the wolves are tracking you

 

Mid January 

three solid weeks of cold rain 

(Wilton flooded by the Consumnes River) 

and finally a sunny perfect day 

crisp and cool with a pale blue sky 

only a few gentle wisps of a cloud 

here and there like a mother’s smile 

three weeks of rain after three years of drought 

the sun is beautiful but -oh- 

touch my heart with rain 

touch my heart with the great gray wetness 

james lee jobe

If you touch one thing with deep awareness, you touch everything.

Thich Nhat Hahn 

Prayer
Whatever happens. Whatever
what is is is what
I want. Only that. But that.

Galway Kinnell

News Link: Meet 2023’s New York City Youth Poet Laureate Stephanie Pacheco 

Robert Johnson, Me & The Devil Blues

From the sound of your footsteps crunching
through the woods comes a certain clue
that the wolves use to track you down
as you walk your eyes are on the leafy ground
in search of other clues, symbols, or mushrooms
your eyes sound like music, or like the cries
of a hungry child -is that correct?-
no, it is the sound of the final breath
of your alcoholic father
no, it is the sound of an old plow
cutting through the hard earth
your eyes have that power, that music
your eyes are a pump, bringing up fire from hell
and now the woods are thicker
there is no path and you are lost
the trees have strange colors
blue and purple and white
and they reach out for you
the hoary branches are their arms
and you struggle to get past
it is very dark, you didn't notice
that the sun had been going down
and you wonder if the wolves are getting closer
and yes, by god, they are
these woods have a name
but you don't know that
and you don't care

james lee jobe

Generosity keeps faith with our appreciation of each other. It stems from a natural empathy with everything that, like us, has the courage to take a shape in the world.

John Tarrant

Drinking Wine

I live here in this busy village without

all that racket horses and carts stir up,

 

and you wonder how that could ever be.

Wherever the mind dwells apart is itself

 

a distant place. Picking chrysanthemums

at my east fence, I see South Mountain

 

far off: air lovely at dusk, birds in flight

going home. All this means something,

 

something absolute: whenever I start

to explain it, I forget words altogether. 

T'ao Ch'ien, 365-427 CE

 

If you enjoy this blog, and I hope that you do, please consider making a donation through the BUY ME A COFFEE button below. (Not every time you come here, just maybe once in awhile.) Thanks!

jlj