take your sad little money and bury it

by Florin Ion Firimita 

At this age? I have the value 

of a fruit tree that doesn’t produce. 

Empty branches and leaves.

I can’t remember now 

if I ever heard my grandmother crying.

What is death?

O let it always be night, 

let the darkness come and cover 

everything. 

~~

I want people in this land where I live
To love the power of the pines,
And to study the grace of the larks.
Root and feather.
Branch and wing.

Run now, take your sad little money
And bury it in the rich valley soil beside some seed,
Then wait and see which grows and which does not.
Release into the fine sky a list of your rules
Along with a mountain lark.
One will fly and one will fall.

Now what hopes will the people hold dear?
Now what faith shall they embrace?

~~

My work is simple, 

to capture my life 

in a few plain words. 

There, I finished early today. 

~~

Finally, it is quiet.
Sssh.
You can hear the sound
Of your bare feet in the grass.
You can hear your breath
And feel your heartbeat,
But more, you hear
The sound of your own life.
Human.
Your soul makes no sound at all,
But you listen for it anyway.
Your body is alive,
And tells you so.
Sssh.
It is night, and looking up,
You see that the moon and the stars
Are quiet, too, shining silently
On the green branches of the pines. 

~~

Your hands held the syllables and vowels by the kind roses
Of your fingertips. Your hands pulled the sweet sunlight up
Over this sleeping man, until I awoke. Your hands, feathered,
Fluttered like the wings of graceful birds, larks perhaps,
Or barn owls, and flew into the most quiet quarters
Of this tall brick home. Your hands, like fire, like ice,
Like summer, like winter, like the bones of my own soul.
Your hands of the long shadows of an afternoon, of the dear
Valleys of that morning when we both smiled. Your hands
Of the sweet smell of the blooming summer jasmine. Your hands
On my naked skin, bring me back from the dead, bringing me
To life. Your hands, the turquoise idols that bless the altar
Of my prayers. Your hands of olive oil and sweet bread,
Of fresh tomatoes, of oak trees and lilacs. Your hands
In mine. Your hands on the mantle of this marriage.
Your hands that send me signals and touch me with truth.
Your hands. Your hands. Your eyes full of tomorrow.

by james lee jobe

Nobody can do everything, but everybody can do something. 

Gil Scott-Heron

~~

As long as you seek for something, you will get the shadow of reality and not reality itself.

Shunryu Suzuki

~~

Look out for number one and try not to step in number two.

Rodney Dangerfield

AL GREEN, Tired Of Being Alone 

LINKS: 

Darkness Starts, a poem by Christian Wiman 

Mentor, a poem by Rachel McKibbens

Medusa's Kitchen, a new group of poems daily 

Please consider making a donation through the BUY ME A COFFEE button below. It's done safely online, and just takes a moment. I could use the supplement since my mobility issues no longer allow me to work. This and Social Security are my income. Thanks! 

jlj