Things that I have found that actually work;
letting go of hatred and worry, living simply,
giving as much as possible, expecting nothing.
jobe
Putah Creek lowlands
no hills
fields spread out north and south
farms and orchards
a few ranches
coyotes and owls and jack rabbits
silence — easy to find here
once you figure out silence what’s left?
the big empty
that’s what
jobe
To be wild is not to be crazy or psychotic. True wildness is a love of nature, a delight in silence, a voice free to say spontaneous things, and an exuberant curiosity in the face of the unknown.
Robert Bly
Bless me, mother, I am but a simple man. Time and the tide sweep the sleep from my eyes, mother. What am I made of? Something that counts these scars and forgives these sins. I have cut the cloth and cast the dye, and I find my answers deep below, within myself. And the questions, mother? Those I find everywhere. In the eyes of the people without a roof or even a crust of bread. Also in the eyes of the parents whose children are dead, lost in a war that never ends. In the empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. Understand, I do not lack for food but still I hunger; for something more. Something without a name or an understanding. Something joyous. Food for the heart. I need the night to hold me close, and the daylight to free me. I need the warmth of death and the kiss of life. Bless me, mother, I am but a simple man. And I am trying very hard to find my way.
jobe
A poem by Robert Bly:
Talking into the Ear of a Donkey
I have been talking into the ear of a donkey.
I have so much to say! And the donkey can’t wait
To feel my breath stirring the immense oats
Of his ears. “What has happened to the spring,”
I cry, “and our legs that were so joyful
In the bobblings of April?” “Oh, never mind
About all that,” the donkey
Says. “Just take hold of my mane, so you
Can lift your lips closer to my hairy ears.”
Robert Bly, 1926—2021 CE
I have a small non-speaking role in this film. I am walking across a busy plaza, past stalls where people sell things; fruit, vegetables, scarves, crafts. like that. Everyone is speaking spanish. In the distance there is festive music. As I walk, I am carrying your heart in a lovely blue bowl. Your heart is bloody, and as the camera zooms in, one can see that it is still beating. With each beat, there is a small squirt of blood. The bowl is large, and about half full of this blood. The sound of the beating gets louder as the camera gets closer, until finally it sounds like a kettle drum, and drowns out the noise of the plaza. The camera rises up to a close-up of my face. I am smiling, and at no point in this film do you ever find out why. Just past my face, there are birds taking flight.
jobe
A thief entered the house of a Sufi and found nothing there to steal. As the thief was leaving, the dervish, sensing the criminal's disappointment, tossed him the blanket on which he had been sleeping.
SA'DI
Yes
I am still alive
but one day I won’t be
and just who
is going scribble down
this nonsense for you
then
jobe
We have no idea what we are.
Jalāl al-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī
We start with water and soil.
Water and soil, add seed and time. The world can produce what we need to eat, but what can we give to the world in return? Our loving kindness. Our hearts. To tend with care and reverence.
We put seed in soil
and in time a new life forms--
the universe, so lovely.
jobe
Each of us may be nothing more than a moving wave of change, but we are waves able to know this fact. We rise and fall in an infinitely deep and timeless sea, upright and undisturbed. We share the vast dignity of awakening.
Sallie Jiko Tisdale
A phalanx of flying swans
Leaving vapor trails across the western sky.
A kaleidoscope of butterflies that explode,
Turning into eagles.
A blue thunderstorm with yellow rain walking
Across the broken fields at dawn,
The raindrops sizzle when they hit the earth.
The hiss of a rumba of rattlesnakes, one thousand strong,
Each one with your mother's face,
No, each snake has your father's face,
No, it's the face of Jesus.
A sneak of weasels telling the fable of Prometheus
Bringing fire to mankind, in multi-voiced harmony,
To the music of a chamber quartet.
The end of days.
A darkness that covers the earth,
Bone-cold and bitter-hearted.
Pulling the covers up over your head again,
And refusing to leave the bed.
Footsteps in the long, wooden hallway,
Although you're sure that you're alone.
jobe
Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.
Zen proverb
That I might see myself for who I am, without
listening to others tell me who I should be.
That I might always be working to pare away
the false layers of who I am not,
layers that have built up over time.
That I might find and remain truly myself.
jobe
Is it that we come in vain to live, to sprout over the earth? Let us leave at least flowers, let us leave at least songs.
Nezahualcóyotl
West of Silicon Valley, a poem by T. Zachary Cotler
To the Sea, a poem by Anis Mojgani
HAIKU WRITTEN ON THE VERGE OF DEATH, poetry by Franz Wright on The Lincoln Review site
My Life: A name trimmed with colored ribbons, POETRY BY LYN HEJINIAN
Selkie Weaning Young (Redux), poetry by Diana Khoi Nguyen
Rain-activated poetry appears underfoot in Philly parks
In-N-Out for Iftar, a poem by Tamer Mostafa
Rivers, nostalgia, and solitude: Poet Jayanta Mahapatra’s essential art at 94
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