—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe
Heavy wind. Hard rain.
The pines across the street
Are taking it like soldiers
On the front line of battle.
Oh, but it isn’t a battle, friend;
The storm is a blessing,
Water is a blessing,
And pines are really bowing
As a way to say Thank You.
The pines across the street
Are taking it like soldiers
On the front line of battle.
Oh, but it isn’t a battle, friend;
The storm is a blessing,
Water is a blessing,
And pines are really bowing
As a way to say Thank You.
An odor in the streets, the smell of poverty.
Hunger. Fear.
In one slum they count their old potatoes,
In another there are no potatoes to count.
Bone-thin children, a wild-eyed mother,
And in the east? Donald Trump laughing
And tossing money in the air,
Money that isn’t his.
Hundred-dollar bills with his face on them.
The smoke from a forest fire fills the valley
As if it were a bowl. I haven’t seen a bird all day.
A fine ash has settled on everything, on our lives.
Even the sun looks hazy and gray,
But it pleases me to know that the sun is actually safe,
Far above this gloom.
Something moves in one of my redwood trees;
There is a bird after all.
A lark.
As if it were a bowl. I haven’t seen a bird all day.
A fine ash has settled on everything, on our lives.
Even the sun looks hazy and gray,
But it pleases me to know that the sun is actually safe,
Far above this gloom.
Something moves in one of my redwood trees;
There is a bird after all.
A lark.
___________________
My old house is framed with color
As the bright orange leaves drift down
In the light wind and soft, soft rain.
A wet afternoon on November,
Looking up in the drizzle.
And if we could live for five hundred years
But spend every day hiding in these same rooms,
What would it mean to be alive?
Sometimes I think I could just kiss the Angel
And let the darkness take me.
Free. My own choice.
Here, take my mask, take my gloves.
See me smile before I touch my eyes.
____________________
But spend every day hiding in these same rooms,
What would it mean to be alive?
Sometimes I think I could just kiss the Angel
And let the darkness take me.
Free. My own choice.
Here, take my mask, take my gloves.
See me smile before I touch my eyes.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Napping after church, dreaming of Bashō crossing a flooded river on horseback. Nighttime. Rain.
—James Lee Jobe
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to James Lee Jobe on this Thanksgiving weekend!
—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. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
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. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
