it is late and I am praying
for all of the things that I want to happen
I want the earth to grow kindness like trees
like fruit
I want children to breathe easily
and I want the hands of the devils
to fall away from their tiny throats
I want the rain to wash away the blood
from the hands of the killers
I want every stomach to be full
and all people to be protected
by a roof and walls
I want peace to cover
the temple of our collective soul
like a shawl covers the head
of a grandmother at mass
I want my arms to grow long enough
to embrace the suffering of this world
I want to ease the pain
that rules so many haunted lives
and I pray for peace
hear my prayer
please
hear my prayer
white american billionaires want to build a new disneyland in afghanistan
the rides will be run by the bodies of the war dead
white american billionaires want to open a thousand starbucks in iraq
the bodies of the war dead will be the baristas brewing coffee
white american billionaires want to resurrect sears roebuck
the ringling brothers circus and the draft they have the cash to do it
and your right to vote your right to choose to not be pregnant
your right to an education the white american billionaires don’t care
it’s up to you and me to care
Silence, like a frail child lacking love, needs to be nurtured. A young oak tree, chest high, whispers a thank you to the soil, to the sun and the water. The air is moving, but far too softly to make a sound. I raise my face to the sunlight, thinking, “I have love in my life. I offer my thanks.” Something moves in the old leaf pile, swift and sudden, but I cannot see what it is.
james lee jobe
Thanks for reading this!
You human animal, forgive yourself.
You sinned, but so what? Who hasn't?
So much blood has been spilled on the earth
That it is amazing there is any dry land at all.
There is enough guilt for everyone to share.
But let's not hold on that.
Kneel, human animal.
Ask yourself for mercy.
And one thing more, having asked, grant it.
To become a flowering magnolia tree, or spring, or the yawn of an old dog.
Snow. That melts from the heat of your hand.
So clean.
Words written in Sanskrit or Welsh or Farsi. Like magic.
Like the sun.
To climb up, out of the chaos. Above it.
Finally into the quiet.
To be a perfect stand of elms. Alive in the limbs
And in the branches.
The sound of the song that moves you.
Its movement and passion.
To become a flowering magnolia tree, or spring, or the yawn
Of an old dog.
Rain. Cleansing the earth. Feeding
The earth.
The dream. The moment it is understood
At last.
Your very life. Your very
Soul.
This is tomorrow. It's here.
Now.
That I might always remember to be grateful, and to show my gratitude. That I might always remember to seek out the good when bad things happen, and to be grateful for those things. That I might always remember to seek out the good that I can do myself.
Thanks for reading this blog post.
All Good Things,
james lee jobe
Moonlight floods the valley like a forest fire
a full moon and a lunar eclipse
the shadow of the earth passes across
the face of the moon
but neither of them greets the other
friend there is silence as the universe moves
james lee jobe
If you’re concentrating, you’re not roaming around—there’s no monkey business. While I’m creating, I have no time to think badly about other beings. In this way, my art practice is like a spiritual practice.
Asha Kama, “Recovering ‘Wasted Prayers’”
it’s true
I live on Simpleton Street
in this college town
which makes me easy to find
just spot a dumbass anywhere in town
and follow him or her
it isn’t complicated
and it won’t take long
when you get to Simpleton Street
just ask anyone
where does the biggest idiot live
and there I’ll be
james lee jobe
link: 1st VOTE, a poem by Kamilah Aisha Moon
If you enjoy this blog, and I hope that you do, please consider making a donation through the BUY ME A COFFEE button below. Thanks!
james
The bully-boys are fascinated by the green ooze in the river.
On Saturdays, mean boys wade out into the river,
when the ooze of the city is released in the water.
The boys are covered in green. It does not wash off.
This is one of two rituals that bring them from boyhood to manhood,
from cruelty to kindness and understanding.
The second ritual happens on Sundays, when the older men stab
the boys with long, thin knives, razor-sharp. The more cruel the boy,
the more times he is cut. Some do not survive.
So it is that the bully-boys are fascinated by the green ooze in the river.
For some, death follows, and the others live on as wounded men,
trying hard to heal. Their lives are painful, yes,
but they have some meaning at last.
james lee jobe
Long days when Rhonda didn't smile even once.
A river, hidden by a single grain of rice,
provides water for the countryside.
