—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe
A gray morning, the color of an old nickel. "I am just on the beginning edge of getting old." I say that out loud, but the gray morning ignores me and fills the sky, like having a pocketful of nickels. Looking up, I begin to mentally count them, five cents at a time.
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To me it seems pretty easy to understand; life opens up like a brand new box of your favorite cereal on a lovely morning, but it's also the morning when your favorite uncle dies.
The peaks and the redwoods, the vast, dark mountains of granite and gold, with rushing rivers of icy blue. The Sierra Nevada, timeless and old, the deep snows of winter are due. Along the trail a story was told, and the end of this tale we knew; at some point we go down, empty and cold. For each life, a death is due. There’s worse places to die than there, where the wind blows bold, with the peaks and the redwoods in view. With the peaks and the redwoods in view.
Moonlight through my window, forgive me
For all my mistakes as I forgive myself.
The light through the pane is pale,
And yet it is glorious, as fine as new snow.
Tonight the moon is in its final quarter,
And perhaps I am in my final quarter
As well. Moonlight and forgiveness.
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No matter how carefully I listen
I still fail to hear
The sound of the world
Turning.
The silence after the bullet is fired is a hollow thing.
Friend, it is never too late to change.
People can choose paths for themselves.
Even after walking for a long time,
They still can stop, and go no farther.
One can, at any point, turn around and go back,
Or strike out from there in a different direction.
The blessing of turning your life away
From violence, walking away.
The moment when forgiveness is most sacred.
The hand that picks up the weapon
Can always set it back down,
And embrace the silence instead.
Life is a church, not a contest.
Take the warmth that lives inside you
And build yourself a church, a holy place;
This is good for your own heart.
At dark, if you haven't finished building, so what?
Every day, start building
All over again.
Every day, just pick up where you left off.
Sacred.
Just being here, living,
Is sacred.
Today’s LittleNip:
Words grow like fresh whiskers, friend, and no shave lasts forever. If I write long enough, this beard will someday reach the floor.
—James Lee Jobe
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—Medusa, with thanks to James Lee Jobe for his finery to begin this Easter weekend!
—Public Domain Photo
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