I might fly away free.

Our breakfast dharma.

The breakfast plate of the sunrise
is filled with lovely fruit, fresh and perfect.
When the sun clears that treetop
we will pour the coffee and eat.

This gives a few precious moments to sit in silence.
We count our breaths, one breath at a time.
Our chests rise and fall. All of life in one moment,
and the moment is so very fine.

The breakfast plate of the sunrise
is filled with lovely fruit, fresh and perfect.
When the sun clears that treetop
we will pour the coffee and eat.

James Lee Jobe

Every drop in the ocean counts.

Yoko Ono

I might yet just fly away free. 

I am trying now to grow the wings that I need so that I might fly away free. 

I am asking now for the sky to open up like the cover of a treasured book, page by beautiful page, so that I might fly away free. 

I am whispering now all the secrets of this lifetime, all the secrets that a man might carry, letting them go so that I might fly away free. 

I am releasing now the incredible, crushing weight of all these many yesterdays and tomorrows, years and decades, dropping them to the ground, so that I might fly away free. 

I am loving all of the ones who have reached out to me in kindness and love and joy, everyone who held me and helped me, I am reaching out to them so that I might fly away free. 

I am loving now all of the ones who left me behind and forgot me, who turned their backs, I am letting it all go so that I might fly away free. 

I am loving now all thoughts of mercy, all thoughts of forgiveness, so that I might fly away free. 

I am loving now all of those who live without mercy, either giving or receiving it, so that I might fly away free. 

My friend, if I can tap into the wealth of kindness I have in my heart, if I can open that tap and let the kindness pour, I might fly away free. 

james lee jobe

Just to be is a blessing.

Just to live is Holy.

Rabbi Abraham Heschel 

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Thanks, James 

learn how to empty your minds

The long and empty walk.

Kneel with me, sister.
Drink the water from the cool spring.
The walk was so terribly long,
almost without end,
and the world is so dry.
Our thirst is a savanna,
parched and lonely.
Drink with me, sister,
and then, refreshed, once again
we will find the courage to stand
and walk across this earth.

James Lee Jobe

I will always be on the side of those who have nothing and who are not even allowed to enjoy the nothing they have in peace.

Federico Garcia Lorca

For my children.

May you learn how to empty your minds
of the many things that are not real.

May you always find ways to be close to each other,
long after your mother and I are gone.

May you learn to forgive others,
and to also forgive yourselves.

May you never raise your hand in anger,
or draw a weapon, or ruin your soul with violence.

May you learn that wishes are a waste of time,
but not dreams. Dreams are golden.

May you come to know the ecstasy
of Van Gogh, Neruda, and Coltrane.

May the sun, the moon, and the stars light your way
while the truth shows you the path.

May you live every day of your lives
knowing without doubt that I love you.

James Lee Jobe

All are nothing but flowers
In a flowering universe.

-Nakagawa Soen-Roshi 

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JLJ 

Eating the rotten flesh of the earth

Pico Verde Jobe, or Pico for short.
My trusty conure.

If eyes had hands
Would sight include touch

If hands had eyes
Would touch include sight

O what a foolish man I am

There is so much to write down
And I have barely started

James Lee Jobe

"You are on earth. There is no cure for that." 

Samuel Beckett

Maggots
Eating the rotten flesh of the earth

Maggots on the walls
On the ceiling and on
Us

Don’t let them get to your eyes
(did I scream that or just think it)

But it’s far too late

Your eyes
My eyes

The rotten flesh of the earth

All gone
All gone

James Lee Jobe

STEPHEN STILLS - So Begins The Task

Salvation
is always a nice touch
to add to a life.

Isn't it interesting
you can only achieve it
on your own? No one
can give it to you.

Well, that's all for now,
it's time to get busy here.

James Lee Jobe

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May patience be our blessing. -JLJ 

The place where I was born is not my native land.

