Improvisations

Jobe at 61

—Poems and Visuals by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA

HAND TAKES HAND TAKES HAND.

At the end of the service
our congregation joins hands
to bring a prayer into the world.
Hand takes hand takes hand
until we are like a lovely snake
winding through the sanctuary.
No one is left out,
no one is omitted.
The reaching out continues
until all are joined by flesh,
and then we all are joined
in spirit by our prayer.

_____________

MOONRISE. THE TREES.

Moonrise,
and we swiftly climb up through the trees of light.
Human beings on the move.
Below us, the earth sings primitive verses in a low, rolling voice.
The sun is just a golden memory now.
Up through the trees we climb,
like beasts.
Love itself is illuminated.
The moonlight shines on our animal faces.

 Rough Draft

WELCOME TO THE JAZZ WORLD.

A forest of guitars, growing from the soil like trees.
An ocean of drums, all rolling, rolling.

In the mountains, saxophones and trumpets
blow deep, rich notes, improvising in the snow.

And the valley below holds a thousand pianos,
a thousand xylophones, and one stand-up bass.

The world is ready, friend, count off the beat.
Life is an improvisation, let's begin.

_______________

LOOK UP, I AM BATHING IN THE CLOUDS.

See me bathe.
High above this long, green valley,
High above the river.
The air is cool, and I am clean.
I have wanted to be clean for so long now.
My body is below,
lying still and dirty on the ground.
I can hear my wife crying,
but I am rising
up past the clouds now.
Free.
Clean at long last. 

 Top of the Pile Today

DRAGGING A FIRE.

You are naked, wounded, covered with dirt,
and you are pulling a fire behind yourself
as you stagger across the troubled face
of this world, dragging it with a long rope.
These are the days of hunger and exhaustion.
Now the sky has opened its mouth and roared
like a lion, like an old man.
Now the river is a sin of tears.
You own your soul, and nothing else.
One step follows another,
and the fire burns on.
The earth again turns away from the sun,
and darkness slams shut the door
of light and being.
You walk alone through the shallow night.
Will morning come? Yes, of course.
But when?  

Rainfall

RAINY SPRING MORNING, BALTIMORE.


All the long morning I walk

through the harbor front

in the slow, steady drizzle.

There is a wildness to the city.

Pigeons, mice, spiders.

Opossum on Federal Hill.

An oak with an Oriole nest.

In the water, who knows what?

Fish, oysters, crab.

Overhead, geese returning to Canada.

From the cracks in the concrete

blades of grass and weeds poke through.

Even with skyscrapers above me,

the wilds of nature are everywhere.

Raindrops build up on my glasses.

______________

BROKEN THINGS ARE ALL THAT’S LEFT.

Some people claim that broken things
are all that's left. Shards of glass
between the feet and the street. Shards of glass
to pick up and use. To break the flesh. To hurt.
"Go ahead, cut yourself,” people say.
"Cut someone else."
Broken questions in the pieces of night.
Scattered.
Broken souls that have become questions with no answers.
Shards of people on the shards of a world. Some look to the sky
and ask, "Why are we even here?"
To listen. To feel.
To mend.
We come here to mend,
and to try to learn some kindness.
Brother.
Sister.

_______________

Today’s LittleNip:
 

 
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Our thanks to James Lee Jobe for today’s fine poetry and visuals!

Drop by the Sac. Poetry Center today, 1pm, to help collate the latest issue of Tule Review. Or drive on up to Placerville this afternoon, 2-4pm, for Poetic License at the Placerville Sr. Center, where the theme of the day is “Baloney”! Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 Going Low Tech

Photo by James Lee Jobe
Celebrate poetry—high tech or low!

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then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
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