever. 

The jigsaw puzzle of this life has always lacked some key pieces. 

There was never a shallow end in this pool, 

And there was never a lifeguard. Swim at your own damn risk. 

The weather was turning cold, geese flew overhead, 

And above them were the damned airplanes. 

The street was completely empty, there was no one there but me. 

I wanted to weep and rend my garment, but I had no reason. 

When I walked my footsteps seemed loud and cruel, 

Like hammers on steel. I thought I heard my woman cry, 

But no, it wasn't her. It was the dogs of my heart.

james lee jobe

artist unknown 

it is 1838

it is early when we go to bed and then 

we are dreaming. we are in new york city, 

walking through a huge library that is like 

a confusing maze. we are going down 

steps that are so small that we are 

almost stumbling. we need a particular 

book from 1838 that no one wants us 

to have. people trick us, and create 

false clues for us to follow. time passes. 

and when, during the search, we are alone 

in secret moments, we kiss in the shadows. 

passion. love. we find a map of new york 

from 1838, and now we are stepping 

into the map. we are symbols of us 

moving down long lines labeled 

broadway and chatham and whitehall. 

we are holding hands and there is no 

end to this in sight. we wake up. 

it is midnight, exactly.  we make some

tea and sit down to write a poem. 

james lee jobe 

K. Wayne Thornley

The Buddha is here, there, and everywhere.

B. D. Schiers

Since the time we were born from our mother's womb, the only thing we have seen is the present. We have never seen the past and we have never seen the future. Wherever we are, whatever time it is, it is only the present.

Khenpo Tsultrim Rinpoche

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jlj 

the ocean rising up to kill us

Sabino D'Antonio

you nailed the fire to a crucifix and the air is screaming for mercy 

the scream has an echo even god can hear 

a scorched season of fear and wrath 

your mouth with the power of a scorpion ready to strike 

myths to pass down to the children 

frightening myths that can turn dreams into nightmares 

or into an offensive word 

your breasts covered with moss and tangled seaweed 

picked at by monkeys with nothing else to do 

the fruit that no one eats 

your kiss of a steel tongue 

polished hard and cold 

something with the fur of an animal 

an odor of sex 

your nudity 

covered only by rock and freedom 

the crucifix is upright and burning 

and yes the air screams for mercy 

there is no goddamn mercy 

james lee jobe

When we try to oppose and resist whirlpools of thought-fueled sadness, to swim away from them through thought, we become exhausted from the effort, while our misery only increases. But when we dive into the whirlpools, astonishing things happen.

David Edwards, “Meditation in an Age of Cataclysms”

Sabino D'Antonio

the spirit has the voice of a woman and urges me to speak the truth

beneath my hair the pacific ocean roars   behind my ears 

behind my eyes her voice is whispering and her voice is a fire 

if i tell the truth   really tell it   all of it   the ocean will rise up 

and try to kill us   starting with the weak   and ending with me 

i already walk with a limp   that's my father's leg limping 

my father's leg holds me back   holds me down   ties me 

to this spot in hell or earth and i will never be healed again 

my father's sins and mine wait in that leg for me to tell the truth 

those sins crave the oceanic roar  the flood   and my death 

and your death too   everyone   friend   the sins that hold me back 

will silence that spirit   "speak the truth" she whispers again "be free" 

no   not yet   i want to bear the silence and suffer for as long as I can

james lee jobe

Anyone can build a house of wood and bricks, but the Buddha taught that that is not our real home. Our real home is inner peace.

Ajahn Chah

bless the small things that have no words

james lee jobe 

links: 

Morning Hot and Windless, a poem by Phoebe Giannisi

Dent, a poem by Gaia Rajan

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thanks, james 

strike the bell seven times

patty hammerstedt

even midnight is waiting for midnight. don't be afraid, child, accept the darkness. walk bravely into the blackness. it doesn't even matter which direction you choose, just walk. sooner or later you'll see a light. go there. the closer you get, the better you will feel about things. in that light you will see everyone you have ever known. some of them right away, and the rest of them sooner or later. you see, child, this much is true - midnight comes around for everyone. 

james lee jobe

if failure is a great unlearning, meditation is a profound act of failure.

sarah kokernot, “failure as liberation”

some days we are using pantomime to explain the poem. we are naked and building a bridge. we have no tools or supplies except for the color blue. we are also blue. there are pieces of poetry and bits of blue scattered across the baseball diamond, and the players move around them carefully. it is very easy to trip and fall. the sky is blue, we are blue, so are the players, the field, and the pieces of poetry. we notice that everyone seems sleepy. the fans in the stadium are confused by our pantomime. the poem is long and complicated. nothing rhymes and no one seems to get it. the bridge doesn't really go anywhere. the national anthem begins to play over a cheap loud speaker, and sounds tinny and far away. it is blue, and was recorded in a different century. the soldiers point their rifles at us all, and we stand with our right hands over our blue hearts. we didn't want the poem to end this way, but alas, it has. 

james lee jobe

the sutter buttes, northern california 

to obtain satori, one must let go of the ego. to receive everything, one must open one's hands and give. 

taisen deshimaru

you are planting souls in your garden. it is early spring. you have worked all through the night under a yellow moon. one soul in each hole, seven holes in each row. seven rows. you will water them with liquid dreams throughout the summer. as you toil, you hope for a good harvest, and you say a prayer. finally, you are finished. it is dawn and you strike the bell seven times. seven angels appear and bless your work. each angel takes a turn holding you. they each place their long, cool hands on your face and kiss your forehead and your eyes. one angel at a time. the sky is clear and blue, and from the trees you hear the beautiful sound of birds. 

james lee jobe

anyone can make the simple complicated. creativity is making the complicated simple.

charles mingus

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thanks! jlj