taylor marie mccormick |
the crows have come today
to count and measure the wounds of the earth
these wounds are large and numerous
and the crows announce them one by one
I am their witness
***
lazy man I never put my hoses away
they lay wherever I drop them
I never bother to remember where either
I have spent my life walking around
looking for the far end of hoses
I imagine finches watching me or raccoons
all of them thinking me a fool—
stupid man! he should put the hoses away!
well, to hell with them all
I don’t have feathers or fur
and I don’t go around judging people
with poems on their minds
***
the advertisement was for a rustic cabin for sale
looking at the photograph,
I decided that rustic must mean beat all to hell.
looking down at this aging body
One can see that I must be a rustic poet
and then
from somewhere outside of my also-rustic house
a dog began to bark
it barked for a very long time
***
because we are human we think
we must endeavor to be perfect
how foolish
it is our perfect imperfections
that makes us human
we suffer, we sweat, we love
so just love yourself anyway
right now
***
at dusk the sun dies
every morning the sun is then reborn
and it is that every morning brings another chance
for you and I to be better people
to grow to learn to love
it’s easy when the sun rises tomorrow
just wake up and open your heart
silence is a blessing the perfect emptiness
that binds you to the void embrace it
raise up your arms and give thanks for silence
give thanks for the vast emptiness of the void
poems by james lee jobe
previously in medusa's kitchen
dan mountford |
"The weight of the world is love."
-Allen Ginsberg
***
***
"Start by doing what's necessary; then do what's possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible."
-Francis of Assisi
***
"Nature is not a place to visit. It is home."
-Gary Snyder
WHY I AM HAPPY
--William Stafford, 1914-1993
Now has come an easy time. I let it
roll. Thetre is a lake somewhere
so blue and far nobody owns it.
A wind come by and a willow listens
gracefully.
I hear all this, every summer. I laugh
and cry for every turn of the world,
its terribly cold, innocent spin.
That lake stays blue and free; it goes
on and on.
And I know where it is.
Radovan Skohel |
Ada Limón’s poem is going to one of Jupiter’s moons and your name can go with it.
Jorie Graham confronts past, present, and future
The sidewalk poetry of St. Paul writes a city's story underfoot
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Thanks, jlj
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