the poetry zendo: a house built of anguish

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

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