Thank god for the river.
Fresh-water eels and old men with long beards live there.
(Part of me wants to write that they die there.)
Who has time for nonsense anymore? Who doesn't?
The herb garden, hidden by design, waits deep in the valley.
Elm trees have stories that they rarely share.
In the shade of the elms, the valley looks especially nice
in the daytime. And also at night, the valley, the river,
and the garden look beautiful from the shadows.
A lot of life is lived in the shadows.
Rhonda looks especially sad as she holds her flowers.
The lines of her face are like runways at an airport
where no planes ever take off or land.
(Part of me pictures her death, dying alone.)
She keeps track of time with a sundial,
which is a useless thing at night.
Is it midnight yet? Rhonda doesn't know.
Lifting the grain of rice she finds the river.
Thank god for the river.
And beneath the elm trees she finds the garden
of herbs, the smell of the sage and the rosemary
and the lavender, the old men, the eels.
james lee jobe
Changing by rising up, climbing.
I am climbing up to the moon on a ladder made of rope,
Indeed, I am now climbing all the way to Heaven.
My sins are far below me, and my forgiveness is above.
And anyway, I forgive myself, so I am free.
Now I am passing the stars, one at a time,
And I swallow some of these stars,
And so I hold them in my body.
And now I am also a star.
I have changed by rising up, climbing.
Look at me - I have become the moon,
I have become Heaven. Yes, I am Heaven.
Goodbye.
-for Susan Kelly-DeWitt-
james lee jobe
Understanding change is not freeing ourselves in a fixed way, but it may help us to see there are different types of change.
Martine Batchelor, “Impermanence as Liberation”
So perhaps naked, the earth opens up and swallows you whole.
Wounds of rocks, wounds of dirt,
But not of the flesh.
Underground rivers
Untouched by the other humans.
It isn't so bad.
Worms, untroubled by thought,
Digging in the deep. Flesh memory
Of a life below. Perhaps
Naked, the earth takes you back.
And even then the imagination
Is free, rising up, unencumbered,
Taking flight like a bird of prey.
james lee jobe
LINK: New Black, a poem by Bettina Judd
where we should begin: the earth. life in the soil, feeding the plants, giving its strength to the trees, to those things that grow, that have roots. the power of rock, those walls of the world, the foundation we have built upon. the way the earth holds water down, and holds the air about itself, close, and yet lets the sunlight in. and us, the people and the animals, the ones with permission to live here with this ongoing blessing. we should begin with that, the life below our own feet.
james lee jobe
While pain can be distracting, alienating, and upsetting, it can also be a powerful way to practice being present with what is—without stories or expectations.
Annalisa Rakugo Castaldo
and so now even the sun and the stars cannot help us. the western sky, sliced by razors of rain, gun metal gray. coffins draped with american flags, parents and spouses and children whose faces are lined with grief, their heads are bowed. the priest says the words and some of the names of god are spoken. ghosts, in the uniform of soldiers. a thick crust to cover those who survived the battles, a thick crust, like a scab that is getting old. like the curse of time. this country now lives in a perpetual state of war. hated. this is a house built of anguish, a place where people live dry lives, barren lives, with a choking in their throats.
james lee jobe
~links~
Vas Doloris, a poem by Julián del Casal
stigmas on the body of air, a poem by Ekaterina Derysheva
If you enjoy this blog, and I hope that you do, please consider making a donation through the BUY ME A COFFEE button below. Thanks!
james
We are mice with amputated tails.
This is a movie set; nothing is real. These wounds? They're
just make up. Special effects. Gratuitous. Now, in this scene,
the leading lady and the leading man finally realize their love
after years of not actually even liking each other very much.
We are mice with amputated tails. Bleeding on the white rug.
Being mice, we don't have any lines. Our ridiculous mutilation
is just a subplot, and so no one really cares. The director calls
for silence. The stage lights dim. The leading man staggers
toward the leading lady and takes her in his hairy arms.
We just bleed and stand there blinking, like damn fools.
james lee jobe
a delicate ballet
that she doesn't know
how lovely she is
makes her even lovelier
she is a perfect night sky
with the stars and the moon
lined up like the dancers
in a most delicate ballet
and now the conductor taps
his baton and all goes silent
and I am the audience
and the dance of her beauty
is but a second away
james lee jobe
