croaking amid the whispers of midnight
7.3.2025
The little things? The little moments? They aren't little.
Jon Kabat-Zinn
NO MOON — the darkest night
perhaps you have traced the length of the crime with a finger or outlined your dream in chalk like the corpse of the victim
somewhere a dog barked and far off a train — the solid weight of the cross and you genuflected commanded by your piety
no moon — the darkest night — footsteps on the gravel walk — footsteps on the porch then a moment of silence
there were strong solid blows pounding on the door — yes you were afraid but you opened it anyway
jobe
I think we are in the midst of this period where we are committing this suicide on the planet and everybody is just using up all of our natural resources like a bunch of insane people. That's what I worry about more than I worry about jazz.
Sonny Rollins
THE TASTE OF IRON and the fear of death
Vision of the night: toads plunge from silver waters.
-Georg Trakl
can you hear croaking amid the whispers of midnight
it's the splashing against the wings of finer things
those beings and creatures that some people deny
this noise is axe-heavy with the taste of iron
and the fear of death
this sound haunted the puritans and the jacobites
and felt rough against the skin
but soft against the mind
who will now wade in the silver waters
who will take the plunge and croak with the toads
you and I
that's who
begin slowly and then pick up the pace
along the muddy riverbank
the fear of death
is nothing more than the fear of life
the taste of iron
the croaking
the whispers
and the touch of wings
these things await
I'm ready when you are
jobe
I AM LOST in the ugliness of humanity again
the richer humans are eating the flesh
of the poorer ones
the weak ones
the rich peel the poor like bananas
they suck the bones clean and then purr
like contented cats
cruel — yes
and that is no coincidence
everything cruel is on a compact disc
so the government can watch on a computer
all of our names are written down somewhere
not somewhere nice
this is repugnant to me
the ugliness of humanity is now a map
for the hideous
they trace their favorite roads from a map
with a pencil that they stole from a blind man
I have no map and so I am lost most of the time
that's alright though
I prefer it that way
I have nowhere special to be
jobe
SYLVIA PLATH LINK AND POEM :
Dark Wood, Dark Water
This wood burns a dark
Incense. Pale moss drips
In elbow-scarves, beards
From the archaic
Bones of the great trees.
Blue mists move over
A lake thick with fish.
Snails scroll the border
Of the glazed water
With coils of ram's-horn.
Out in the open
Down there the late year
Hammers her rare and
Various metals.
Old pewter roots twist
Up from the jet-backed
Mirror of water
And while the air's clear
Hourglass sifts a
Drift of goldpieces
Bright waterlights are
Sliding their quoits one
After the other
Down boles of the fir.
Sylvia Plath, 1932—1963
GEESE flying in a wide V
the blue sky — without beginning or end
such grace and beauty
death does not have me yet
jobe
WE SAW the policeman put his knee
on the man’s neck – this was on tv
this was on facebook
we saw how death
slowly filled the man’s body
and then he died
and inside our hearts we all died too
just a little
ok maybe more than a little
maybe a lot
jobe
THE baby sparrows
cry out, and in response, mice
answer from their nest.
Bashō
Thanks for reading this. Currently I am posting on every third day.
jobe
