the message board of the sky

Bianca Green

Time has graced the trees with sound and color.
Their bark, once silent, is marked with beauty and thought.

Time has also formed the clouds into letters
And has now spelled out words across the message board of the sky.
"Faith."
"Random."
"Coincidence."

Time did all of this.

Below, on the green earth, children write these words
In spiral bound notebooks and carry them to their teachers.
In turn, the teachers share the magic and blessing of meaning.

Time has taught us that the teachers are themselves blessed.
They take the children outside, into the sunlight,
And see that there is one more word written with clouds
In the thick blue of the sky.
"Kindness."

One child smiles, and then they all smile.

james lee jobe

"Loving ourselves involves accepting this truth that we are imperfect, and once we realize this, we can shift away from perfection and instead move toward perfecting our love toward our imperfect selves." Mark Van Buren, “Joyfully Covered in Mud”

Douglas Hale

Look at the forks in the hands of the diners, they're like bibles in the hands of the priests, like guns in the hands of the killers. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been fifty-seven years since my last confession. Please pass the salt and the ammunition. I’ve drawn a bead on the waiter, you take out the chef. And relax, go with it. This place has wonderful desserts. They serve them right after communion.

james lee jobe

Link: Mahogany, a poem by Vanessa Jimenez Gabb

Mountains at Night 

The lake has died down,

The reed, black in its sleep, 

Whispers in a dream. 

Expanding  immensely into the countryside,

The mountains loom, outspread. 

They are not resting. 

They breathe deeply, and hold themselves, 

Pressed tightly to one another. 
Deeply breathing, 

Laden with mute forces, 

Caught in a wasting passion. 

Herman Hesse 

Herman Hesse, 1877-1962

“Solitude is independence. It had been my wish and with the years I had attained it. It was cold. Oh, cold enough! But it was also still, wonderfully still and vast like the cold stillness of space in which the stars revolve.”

― Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf

How do I write a poem every single day?
By listening. The trees tell me many things,
and the ground tells me many more.
And then there is the gigantic sky
and our local creek to deal with.
Putah creek. It tells me a lot.
I get a lot of ideas from memories
and even more from my dreams.
Friend, every dog that passes by
has at least one story to tell.
You just have to tune in and listen.
Why, look at these big old feet -
There is a poem in them, certainly.
There's today, tomorrow, and yesterday
To be considered and analyzed, too.
How do I write a poem every day?
Tell me, how is it that you do not?

james lee jobe 

Daniel Martin

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james