as far as the eye can see

 

marcel duchamp

every minute of every hour of every day you are making the world, just as you are making yourself, and you might as well do it with generosity and kindness and style.

-rebecca solnit

humans 

we have our tools 

our language and rituals 

we have art 

our creations 

we know love 

and yet for all that 

the universe will go on 

long after we are gone 

friend don’t waste your life 

love someone 

sing sometimes 

-jobe 

mind always goes ahead or lags behind. 

remain with the moment.

-osho

was I a good man 

did I lift the fruit up to heaven 

like a treasure to be offered 

did i do more good than harm

am i forgiven for that harm i did cause

shall i forgive myself

was i a decent man 

did i connect the earth to the sky 

with the length of my body 

and leave only footprints 

that fade with the rains

did I nourish 

teach 

help 

give

did i learn how to truly receive 

was i a righteous man 

yes 

and at the end i can face myself 

without shame

-jobe

be kind whenever possible. 

it is always possible.

-dalai lama 14

no one to be seen 

and no one to see me 

this valley farmland goes on and on 

peace 

the sun at noon 

crops growing in the warm light 

as far as the eye can see

-jobe

vicki chrisman 

a perfectly clear state of a mind firmly established in great faith is in no way different from the clarity of the buddhanature in someone who has cast aside all discrimination and achieved self-awakening. the buddhanature itself is buddha.

yamada mumon roshi

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-jobe

something that cannot be seen

Hildy Maze

In this western body, the sheriff is me.

I wear this heart for a badge, and I fire off love like bullets. 

The color here is human skin and forest green, 

Held in the bosom of the trees, 

Held in the coolness of the brief night. 

I answer to no one but the beauty of the birds, 

And your opinion has no weight in the hope I bear. 

Stand back. 

I will not count your shadow or bury you. 

If you want a gallows, you'll have to build it yourself. 

It is up to you to find someone to hang 

And damn you if you do. I am the sheriff in this body, 

And I only hunt for those who need love.

-james lee jobe

__________

We usually take ourselves too seriously; this is one way the self fools us.

-Ajahn Sundara

__________

I am here to help the angels fill the world with something that cannot be seen. 

I arrive at night, to a room that is cold and dark. 

Now you can see my face in the firelight. You can hear 

The angels. Their voices speak from beautiful paintings. 

Van Gogh. Picasso. In the sky tonight, a sliver of silver 

Moon. The world is missing something; you know that. 

Don't you? When you wake up and the room is dark 

And cold, and you feel a sadness that you can't define. 

When you look out the window at the silent street 

And you don't know why you're looking. What do you think 

You'll see? What do you hope to see? It is empty, 

And you are empty, and there is still a lot of night left to be. 

The angels come here to help fill that void. And friend, 

I am here to help them. I am here to light the fire.

-james lee jobe

__________

Remember that life is like a mirror: Everything you perceive reflects your inner world. Cleaning your dirty mirror of distorting smudges means clearing self-deception and coming closer to the truth.

-Khangser Rinpoche, “Your Life Is a Mirror”

__________

Here, I’ll just slice my flesh open and make a river with my blood.

Idle boats in the dead of winter. A dog 

Eating a fish head on the icy bank. Catfish 

Swimming deep in my blood. "Here," I'll say, 

"Is where I'll dig my hole." Bloody hands 

On the shovel. Wet feet in the cold mud. 

I'll slice my flesh open a second time 

And make a forest, and a third time 

To make sure that I don't survive. Survival 

Would be so disappointing. And when I die 

I'll rot in that forest to feed the trees. 

When spring returns the dog will be long 

Gone and so will I, but the trees will grow 

New leaves and new fruit, there beside 

The bloody river. Maybe you were expecting 

A happy ending, but friend, I am not here 

Attempting to cheer anyone up.

-james lee jobe

Hildy Maze 

poetry link: Paris Syndrome, a poem by Victoria Kennefick

__________

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jlj 

singing while I walk

Maurice de Vlaminck

All know the Way, but few actually walk it.

