bury your sad little money

5.28.2025

If any of you cry at my funeral, I'll never speak to you again.

Stan Laurel

Photo by Sergei A on Unsplash

---

I want people in this land where I live

to love the power of the pines

and to study the grace of the larks

root and feather

branch and wing

run now — take your sad little money

and bury it in the rich valley soil beside some seed

then wait and see which grows and which does not

release into the fine sky a list of your rules

along with a mountain lark

one will fly and one will fall

now what hopes will the people hold dear?

now what faith shall they embrace?

jobe

---

Golden-Rain Rapids

Wind buffets and blows autumn rain.
Water cascading thin across rocks,

waves lash at each other. An egret
startles up, white, then settles back.

Wang Wei, 701—761 CE

---

---

“The earth is my body” you say

you reach down to touch the land

and it is your own body that you feel there

rocky — covered with tall grass

jobe

---

We are living in a nation which worships wealth rather than caring for the poor. I don’t think that is the nation we should be living in.

Bernie Sanders

---

---

Sunlight is the smiling face of life, especially just at the moment when life begins a new day. Is it unusual for a man to be in love with the universe, just as it is? It shouldn't be. Here is the water, the air, and the earth. Here is the corner where I can pray. A new day, the sunlight joyously returns; the sparrow in the jasmine watches.

jobe

---

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death

I know that I shall meet my fate

Somewhere among the clouds above;

Those that I fight I do not hate

Those that I guard I do not love;

My country is Kiltartan Cross,

My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,

No likely end could bring them loss

Or leave them happier than before.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,

Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,

A lonely impulse of delight

Drove to this tumult in the clouds;

I balanced all, brought all to mind,

The years to come seemed waste of breath,

A waste of breath the years behind

In balance with this life, this death.

William Butler Yeats, 1856—1939 CE

---

Beneath this flesh a message flows with the blood
'be kind'

and from the heart, another message
‘no’ it says — ‘be even more kind than that’

and from the head still more - the kindness needed in this life
Is almost beyond the reach of comprehension

three messages — now they are yours
go

jobe

---

Photo by Suyash Tajane on Unsplash

---

Poetry is what we do to break bread with the dead.

Seamus Heaney

---

Language is wealth — it's true

my socks may be wearing thin

yes — a toe sticks through

but these poems are in the bank

the rich, rich poet

jobe

---

Poetry has never been the language of barriers, it's always been the language of bridges.

Amanda Gorman

---

There are signs if you look for them. Species of creatures dying out, a rising sea, a smaller arctic. A feeling of dread on the population, people moving on in fear and desperation. And the answer? It isn’t ‘better politics.' The answer is in our hearts, in our spirits. We need silence. We need emptiness. Friend, what we need is less.

jobe

---

---

Nobody can do everything, but everybody can do something.

Gil Scott-Heron

---

Finally it is quiet

sssh

you can hear the sound

of your bare feet in the grass

you can hear your breath

and feel your heartbeat

but more — you hear

the sound of your own life

human

your soul makes no sound at all

but you listen for it anyway

your body is alive

and tells you so

sssh

it is night — and looking up

you see that the moon and the stars

are quiet too — shining silently

on the green branches of the pines

jobe

---

Your support is appreciated.

Photo by Morvanic Lee on Unsplash