Still Life With Underpants
—Poems and Photos by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
I am a ridiculous man.
The moon is an old friend;
Was it hung there by a child?
The sky is a blanket of night
Waiting in the cool darkness.
My feet are tired from walking,
And my soul is worn out by grief.
How far is there left to go?
And how did the years fall away
So quickly? I seem to have failed
To see that which is obvious.
I am a ridiculous man.
My mind is a ticking time bomb
That cannot be defused.
Sin can be forgiven, but my mistakes?
They cannot all be corrected.
My guilt is obvious, everyone knows it.
I wonder now if I know it, too?
The moon is an old friend;
Was it hung there by a child?
The sky is a blanket of night
Waiting in the cool darkness.
My feet are tired from walking,
And my soul is worn out by grief.
How far is there left to go?
And how did the years fall away
So quickly? I seem to have failed
To see that which is obvious.
I am a ridiculous man.
My mind is a ticking time bomb
That cannot be defused.
Sin can be forgiven, but my mistakes?
They cannot all be corrected.
My guilt is obvious, everyone knows it.
I wonder now if I know it, too?
Still Life With Shovel
Standing outside of my church late at night,
I can hear an owl up in a Ponderosa Pine.
If you smell the bark of a Ponderosa Pine,
It is a little like butterscotch.
It's a tree that one usually finds higher up
In the foothills and mountains.
"Why are you down here in the valley?"
I ask the old tree that.
"Just keeping an owl happy,"
She tells me.
The owl, who I never actually saw,
Hoots twice more and then becomes quiet.
A cold night in January, lit only by stars.
Still Life With All Stars
Night, like the shark with teeth of steel
And a hunger for sweet flesh.
Night, the great starry ocean in the sky.
Like the word of the liar and the praise of the misbegotten.
Night, the sword of darkness, cutting through all dreams,
Cutting through life like a hot knife through soft butter.
Like the sound of death. Like the smell of new life.
Night, like the womb of the hairy mother.
What do I have that can possibly face
The endlessness of you?
__________________
Things fall apart. Indeed,
Hard things happen quite randomly.
What was once an ocean becomes a desert,
Flat and true.
Earthquakes move the plates of the earth
To the dismay of buildings and bridges.
The sky can strike you with lightning, wind, or hail.
Tread your path with care, friend,
And watch out for the good things that happen, too.
The flutter of a hummingbird.
The friendly nuzzle of a pup.
Still Life With a Can of Beans
Naked, we are holy, sacred.
Yes, we are penises, vaginas,
Breasts, anuses, flesh, arousal.
It's true, but that's the easy part.
Brother, sister, we are immortal
Beams of lights housed in mortal skin
And strengthened with bone and muscle.
We are the thought made human,
The ideal reduced to suffering and love.
Holy, sacred.
Naked.
We walk in the footsteps of the gods.
Downtown Davis. California, 1945
—Anonymous Photo
Here is the face that I call being alive,
And here is the other face, that one that I call death.
Together they make up the two halves of the mask
That I call water, or air, the mask that I call earth.
This is the wind on a day so dry that I cannot make tears.
This is the sound of my mother weeping,
A sound that breaks my heart.
This face will not come off in my hands.
I am wading out into the river. One step follows another.
The water comes over my knees, my hips, my chest.
I am not the man that I thought I would become,
But at least I am not the man that I was afraid of becoming.
Here is my face, look closely. There is no damn lie in it.
Goodbye. Now I am swimming away.
______________
Today’s LittleNip:
Blue water, cold and clean,
Flowing past granite boulders—
My son's ashes, gone.
—James Lee Jobe
_________________
Many thanks to James Lee Jobe for today's fine poems and for the pix from his Still Life With... Series! Tomorrow, James will be hosting Amanda Hawkins and Vincent Kobelt at 2pm for the Davis Arts Center Poetry Series, 1919 F St. in Davis.
And today, head up the hill to Findleton’s Estate Winery in Camino to hear Lara Gularte read from her book, Kissing the Bee, at 2pm, plus open mic, plus the artwork of Pamela Findleton. That’s 3500 Carson Rd., Camino. 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.
Sacramento poets will be saddened to hear that Patricia Lee Nichol passed away in late May. A memorial will be held at Sac. Poetry Center on July 1 at 2pm. For details of Pat’s life, see www.legacy.com/obituaries/sacbee/obituary.aspx?n=patricia-lee-nichol&pid=189299738/.
—Medusa
—Anonymous Photo
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