Golnaz Fathi

When America murdered Hiroshima shadows were burned onto sidewalks.

When America murdered Hiroshima
shadows were burned onto sidewalks
where human beings had been standing.
Imagine that, a shadow burned onto concrete.
So hot even the ghosts didn't survive.
Nuclear heat.
It was the same when America murdered Nagasaki.
But not Tokyo.
Tokyo, it was decided, was largely made of wood.
wooden offices, wooden homes,
wooden schools and hospitals.
So fire bombs were dropped and Tokyo burned.
Not nuclear heat, no shadows burned onto concrete.
A slower agony.
Flames on the children. Flames on the elderly.
Who has the right to order that a city should die?
Who can make that decision? A President?
No one. For no reason.
Not even God.

James Lee Jobe

“Without the energy that lifts mountains, how am I to live?”

Mīrābāī

Sacramento Valley (a haibun)

The place where I was born is not my native land, neither are the places where I was raised. The Sacramento Valley is my native land. My wife and I chose it for ourselves, and raised three children here, and scattered the ashes of one of them. Here. We worked here, and we planted some fruit trees and a garden. Here. And when the end comes, as it must, our ashes will spread here. The place where I was born is not my native land. The place where I invested my life is my native land. 

The stars and the trees

here are my old and dear friends -

Life calls me its brother.

James Lee Jobe

AHMAD JAMAL - Autumn Leaves

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jlj 

Man, I love Ray Wylie Hubbard.

Photographer unknown.

I dreamed an illness was in the roses and it spread out over all creation.

And though the sickness was very slow moving,
by the time I woke up from the dream
the entire world had been made ill by the roses.
People were coughing up blood and petals and thorns.
This was just an afternoon nap, so I went out
into yard to check on my own little rosebush.
It was bare of flowers.
I leaned in close and looked it right in the eye
and whispered, "Don't think for a minute
that I'm not watching you." and I meant it.

James Lee Jobe

“While all bodies share the same fate, all voices do not.”

Li-Young Lee

Saving a sea shell.

In this shell there is no sound
of the ocean. No. Instead,
this shell holds the sound
of my father's deep voice.
Wait. It might be the sound
of my son's voice, singing.
Both are gone, lost too soon.
I have been a son, and also
I have been a father. Now
the nights are long and slow.

James Lee Jobe

Ray Wylie Hubbard - "Drunken Poet's Dream"

        Man, I love Ray Wylie Hubbard. Very earthy, very real. In person, a very funny man. Hit YouTube up for some live performances. CLICK HERE for his website and buy an album or something; support the artist.

        I appreciate your support of this blog, which you can do through the Buy Me A Coffee link below. It's a safe site, and if a million of you do it, I'll can pay off some bills. And the rest will just have to wait.

        Thanks, JLJ  

you are the world beneath your own feet

To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.

Mary Oliver

The world beneath your own feet.

Pick up the pencil. Open the notebook.
Find a new way to say it,
"The world is an island, green and beautiful
and tender, all alone in a living sea.
See how the water is blue-green and translucent.
Calm."

You are this island, you are this sea,
you are the world beneath your own feet,
and from your pencil come the storms
that fill the sky with a raw and naked power.

The hour passes as you write.

James Lee Jobe

A hundred thousand birds salute the day.

Christina Georgina Rossetti

Breaking bread.

Oh my poor son.
I am picturing you holding
a loaf of bread in your hands.
Like an old roman,
you are tearing off some bread to eat
and handing the loaf to me.
This, in the dining room
of the house where you grew up.
This, at the table
where we laughed through so many meals,
the way a family does.
Oh my poor son.
Now I must forever face the hard days
with you gone.

James Lee Jobe

Sonny Rollins Quartet - Moritat (Mack the Knife)

Where do poems come from? I can only answer for myself. From the pencil to the page. Or from my hand to the pencil. Or from my thoughts to my hand. Or from the universe to my thoughts. That’s it. The poems are a part of the universe. Just like us. 

