The Balm of Silence

—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe
 
 

 

The hour just before the sunrise is my favorite time of the day. I love those last moments with the stars and the gradual increase of the light in the sky.

My small world is still quiet then, and the vulture people, the cruel ones, have not yet had time to crush hope from the landscape of living.

There is a stillness to life, and if I could, I would paint this stillness navy blue, and carry it to the world of human hearts, the way a parent carries a small child. 


Hope, sunrise, a new day, a new beginning, our needs, our hearts.

A crane made of folded paper comes to life. Then another. And another. One thousand in all. Alive, these cranes wade out from the cold marsh. One thousand paper cranes take flight as one. This life is magic, and we are the magicians. 


_____________________

Art can honor your grief, or perhaps resemble it, but your grief remains what it is. Pondering this as the sun sets into the western hills and the remaining ashes of my son rest nearby. Oh, his embrace! 

  James Lee Jobe
 

 

The powers of a poet
Are immense.
Friend, I can fit the entire earth
Into the body of a poem.
Every rock, every grain
Of sand, every drop of water
In the entire world.
I capture them all,
And I deliver them to you,
Dear reader.

Tired, tired, tired.
How I would love to slip into the creek
Tonight, very late. Halfway between
Midnight and dawn. Quiet
As a falling leaf. To pull the cold water
Up over me, like a blanket,
To finally close my eyes
And rest.

_____________________

Grief. Like swimming across an ocean.
Grief. Like measuring every tree in a vast forest.
Nothing lasts forever, friend.
Even the mountain will wear down with time.
Even the star eventually explodes.
But this grief I carry? It's so huge, so powerful,
And I have carried it far. Oh son, how fine it was
When we used to hike the Yuba River trails.
Together.
Together.
Now I am alone. I am so very small.

These writings are like a dog’s dirty footprint in the middle of the kitchen floor, or like a traffic signal that has gone dark; someone is always right there to complain. If you can get beyond complaint and praise, there is a river. Did you know that? It is always summer there under the shade trees, and the trout are biting.

The days fall away like songs in a show. There is no shadow on me any longer. In onions one finds layers, and in the book of Job one can find a faith that doesn't falter. Just as long as there is breath left in the body, there is time to take on something new: learn a new language, stamp collecting, lark hunting. It doesn't matter what. It is putting some effort into our own humanity that matters.

Put your sadness to bed the same way you would tuck in a small child. Say a prayer and turn off the light in that room. Morning will bring a better day; tell your sadness that. Tomorrow you can bring your sadness out for a long walk. Move briskly like Johnny Appleseed spreading seed across Ohio. For you truly are spreading seed, you know. We all are. These days and nights are not being lived in your dreams. Life is in the moment, not in the future. The better times can begin anytime you begin them. You, yourself.

Today’s LittleNip:

When you died, even the Sacramento River became still. With empty eyes I watch, waiting for the river to flow once again. Silence is my only balm.

—James Lee Jobe

________________

—Medusa, with thanks for James Lee Jobe’s poetry and photos today, and a reminder that he will be reading on Facebook this coming Thursday, 8pm. 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.

 Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.