Roots below, sun above

We, the humans, move through the week like shapeshifters.

Monday is a dog with three legs, it barks at any noise,

And if it had a fourth leg and more motivation

It might just walk away and leave you.

Tuesday is your mother, as she was before your birth,

Lighter of heart, and far quicker to laugh,

Not as she became, a bag of bones, worn down by life.

Wednesday is the oak tree that survived the long drought,

Seven years with little water and almost no hope at all.

How did it survive? deep, deep roots.

Thursday is a murder of crows, they sound like old men

Who seem to always long for the past, and in doing so

Miss out on the beauty of each present moment.

Friday is a young child delighted by christmas, the toys,

The laughter, the gaudy decorations. the child doesn't see

The desperation among the adults, buried by debt.

Saturday is an older child, a teenager, excitedly preparing

For the senior prom or the homecoming parade, alive

And living in the moment, as it can be for any of us.

And Sunday is the first rose of spring, sharing its beauty

With anyone who pauses for a moment to look.

Slow down, friend, count the petals, inhale the fragrance.

And we are the humans, moving through the week

Like shapeshifters, we are the dog, limping on its three legs,

We are the young teen, laughing through life

Even as the responsibilities of adulthood set in.

We are the crows, a happy child, a hopeful teen,

We are the first rose of a new spring, and our week is full.

We are life, we are promise, we are time itself,

We are human beings, moving steadily through a week.

Oh, life - thank you for the trials and the blessings.

--

Summer, the sun cuts and burns 

like a dagger left long in the fire, 

and the valley slowly cooks in its wound. 

Beneath the earth it is cooler, and the tangled roots 

reach down, down, down to the woman who lives below. 

This is the woman who is one with the valley, 

not owning the valley, 

and also not owned by the valley, 

but one. 

The earth is her flesh, 

the roots are her hair. 

The woman and the valley are one. 

Womanvalley. 

or Valleywoman. 

Roots under the earth, sun above, 

flesh of the woman, flesh of life. 

My home will ever be here.

--

Time without form. 

Form without the bare face of time.

What is Buddha nature? 

Everything. Nothing.

Stripping away the illusions 

That I built around myself.

There is no Jobe. 

What is left? 

Nothing. Everything.

-

Let this day be spent in unity, not divisiveness; a day spent in the heart, not the mind. May there be safety and kindness. If there is victory, let it be in not needing to win.

James Lee Jobe 

Please support this blog with a small donation through the the Buy Me A Coffee link at the bottom of the page. Thanks.

Townes Van Zandt, Marie

If we live, we live; if we die, we die; if we suffer, we suffer; if we are terrified, we are terrified. No problem. 

Alan Watts 

--

Kindness is in our power, even when fondness is not. 

Samuel Johnson 

Ramadan, a poem by Yahya Hassan 

In-N-Out for Iftar, a poem by Tamer Mostafa 

let grow more winter fat / wine-cup / western wild rose, a poem by Camille T. Dungy

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!

James