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James

living in this moment

That which is whispered.

The whisper of the bones is empty.

The whisper of the dirt is empty.

On days of solid steel

and nights that are riveted into place

we answer to whispers.

We answer to the truth.

But what is truth?

Did someone ask that?

If you cannot see the truth

you might as well be blind.

If you cannot hear the truth

you might as well be deaf.

Whisper to the bones.

Say one word; yes.

Whisper to the dirt.

Say one word; yes.

The truth isn't one thing for you

and another for everyone else.

Go now. There is nothing more

about this that I could ever tell you.

James Lee Jobe

Light from the moon of clear mind

Drinks up everything in the world:

When ‘mind’ and ‘light’ both disappear,

What is this?

Death poem of Kyong Ho Sunim (1846-1912)

Q and A

So you're a Buddhist now?
What to you think happens when we die?
Those were his questions.
Yes, I am, I told him. I don't know what happens next
and it doesn't matter anyway.
It doesn't matter?
No, I want to live in this moment, now.
I started walking away.
Wait a minute, I'm not done!
Too bad; I am.

James Lee Jobe

Arm for a pillow,

watching gemlike raindrops

from the eaves, alone.

Basho (1644-1694)

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James 

“There was this three legged frog that wanted a new hat…”

Man it’s no good for me
To read Rumi or Kabir at bedtime
I get all worked up excited you know
And I want to go run around
Outside in the starlight
I’ll never get any sleep like that

James Lee Jobe

A jerk is not something you are. Being-a-jerk is something you do. There is no jerk outside of you being a jerk. When you cease to be a jerk, the jerk you were when you were being a jerk vanishes instantly.

Brad Warner, “Don’t be a Jerk”

        Deep in the pine woods of East Texas my father and I are lost, but it isn’t so bad. It’s a sunny day and we can tell directions, and we know where the Sabine River is, and that Big Sandy is somewhat north of us. What we don’t know is which way to go to get back to where we parked the trusty Ford pickup truck. 

        We stopped hunting a couple of hours ago. The shotguns are unloaded and broken open across the crook of an arm. No accidents that way. There is no game to carry as we didn’t shoot anything, or really even try. Neither of us actually likes to shoot anything, we both prefer to fish, but we do both like the woods. The pine woods are beautiful, smell nice, and our booted footsteps make lovely crunchy sounds as we walk along, side by side. 

        My father, that other James Lee Jobe, always calls them “the piney woods.” Dad is about 50 and I am in my mid-teens. By the time ten years pass I will have hiked out all of this East Texas area on my own, and by the time I am his age I will have hiked out a lot of California, too, especially the Gold Country. My father has less than a decade to live, and he knows it, and I am just starting to realize that.

        We walk and tell each other jokes and stories, at times laughing so hard our sides ache and the laughter gets silent. We just sort of bob up and down croaking out, “Stop! Stop!” We can always crack each other up. Many times that’s how we stop arguing about something. Dad has a way of starting a joke that in itself cracks me up. Something like, “There was this three legged frog that wanted a new hat…” 

        We need to cross a creek, or at least we think we do, and we find this place where a fallen tree makes a sort of bridge. Halfway across he starts off a joke, and the opening line gets me laughing, and I’m laughing so hard that I have to sit down straddling the tree trunk so I don’t fall in the creek. Me breaking up breaks him up, and he has to sit down the same way, and there we are, several feet above a creek we don’t want to fall into, laughing like goofballs. 

        We have far too few good days like this one in 1971, the two James Lee Jobes, laughing it up in the woods of East Texas. 

