Footprints

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

Blue skies, a stout wind. Cold. A brand new day that feels like a fresh start. Like another chance at things. All this while standing at the window with my young son’s young ghost, who smiles a little and fades away. Leaving me there. Again.

____________________

No one seems to be here, but I can see footprints in the damp earth of this field. The field is not empty, it is full of life, and so is my valley, and so am I. How we do go on.

Love enters the town square, moving with grace, moving with ease. Each step is taken slowly and deliberately. There had been a morning fog earlier, but now it is clear. Sunshine lights the face of Love, lights the faces of us all.

America has now been at war for so long that new soldiers are fitted for shrouds and caskets immediately upon enlistment. It's a real time-saver.

America has now been at war for so long that all new soldiers are assigned their own individual Angel of Death to create an original funeral dirge, and to sing this from the moment the soldier is ripped to shreds by shrapnel until the moment the casket is lowered into the ground.

These things have been approved by Congress, Jesus, and grieving parents.

America has now been at war for so long that I find it difficult to even remember a time of peace, and perhaps there never really was a time of peace at all, just a pause to reload.

The smile and the embrace of my grandchild helped me to see, taught me a great lesson. Life isn't about what has happened; we must let the past go. Life is about what is happening right now, and about passing along the love and the blessings to those who come after us. Thank you, child, for that.

__________________

Where we walk, the earth is blessed, the earth is holy. That we draw breath, the air is blessed, the air is holy. For that spark of the divine, our lives are blessed, our lives are holy. Creation itself is blessed, creation is holy. For this day, for these blessings, for this holiness around us, let us give thanks.

A setting moon, westering, only one night on the wane. And there beneath this moon is my oak, taking on a hard wind. Lovely, that. Across the dark, wide prairie of the sky is a slight golden hue deep in the east. A winter night begins its cold surrender. You haven’t got me yet, you bastard. Look at me! I am a man, standing here on the earth. I still live.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Yesterday’s rain. Today’s mud. Tomorrow’s grass. All is impermanence, life is about change.

—James Lee Jobe

__________________

—Medusa, thanking James Lee Jobe for his thoughtful poetry and the photos he brings to us this early summer morning in the Kitchen! Don’t forget to go to YouTube on Fridays at 7:30pm to hear his weekly poetry reading. That’s youtube.com/jamesleejobe/.

 

—Public Domain Cartoon

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.