Touching The Stars

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

A quiet hour begins. Evening fades into night, a shadow, soft as a  whisper. The house settles, making small noises that please me, in the same way that smiles please me. There is no one else here, so there is no talking. Nothing to interfere with this lovely seclusion. Life slows down, and I wrap silence around myself like a cloak. This cloak keeps me warm when I step outside to watch the sky. The air is so clear and close that, if I should reach up, I might just touch the stars.

My morning coffee is the mighty Mississippi River, indeed, it is the strength of my continent, and this morning I am La Salle, paddling downstream to the Gulf of Mexico. Things are bound to happen. There, look; the sun is up and I have my oar in hand. Stand back. I am a busy man.

Birds are messengers from the next universe. Their lovely songs tell us where to go to pass through to the next universe, the songs explain where the holes are located. There is one hole for each bird, and one bird for each person. Are you not ready to pass through? Certainly I am. Another universe is waiting.

___________________

It takes more than wings. There is a will to be lifted, there is a sky that is inside me! Released to the day, there is flight, a life on wings. The sun and the moon are the taste of life with beauty, which is why they live among the stars. Freedom is a cold, cold thing, far above the pull of the earth. Here the wind whistles of immortality. I will never fall.

No, I’m not growing taller, I’m just getting closer as I walk. Soon we’ll be together again, face to face. But friend, that’s just my body. My ghost is sitting down by Putah Creek, dangling his ghost feet in the cold, green water. My, such a long winter.

I go to sleep early and wake after midnight, wanting the feel of fresh air. Outside, clouds cover the moon like a child that is hiding a precious toy. Standing there, I consider my life. Have I done anything that was worth doing? I know who I am, but does anyone else know me? An owl nearby seems to agree, asking me, “Who?” “James,” I answer, and turn to go inside.

Today we live within gun range of the fascists, who keep busy by measuring the length of our pubic hair and making sure that we do not kiss anyone who displeases them.

Friend, let us throw down the fascists, let our pubic hair grow wild and stand naked, and kiss everyone, everywhere.

Freedom is. 


____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

We could shine our light quietly, like the sun, like the moon and stars. Long and silent. Beautiful.

—James Lee Jobe

____________________

—Medusa, thanking Davis Poet Laureate James Lee Jobe for today’s glimpse of wings . . .

 

 —Public Domain Photo

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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com.
The snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

Yes-Haw!
Saddle up. poets!