James Lee Jobe

I hope you don't mind the prose piece this time. Please help support this blog with a small donation on the BUY ME A COFFEE link below. Every little bit helps! -jlj 

valley of trees

            What is happening now, deep below this valley? I looked at one of the older elm trees and asked that. I wanted her to answer me, perhaps to say there is another world down there, a valley below the valley, alive like you or me, breathing, growing, raising a family. Being true to itself. And perhaps yet another valley below the second one, a third valley. Imagine! But there was no answer. The elm just stood there in the drizzle on a rainy afternoon. I was fairly dry in my rain gear, and I walked over and put my old hands on the wet bark. And so we stood, the elm and I. I wiggled my toes inside of my warm, dry shoes.

_____

            I take my refuge in the dharma. A little at a time, I've been working to build a meditation spot in a secluded corner of the untended garden. Pulling weeds, adding a bench, and soon, a low and cushioned platform. The work is slow, my body isn't what it once was. What is? There is a circle of rocks around a small and mended buddha, about 10 inches tall; he had been broken by some men working on the fence. I glued and painted him, and sat him on a wooden box, up off of the ground. Above it all, a young oak, and below, the earth. I'll add some flowers. And of the time left to me, however much it is, some of it will be spent right there. Sitting and breathing. I take my refuge in the dharma. 

_____

            
            This valley of trees; you would think the birds owned the place. You and I are just here for the cleanup. 

James Lee Jobe

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jlj 

Time that shines and sparkles.

Shining in moonlight.

The names of the days of the week. 

The names of the months. 

The numerals of the years. 

Individual dates. 

These things are now the decorations 

on my annual Christmas tree. 

See how they shine in the moonlight 

that comes in through the open window. 

Time that shines and sparkles. 

James Lee Jobe 

Body more perfect than wave,

salt washing the sea line,

and the shining bird

flying without ground roots.

Pablo Neruda

            When I change out my conure's birdseed I scattered the old seed out by our jasmine. As I write this sparrows have gathered to eat the seed and my dog is watching them through the glass patio door. I have a nice coffee and Gary Snyder's translations of Hanshan. A good morning. -JLJ

  

Carlo Ravaioli (Italy) "Modern Geometry" 2004

Trimming the peach tree. 

It is late winter, so I trimmed the peach tree. 

I have an old friend who is a tree-trimmer, 

and I seem to remember him telling me 

that's when to do it; that's when the sap is low. 

I went all over it, paring back the branches 

that would sag low from the weight of the fruit. 

The tree is about 12 feet tall now, 

it was 18 inches when I planted it years ago, 

back when we first bought this house. 

Watching it grow has given me much pleasure, 

and so have the peaches; last year, a drought year, 

they were small but absolutely delicious. 

This year the drought broke, 

it has rained like angels singing. 

And the tree is trimmed. 

Spring is a few weeks off yet. 

I pulled up a chair and sat under the tree for a while. 

Feel the love, my friend,

I am here for you. 

James Lee Jobe 

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small poems in the air everywhere

Grandchild 

Looking up from my lazy stupor
To see where I am on this earth
I’m in California’s big central valley
So long and green
In the farm soil dark and rich
I’m by the cold rushing Sacramento River
And in the sky above the white clouds
I am in the dreams of a sleeping cat
On a porch in the warm sunshine
I am everywhere and so are you

_____

Gratitude for small things
My toothbrush
My glasses
Seeing my doggo yawn
At bedtime

_____

Everything
In my raggedy yard
Is wild and free
Like my dreams
And my hopes

_____

Once
I held you close
My little child
But where are you now

Everywhere my father
All around you like the air
And within you
Like a thought

James Lee Jobe

A short-poems post. I hope it sits well with you, like warm soup on an autumn night. Please help support this blog with a small donation. Click on the Buy Me A Coffee icon below. It's a very safe site. 
THANX- JLJ 

The drummer from Toad the Wet Sprocket.

