—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe
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.
_______________________
My poetry is not a poem
And my poem is not poetry.
Well, not always. But
The universe is always expanding
And my pencil is large enough
To capture it all.
"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.
_______________________
My poetry is not a poem
And my poem is not poetry.
Well, not always. But
The universe is always expanding
And my pencil is large enough
To capture it all.
I love these poems, even if no one else does; they live in the thick red book of my dreams. And I love my dreams, especially the ones that come just before morning. Those dreams wear rubber boots, and walk carefully through my late father's garden. My father's garden was huge, and to me, a city boy, it seemed like a farm. Dad would walk out among the tomatoes with a knife, a pail of water, and some salt. He would rinse a few tomatoes and eat them right there. He loved this so very much, more than he loved me, or so it often seemed. Really, who knows? Poems, dreams, gardens, love, doubt, memories; these things populate my inner world. It is sunrise as I write this, folk music is playing, and I feel rather good about the day.
This is how the sunshine tastes. Like birth, like life. And this is how it tastes to be a human in sunlight. Even now, in the darkness, the flavor is on my lips, on my tongue.
________________
I built this life, but no matter. You built yours, too; we all do. And we live together on a spinning planet under a star billions of years old, perhaps older than god. And the other stars? They are so old that by the time their light reaches us they don't even exist anymore. And when I pray, and when I meditate there is only my emptiness and my breath. I leave the ages for someone else to define.
It can be dawn and coffee and the sounds
Of the owl that lives in the tall pines
Across the street
Or it can be evening with the setting sun
In my eyes as I drive west
(Why do I always seem to need to be west
Of here at sundown?)
And it can be the steel of midnight
Or the strength of noon
What difference does it make
To me, a poor man who writes poems
And sits in meditation every day
Feeling my breath
Go in and out
Feeling my breath
Go in and out
May you be safe
May you be well
May that old owl be well, too
In dismal nights I call upon eternity. I'm like that.
Beset by problems, and what do I want? The fire.
The moon slides down and the sun slides up,
The night and day are defined by time and the fire.
Walk across this world. Step by step, you move
Through your life. It is up to you to bring the fire.
We all spin on this same wheel, a cycle of breath,
Defined by the elements: earth, water, air, and fire.
You and I have something in common. We both
Have to answer to the truth. We face the same fire.
Let's change what we can, and just accept the rest.
Stack the wood here. We'll build a nice fire.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
A hard wind whistles down a perfect blue sky.
All day long I sat here reading poems.
—James Lee Jobe
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Thank-you to James Lee Jobe for his poetry and photos today (I’m still listening for the owl)!
This shelter-at-home month is also National Poetry Month, and Sacramento Poetry Center has decided to keep poetry going in our area by reinstating some of its activities using the online Zoom. So today at 5pm, SPC would like you to join them on Zoom for a read-around. Bring a poem, it doesn’t have to be yours, and share it. Please register here to be a reader: us04web.zoom.us/meeting/register/upIodOutpjktp2S-oqMiIGgcYn_qk37kow/. SPC will share this reading on its Facebook page if you just want to listen in. You don’t have to download anything new; just register and you’ll get what you need to join them Saturday.
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—Medusa, celebrating those who keep us going on poetry!
—Public Domain Cartoon
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