—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe
I sleep well and rise up at dawn, rested. I open the curtains and look out, just waiting for a prayer to come to me. The darkness fades, the light grows. The measure of life is there, in the streaks of red and purple across the changing morning sky. I rise up, toward the sun, leaving this shell of a body behind. I do not need a prayer to come to me; I am a prayer! I am hope! And morning is a gift, a blessing.
Winter. I dream through the long, dark hours, and I wake to the sounds of my wife moving around in the house, doing small things. O gods of rain and cold, do you also hear her quiet footsteps in the night? Do you love her as I do?
________________
Look at you. White-haired and sweet
In the garden, pulling out weeds.
Thirty years?
That's a blink of an eye!
And yes,
Your tomatoes are indeed nice.
The Yuba River rushes past, it is in a great hurry. Even at full noon the river has no time to cast my reflection. Swift water on white rocks, and overhead, a turkey vulture circles slow. Watching.
_________________
Gray sky, wind.
The first rains of the cold winter.
Does it matter to a prisoner,
Locked up in a cell?
Dawn.
Awake.
A sky-burst streak of red. The truth
That lives inside a day. Cold shower water
That bites. The radio tells the news.
Coffee. Cereal with raisins. A hummingbird
Hovering at a bus stop. Bus stop talk.
Touched by cool, sweet air. To breathe
Is a rebirth, each breath is a new life.
Bus ride bumps. Some kind of independence.
World in transit, in motion. How pigeons feel.
A city park with a bullfrog. Aware of God’s grace,
Her love. A spirit in a human body, living a human life.
Morning sunlight slipping though the falling water
Of a beautiful fountain. The value of one human being.
Books with poems and stories. Coffee shop talk.
Thoughts become earthquakes become ideas.
A feeling of pointlessness. Sorrow. Grief,
Sometimes very old grief. People walking
As if bearing some vast unseen weight.
Workplace talk. Meaningless labor.
Moments of being lost. A kind of social inability.
No silence anywhere.
Quick little daytime dreams. Acceptance
That leads to a sort of joy. Going home.
A family. Dinner talk, jokes, and stories. Warmth.
Feeding the cat. The stripes of long summer sunset.
The creakings of night. The feel of clean sheets
And familiar pillows. Quiet at last.
A wife’s loving embrace. Coolness.
That another day has come, existed, and is gone again.
The loving sweetness of the blanket of night.
The ghosts of all who went before.
Hope.
Sleep.
Hope again.
(prev. pub. in CONVERGENCE)
We, the people, work in this field that goes on and on. The field has no fence, no border, no end. Flatness and crops. We work, and rays from the sun light up our faces.
(for Robert Ramming)
Whether it was the sound of rifle bolts slapping into place, or the click of a pistol being cocked, I hope there was defiance in the eyes of Frederico Garcia Lorca that last second before death. May there always be defiance when one of us, the people, faces the fascist.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
It doesn’t take many words to tell you how I love the silence.
—James Lee Jobe
____________________
Good morning and thank-you to James Lee Jobe for his poems and for the photos he sends us today! Be sure to tune into James’ Friday evening readings on youtube.com/jamesleejobe, 7:30pm. And tonight from 8-9pm, tune in to zoom.us/j/96583939523 for House Reading #1, with Hoa Nguyen and Dale Smith, zooming to us all the way from Toronto (meeting ID: 965 9383 9523). Info: www.facebook.com/events/2268492440127218/?active_tab=about/.
For upcoming poetry readings and workshops available online while we stay at home, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
____________________
—Medusa
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.
Winter. I dream through the long, dark hours, and I wake to the sounds of my wife moving around in the house, doing small things. O gods of rain and cold, do you also hear her quiet footsteps in the night? Do you love her as I do?
________________
Look at you. White-haired and sweet
In the garden, pulling out weeds.
Thirty years?
That's a blink of an eye!
And yes,
Your tomatoes are indeed nice.
The Yuba River rushes past, it is in a great hurry. Even at full noon the river has no time to cast my reflection. Swift water on white rocks, and overhead, a turkey vulture circles slow. Watching.
_________________
Gray sky, wind.
The first rains of the cold winter.
Does it matter to a prisoner,
Locked up in a cell?
Dawn.
Awake.
A sky-burst streak of red. The truth
That lives inside a day. Cold shower water
That bites. The radio tells the news.
Coffee. Cereal with raisins. A hummingbird
Hovering at a bus stop. Bus stop talk.
Touched by cool, sweet air. To breathe
Is a rebirth, each breath is a new life.
Bus ride bumps. Some kind of independence.
World in transit, in motion. How pigeons feel.
A city park with a bullfrog. Aware of God’s grace,
Her love. A spirit in a human body, living a human life.
Morning sunlight slipping though the falling water
Of a beautiful fountain. The value of one human being.
Books with poems and stories. Coffee shop talk.
Thoughts become earthquakes become ideas.
A feeling of pointlessness. Sorrow. Grief,
Sometimes very old grief. People walking
As if bearing some vast unseen weight.
Workplace talk. Meaningless labor.
Moments of being lost. A kind of social inability.
No silence anywhere.
Quick little daytime dreams. Acceptance
That leads to a sort of joy. Going home.
A family. Dinner talk, jokes, and stories. Warmth.
Feeding the cat. The stripes of long summer sunset.
The creakings of night. The feel of clean sheets
And familiar pillows. Quiet at last.
A wife’s loving embrace. Coolness.
That another day has come, existed, and is gone again.
The loving sweetness of the blanket of night.
The ghosts of all who went before.
Hope.
Sleep.
Hope again.
(prev. pub. in CONVERGENCE)
We, the people, work in this field that goes on and on. The field has no fence, no border, no end. Flatness and crops. We work, and rays from the sun light up our faces.
(for Robert Ramming)
Whether it was the sound of rifle bolts slapping into place, or the click of a pistol being cocked, I hope there was defiance in the eyes of Frederico Garcia Lorca that last second before death. May there always be defiance when one of us, the people, faces the fascist.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
It doesn’t take many words to tell you how I love the silence.
—James Lee Jobe
____________________
Good morning and thank-you to James Lee Jobe for his poems and for the photos he sends us today! Be sure to tune into James’ Friday evening readings on youtube.com/jamesleejobe, 7:30pm. And tonight from 8-9pm, tune in to zoom.us/j/96583939523 for House Reading #1, with Hoa Nguyen and Dale Smith, zooming to us all the way from Toronto (meeting ID: 965 9383 9523). Info: www.facebook.com/events/2268492440127218/?active_tab=about/.
For upcoming poetry readings and workshops available online while we stay at home, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
____________________
—Medusa
“This field that goes on and on.”
—Public Domain Photo
—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.