Accommodating the Dream People

—Poetry by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA


—Public Domain Photos 

Courtesy of James Lee Jobe

The COVID virus, like nightfall, is making its way around the world. I can only just manage to not give in to fear, but grief? How does one handle grief for thousands? For hundreds of thousands? Here, as I write, it is sunrise, and the light is golden as it tops the dark green pines to my east. Lovely, so lovely.


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The deer and the raccoons don’t know that we two-leggeds are all ordered to take shelter in our homes. To stay put. A disease is out and about. Free from the weight of worry, the four-leggeds are out munching in the pale light of a waning crescent moon. Bon appétit, my friends. A night in the very early springtime.


People might call the sound a ‘quack,’ but to me it sounds as if the duck paddling about on Putah Creek is requesting a hat. And I have one, but it’s on my head and I intend to leave it there. I do wish the bird a fine morning, and I continue my stroll through the arboretum with my hat firmly in place, where it disturbs the mist and light drizzle coming down.

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Tree branches flailing in the wind. Crows loudly claiming territory. The river when it’s in a hurry. The sky is thundering about a coming storm. The earth when she shakes and rolls. Leather shoes dancing over a hardwood floor. The automobile horn under an angry hand. The chattering squirrel. The orca lowing in the deep. Things and beings speak. Ssh. Listen.

At the end of this poem, say your name out loud. Close the book, or turn off the screen and re-enter your life, but not the place where you exited.

Re-enter your life at the next sunrise. Re-enter your life at the place where you stopped growing. Re-enter your life at the place where you shut down and start up again.

Everything that happened, every joy, every sorrow happened because of the grace of your life. This existence belongs to you and no other. No one else commands you.

At the end of this poem say your name out loud. You are defined only by the walls you built yourself. Tear them down now and walk away from the rubble. Kick and pull and rage until the walls come down, and re-enter your own life. No one can stop you and no one can start you, friend, this life is yours. Yours.

At the end of this poem say your name out loud. This poem is over now.

I am building a tiny bed inside of the bed I already have, so that the dream people can sleep when I sleep. You know, those strangers that you see sometimes in dreams. I’ll make the bed from the softest of yawns and nice thoughts, and cover that with sweet sentences that help the dream people feel relaxed and at home. Good night, it's time for bed. 


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Today’s LittleNip:

The sun, the moon, the stars; they're all silent. I'm sure there is a lesson in that.

—James Lee Jobe

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Thank you, James Lee Jobe, for your poetry on this Fourth of July, 2020. And here’s a reminder that James’ weekly video poetry readings continue, posted before 7:30 pm each Friday at
www.youtube.com/jamesleejobe & james-lee-jobe.blogspot.com/. This week he’ll be reading from Robert Bly's collection, My Sentence Was A Thousand Years Of Joy. Both websites have poetry for everyone all the time.


—Medusa, trying hard to listen on this 244th July 4th ~

 "I, too, sing America…"
—from Langston Hughes' “I, Too” 

(www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47558/i-too)
—Fireworks Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA (Thanks, Katy!)

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