            A great battle had just ended, perhaps it was in Basra. Perhaps it was in Fallujah or up in the mountains in Afghanistan. Syria. Somalia. Libya. Many lay dead, soldiers from one side, soldiers from the other side, civilians. Children were dead. Also dead was hope. Also dead were any dreams. The dust in the air seemed dead. From nearby came a long drum roll, and the dead rose up, as best they could; some were missing their legs, others were missing their heads. The dead rose up and raised their eyes, if they still had eyes, to the dark night sky. And one by one they called out for God. But God didn't come that night. No, not then. 

James Lee Jobe

Do not fear mistakes. There are none.

Miles Davis

            That I might peel away the layers of nonsense I have built around myself that hide who I am. That I might know myself before the time of knowing comes to an end, and that I might use that knowledge, such as it is, in a positive manner. This I pray.

James Lee Jobe

            It’s hard to listen without judgment, to tolerate ambiguity, paradox, and, in some cases, ignorance. But if we are ever to experience any measure of true peace, this is something we will all need to learn.

Tina Lear, “Having Real Conversations (Even With My Sister)”

            A decent dream. The drummer from Toad the Wet Sprocket gave a list of his favorite albums. Bob Dylan and Neil Young said it was a pretty good list. Lucy Liu wouldn't step on any lines or cracks and leaped over a big piece of old carpet, and Meredith Viera made up a little song about that, which gave me the giggles. Lucy gave me two cigarettes and hinted that she would like to see me later. I thought, "I must smoke in this dream." And then woke up.

James Lee Jobe

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James 

"Cold enough for you?"

Your soul is a frozen orange,

And you brought me here to peel your cold skin.

My soul? Very warm fingers. 
The apples are watching as I set to work

At freeing the fruit in you.

What I find most interesting,

Is that as I free you, I also become more free.

When you are free, my liberation will be complete.

Does this make for odd poetry?

Yes, but my fingers and I can live with that.

_____

            Reach inside yourself for the strength you need. It’s there. Your strength is in your own heart, it has always been there. Hold on to your faith in life, in your own humanity. Believe in yourself. Keep hope. Love and life will go on. Until it doesn’t.

_____

Relearn everything, all of it.

Remember that every moment 

is a new beginning. 

_____

"Cold enough for you?"

"Yup. If this is for me, it can quit anytime."

Life slows down, businesses and schools close,

And God help you if it rains just before the norther hits;

The world will be covered in a sheet of ice.

Power lines and tree limbs snap, the roads are a danger,

And many water pipes give up the ghost and burst.

The wind speaks with a ghostly voice,

"Woooo," and you had better get the livestock in the barn.

Salt the porches and walkways, put chains on the tires,

Get out the old checkerboard and the playing cards,

And settle in to wait it out, like waiting out a siege.

People in other places tend to think of Texas as hot,

And a lot of the time that's true enough.

You can see a seventy degree Christmas or New Year.

But the next day a norther strides in and slaps your face,

And everything changes for a few hard days.

I have seen my father put on his wife's pantyhose

Under his long-underwear, and two pairs of pants on top.

The cold bites hard on people who are used to heat.

The smart ones are prepared, late in the fall they stock up.

Rock salt goes in the shed, the fruit is canned,

A pig and a yearling calf go into the deep freezer.

A cord or two of wood is cut, tire chains are checked,

Repaired if needed, and put in the back of the truck.

The chainsaw blade is sharpened and oiled, too,

For the limbs that will fall, probably right in the way.

Then, when the norther comes like an unliked relative,

Which is a fair comparison, they can smile about it.

If the power goes out, they can cook on the old wood stove,

They light the kerosene lanterns and play checkers.

There is hay in the barn and the fences are strong.

"Cold enough for you?"

"Yup. If this is for me, it can quit anytime."

The family is close, and if the cold night is long, so what?

In three days, maybe four, the sun will melt the ice,

And the world will recover, and heal with the warmth.

Time after time, winter after winter, the world always recovers.

And the life we know once again goes on.

by James Lee Jobe 

_____

“Everything that has a beginning has an ending. Make your peace with that and all will be well.” 

Jack Kornfield 

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Thanks, James