Words Like Music, Like Honey, Like Love

—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Graphics by Zen Monk Thich Nhat Hahn

Up at dawn, editing poems
And listening to Moby’s B-sides.
The moon westers, the air is still.
Outside the redwoods stand like giants
Guarding this old house.
Poem follows poem. Eventually
The sky is a soft blue, like a watercolor.
I have lived 22,775 days.

I dream of the 1959 Baltimore Colts
And owning a themed restaurant.
Also in the dream I have a lover
Who is dissatisfied with life.
I can’t help that, no one can.
Waking up, I decide I want to see the sky,
So I slip into the old Birkenstock sandals
And go out onto the patio, quiet as a cat.
Fluffy clouds, gray and white, cover the sky
And are back-lit by the Waning Gibbous moon,
Almost dead center in the sky. It’s lovely.
Returning inside the old house, I stride,
Now fully awake, to my makeshift desk
And begin to write. 3 am.
A long time until dawn.

Moonlight on the treetops of Davis, California.
It is a light like a diamond shining. Silver white.
The trees are elm, valley oak, pine, mulberry.
There are fruit trees, already harvested in September.
And below these trees the moonlight is filtered, dappled.
Walking between the trees, I very quietly give thanks
For this beauty all around me. The full moon,
The many trees, the way the cycles of life roll on.
Just before I turn for home I hear an owl hoot.
He lives near me, and I often hear him,
But I rarely see him. His voice is like an old friend.
I call out, but he doesn’t answer.

A perfect day in early autumn
And my granddaughter has turned five
With a party in the park.
Pizza, cake, a piñata and presents.
Children running on green grass
Under a cool breeze,
Adults who don’t see each other often
Reuniting, and old friendships continue.
In short, a perfect day.
Later at home I cried for my son,
The uncle who missed the party,
Dead now 536 days. And counting.
He dearly loved both pizza and cake.

Does poetry build extra rooms to the house of my life
Or just fill my rooms with useless objects,
And the more I own, the more I am owned?
Outside the sun toasts the afternoon like a bagel.
I have butter, friend, I have jam.
And I have pen and paper.
 

The trees listened in as I was talking about poetry,
Dropping their branches down low
As if each limb held an ear.

“What is he saying about poetry?”

That it blesses our lives with a richness
Not found on television or the internet.
Words like music, like honey, like love,
That grab our souls and lift us up
On a magic wind, past the clouds,
Past the sun, and on into the reaches of space.

That’s what I said.

________________

Today’s LittleNip:

North wind in the pines,
A clear, cold sky—
Just a breath of fresh air at midnight.

—James Lee Jobe

________________

Good morning, and thanks to James Lee Jobe for today’s poetry and graphics! James will be hosting Mary Mackey (plus open mic) at the Davis Arts Center Poetry Series on F St. in Davis tomorrow, Sunday, 2pm.  Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)

 Midnight Sky
—Anonymous 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.