it is late and I am praying
for all of the things that I want to happen
I want the earth to grow kindness like trees
like fruit
I want children to breathe easily
and I want the hands of the devils
to fall away from their tiny throats
I want the rain to wash away the blood
from the hands of the killers
I want every stomach to be full
and all people to be protected
by a roof and walls
I want peace to cover
the temple of our collective soul
like a shawl covers the head
of a grandmother at mass
I want my arms to grow long enough
to embrace the suffering of this world
I want to ease the pain
that rules so many haunted lives
and I pray for peace
hear my prayer
please
hear my prayer
white american billionaires want to build a new disneyland in afghanistan
the rides will be run by the bodies of the war dead
white american billionaires want to open a thousand starbucks in iraq
the bodies of the war dead will be the baristas brewing coffee
white american billionaires want to resurrect sears roebuck
the ringling brothers circus and the draft they have the cash to do it
and your right to vote your right to choose to not be pregnant
your right to an education the white american billionaires don’t care
it’s up to you and me to care
Silence, like a frail child lacking love, needs to be nurtured. A young oak tree, chest high, whispers a thank you to the soil, to the sun and the water. The air is moving, but far too softly to make a sound. I raise my face to the sunlight, thinking, “I have love in my life. I offer my thanks.” Something moves in the old leaf pile, swift and sudden, but I cannot see what it is.
james lee jobe
Thanks for reading this!
You human animal, forgive yourself.
You sinned, but so what? Who hasn't?
So much blood has been spilled on the earth
That it is amazing there is any dry land at all.
There is enough guilt for everyone to share.
But let's not hold on that.
Kneel, human animal.
Ask yourself for mercy.
And one thing more, having asked, grant it.
To become a flowering magnolia tree, or spring, or the yawn of an old dog.
Snow. That melts from the heat of your hand.
So clean.
Words written in Sanskrit or Welsh or Farsi. Like magic.
Like the sun.
To climb up, out of the chaos. Above it.
Finally into the quiet.
To be a perfect stand of elms. Alive in the limbs
And in the branches.
The sound of the song that moves you.
Its movement and passion.
To become a flowering magnolia tree, or spring, or the yawn
Of an old dog.
Rain. Cleansing the earth. Feeding
The earth.
The dream. The moment it is understood
At last.
Your very life. Your very
Soul.
This is tomorrow. It's here.
Now.
That I might always remember to be grateful, and to show my gratitude. That I might always remember to seek out the good when bad things happen, and to be grateful for those things. That I might always remember to seek out the good that I can do myself.
Thanks for reading this blog post.
All Good Things,
james lee jobe
