Horses of Lightning

Poet and Wife. Cool.

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

Raindrops like teeth, the enamel of god.

A horse of lightning. A tractor of thunder.

The muddied boots of the children,

Waiting forlornly by the front door. A wet winter,

Here to move water back to the earth, and back to the ocean.

You can cry or laugh or find a drum to pound.

You can catch a bus to Dayton or Tulsa.

This isn't fate. This isn't preordained.

If I were foolish enough to make predictions or claims

I would tell you of dark-haired, dark-eyed girls dancing to gypsy music.

I would say that the government is lying about the shape of the world,

Lying about the dreams that wake you with a shudder,

Lying about everything. I am living now in the silence of things,

Sleeping in the dusty corners.

Accept the finality of the human experience.

Raindrops like teeth, the enamel of a god; I am a being of light,

And I refuse to answer to anyone. 

 Poet's Footwear

The mirrors are still at last, and you are so tired. You are listening to the wheezing breaths of the smokers. Even your mind is tired, and you don't really want to think anymore, but you don't know how to stop. From a dark corner of your consciousness you sense that the animals are slowly returning to the forest, and you wish that you could join them. You will die one day and until then you will never be free of this reality. Yes, there are cracks in time, you've seen them, but they are too small to slip through and escape. Your life is a slender being, moving from shadow to shadow, slinking in memory and loneliness. The room smells of disinfectant and the nurse with the cart is bringing the medication. You check the mirror one more time and then look up at the plain-faced clock and see that three minutes have passed since the last time you looked.

_______________

Grandmother went to sleep full of the emptiness that everyone is afraid of. She is sleeping across a blue landscape, under a green sky. This is a land that smells like jasmine, but that doesn't tell us much. Grandmother is dreaming of a day like this one, only in heaven, not here. She wants to take walks above the shore. She wants to sip tea and read those old books again, the ones she always loved. In a dream, anything is possible—flying, a new love, you can even be young again. Grandmother isn't afraid of the emptiness, she knows better than that. Look at her, smiling in her sleep. So peaceful, so relaxed. Grandmother isn't waking up again.  


 Poet's Favorite Swimming Hole, Middle Fork, Yuba River

(Hard to get to)

                  Blessed, blessed, blessed.

                               Now to bury the dead while the soil is weak and the grief is strong, to shovel them under and to say the words of god and heaven and life everlasting, world without end, amen.
                                  

                               Now to dream and hope and plan and pray and work and build and do and be.

                               Now to breathe the cool air of quiet midnight under the bone moon, the sound of darkness, the pull of emptiness, the power of being alive and alone, the power of still feeling the strength of the machine inside of the body.

                  Blessed, blessed, blessed.

                              Now to love; someone, anyone, everyone, to embrace another soul, another body, to speak and to listen, to hold and be held, to share it all, every last thing, the day, the night, the slow years and the fast ones, to grow, to become more fully yourself while accepting the difference of each other.

                             Now to speak the brazen truth, to stand tall in the face of the blatant lies and the cruel hatred, to say no as fiercely and severely as your bravest yes, to cast down the liars and the fast-talkers, the deniers, to refuse to back down to that which is false or evil.

                             Now to wade out into the river, to let the current take you, to just relax and go limp, to go under to another world, a water world, life, death, suffering, release, bliss, to float and be free, the darkness first and then the light.

                Blessed, blessed, blessed.

                            Now to climb out on the muddy bank and hold your arms up to the sky and give thanks, to praise, to be fully present in this body and on this earth, all while still wet and dripping.

                            Now to close your eyes and let your soul rise up from your body, up through the sky, up through the clouds, out into space and through the milky way, to let your soul move on other dimensions where you are the light and the light is you, free, true.

                Blessed, blessed, blessed.

 Poet at a Bus Stop

I wipe the stink from the blade. I carry the cup from mountain to mountain, from ocean to ocean, but I do not drink the blood. Not ever. I do not love the city for its lights or wealth. I remember well when the streets were on fire with the anger of the poor. Was there ever a time when this land was not at war? I do not listen to the priests anymore; I stopped when I was very young. I pray, yes, but not to the false god of damnation. I pray to the gods of the light and the creation. I pray that I will earn the kindness that was shown to me, and that I will, in turn, be kind myself. Turn and turn again. I remember my childhood as if it was a foreign country that I visited long ago. Where will I end up if I continue to walk this same road? I don't know, but I intend to find out.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:
 
What is this life? A small boat,
Rowed across a large river.
At journey’s end there is no trace.

—James Lee Jobe

_________________

—Medusa, with our thanks to soon-to-be Davis Poet Laureate James Lee Jobe for this morning’s fine poetry and pix!

 Poet's Message to You

... and celebrate poetry!

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