-Bodhidharma

at dusk the sun dies

every morning the sun is then reborn

and so 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

-james lee jobe

dew on the grass in the warm morning sun

mount diablo tall in the gray distance

summer

singing while I walk

-james lee jobe

Every human being equally deserves freedom, justice, food, shelter, healthcare, and safety. It shouldn't matter if you're from Guatemala, Syria, or Chicago. And it shouldn't matter if you are in Guatemala, Syria, or Chicago. Every. Human. Being. 

-james lee jobe

Link: & When They Come for Me (Reprise), a poem by Golden 

I think maybe we can reconcile with the fact that we’ll die sooner or later. Why don’t we say this could be a beautiful event for myself? We can die with gratitude, appreciation, and love. We can do that. Death is telling us how to live our life with gratitude, love, and enjoyment.

-Kazuaki Tanahashi, “Awakening in Every Moment”

Rebecca Crowell

Please support this blog through the 'Buy Me A Coffee' link at the bottom of this page! Many thanks.

jlj 

blood and sweat and energy

Andrew Wyeth

mountain woke up in the morning 

alive with beings and sunshine 

trees stretched their leafy arms to the sky 

and blew a clear musical note into the air 

streams busily made their way down to the river 

and so eventually to the ocean 

time was eaten for breakfast 

and the taste was like diamonds that shimmered 

and sparkled 

that day was a delight 

and are they all  if you want them to be

-james lee jobe 

Once we recognize that all things are impermanent, we have no problem enjoying them. In fact, real peace and joy are only possible when we see clearly into the nature of impermanence.

-Thich Nhat Hanh

we leave the porchlight on at night 

but I am not sure why 

no one is coming 

this light weakens at sunrise 

as if the lamp itself is tired 

from its long hours of labor 

and something in the air at dawn tastes of change 

whatever this is doesn’t require my permission 

i turn the light off and put on some coffee 

all the while the entire planet has been spinning 

as it does throughout all the years of our lives  think of that

-james lee jobe

The results of your actions can carry well past death, so make sure that you don’t sacrifice the goodness of your thoughts, words, and deeds to save things that will slip through your fingers like water. 

-Thanissaro Bhikkhu

morning 

city park 

davis california

the glows of summer filled me with power

the touch of grass on skin 

warmth

i knew the trees 

i knew the flowers 

the flush of blood and sweat and energy

then from my bare feet roots come forth

and leaves from my flesh

the universe held out her hand to me

and this time i was finally ready to take it

-james lee jobe

Andrew Wyeth

LINKS: Thinking about “The Little Mermaid” in the Waiting Room of the Otolaryngology Department, a prose poem by Arianna Monet

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-james 

I try to keep track of it all, but often I fail.

At night you sometimes climb out of the box and pray for snow. Hands to the sky, hands to heaven, praying like those old-time East Texas country folks. Snow, Lord, let it snow. Cover the earth with a white blanket. Everything is so dark and empty. Let it all be cold and slow and white. And most of the time the prayer goes unanswered as prayers often do, and so after a while you just return to the box and climb back in, closing the lid tight behind yourself. Do you ever see me there, waiting at your grave? 

__________

The pages of my dream book are written in crayon. They come to me at night, the dead. In my dreams. Sometimes troubled, or challenging me in some unique way. More often they are just themselves, and we sit at a table and chat. About little things, not life and death, or the afterlife. The ghosts of my life. What is it that opens the door to my dreams and lets them come in? Time is a slow moving insect at times, and yet at other times it is a lightning bolt that strikes the lone tree in the field. I try to keep track of it all, but often I fail. It isn't easy, the pages of my dream book are written in crayon, and tell of these things, time and ghosts, and doors that I cannot find even though I know in my heart they are there. 

__________

The voice of the clock says that it is time to return outdoors. The darkness is soft and warm like a blanket, and you have wrapped it around your tiny soul. Beneath the blanket is the skin that you don't yet understand, the skin of your parents, the skin of their parents, and theirs. And lower still is your own skin, and that flesh is cold. You know it is time to return outdoors, the clock tells you so with a tick-tock voice. Resigned to this, you wrap the darkness tighter around yourself and your history, your tiny soul, your life, and you stand and walk to the door. 

James Lee Jobe 

We are all a little broken. But last time I checked broken crayons still color the same.

