the highway between two thoughts

Milt Kobayashi

grabbing some magic

who hasn't followed a thirsty goat down to the water

or was it a hairy backed pig

anyone

and who hasn't held their hands up to the sky during a storm

to pretend that lightning bolts are shooting out of their fingertips

no    not you

well you must have whispered your lusty secrets

to the angels that circle your pointy old head

not that either

friend   exactly what kind of life are you living over there

do try and grab some magic

before the light goes out

where you weep I will break the darkness

the highway between two thoughts that replaces time
with something that cannot be measured

a mirror with a golden back that faces the sun
another mirror with a silver back that faces the moon

a wind that makes waves in the sky that match the beauty of the waves
in a warm and turquoise sea and yet are invisible

a child's simple line drawing of a family
that somehow shows the pain and sorrow of loss and fear

where you live I will not love death
where you dream I will not embrace denial
where you weep I will break the darkness
where you age I will plant the garden

that which was forgiven is forgotten and blessed
and is now painted on the canvas with the oils of heaven

that which was loved by the daughter the sister the wife and the mother
and honored at last by the son the brother the husband and the father

that which was lifted up to the kind light of a new morning
captures the light like strength and saves it until night returns

that which was said in prayer and dressed in magic
is now the music that plays for the pleasure of the stars

where you love I will kneel and pray
where you sleep I will kneel and pray
while you keep hope I will kneel and pray
when your hope falters I will kneel and pray

listening to him describe his wife's death

Even the pigeons knew something was wrong. They shifted
from foot to foot on Capitol Avenue, looking up

at people. The bus went by, a truck went by; there’s a pattern
to it all you know. When pecking the dirt near 18th Street

the pigeons moved with a sullen nervousness. I hear
snippets of a friend’s conversation from across the noisy cafe.

“Coma,” I hear, and, “I didn’t even feel anymore.” “It was us,
just us . . .” It is his season with death. Outside the window,

the pigeons look up at me - for what? Answers? Keep pecking.
My friend talks and talks, a gentle man, a singer, a poet.

The cafe becomes full of the weight he carries, people
are uncomfortable for things they cannot know, only feel.

That is in us. It is far too heavy for the pigeons, who move
off towards 19th Street without much hope in their step.

Even the trees seem to bow their breezy heads in grief.
Tomorrow is the solstice, the longest night of the year.

-for Arthur Butler-

james lee jobe

There is nothing you can see that is not a flower; 

there is nothing you can think that is not the moon.

Matsuo Basho

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