Banksy

__________

I see mountains once again as mountains, and waters once again as waters.

Ching-yuan, after his enlightenment

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nyc in 1838

K. Wayne Thornley

I thought I heard my woman cry, but no, it was the dogs of my heart. 

A hard night and a hard day. The mass was in Latin, 

And was hollow in the way that the wind is sometimes hollow, 

And for a moment I was a boy again. 

The moment passed, leaving me as empty as ever. 

The jigsaw puzzle of this life has always lacked some key pieces. 

There was never a shallow end in this pool, 

And there was never a lifeguard. Swim at your own damn risk. 

The weather was turning cold, geese flew overhead, 

And above them were the damned airplanes. 

The street was completely empty, there was no one there but me. 

I wanted to weep and rend my garment, but I had no reason. 

When I walked my footsteps seemed loud and cruel, 

Like hammers on steel. I thought I heard my woman cry, 

But no, it wasn't her. It was the dogs of my heart.

james lee jobe

artist unknown 

it is 1838

it is early when we go to bed and then 

we are dreaming. we are in new york city, 

walking through a huge library that is like 

a confusing maze. we are going down 

steps that are so small that we are 

almost stumbling. we need a particular 

book from 1838 that no one wants us 

to have. people trick us, and create 

false clues for us to follow. time passes. 

and when, during the search, we are alone 

in secret moments, we kiss in the shadows. 

passion. love. we find a map of new york 

from 1838, and now we are stepping 

into the map. we are symbols of us 

moving down long lines labeled 

broadway and chatham and whitehall. 

we are holding hands and there is no 

end to this in sight. we wake up. 

it is midnight, exactly.  we make some

tea and sit down to write a poem. 

james lee jobe 

K. Wayne Thornley

The Buddha is here, there, and everywhere.

B. D. Schiers

Since the time we were born from our mother's womb, the only thing we have seen is the present. We have never seen the past and we have never seen the future. Wherever we are, whatever time it is, it is only the present.

Khenpo Tsultrim Rinpoche

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jlj 

the ocean rising up to kill us

Sabino D'Antonio

you nailed the fire to a crucifix and the air is screaming for mercy 

the scream has an echo even god can hear 

a scorched season of fear and wrath 

your mouth with the power of a scorpion ready to strike 

myths to pass down to the children 

frightening myths that can turn dreams into nightmares 

or into an offensive word 

your breasts covered with moss and tangled seaweed 

picked at by monkeys with nothing else to do 

the fruit that no one eats 

your kiss of a steel tongue 

polished hard and cold 

something with the fur of an animal 

an odor of sex 

your nudity 

covered only by rock and freedom 

the crucifix is upright and burning 

and yes the air screams for mercy 

there is no goddamn mercy 

james lee jobe

When we try to oppose and resist whirlpools of thought-fueled sadness, to swim away from them through thought, we become exhausted from the effort, while our misery only increases. But when we dive into the whirlpools, astonishing things happen.

David Edwards, “Meditation in an Age of Cataclysms”

Sabino D'Antonio

the spirit has the voice of a woman and urges me to speak the truth

beneath my hair the pacific ocean roars   behind my ears 

behind my eyes her voice is whispering and her voice is a fire 

if i tell the truth   really tell it   all of it   the ocean will rise up 

and try to kill us   starting with the weak   and ending with me 

i already walk with a limp   that's my father's leg limping 

my father's leg holds me back   holds me down   ties me 

to this spot in hell or earth and i will never be healed again 

my father's sins and mine wait in that leg for me to tell the truth 

those sins crave the oceanic roar  the flood   and my death 

and your death too   everyone   friend   the sins that hold me back 

will silence that spirit   "speak the truth" she whispers again "be free" 

no   not yet   i want to bear the silence and suffer for as long as I can

james lee jobe

Anyone can build a house of wood and bricks, but the Buddha taught that that is not our real home. Our real home is inner peace.

Ajahn Chah

bless the small things that have no words

james lee jobe 

links: 

Morning Hot and Windless, a poem by Phoebe Giannisi

Dent, a poem by Gaia Rajan

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thanks, james