crops growing in the warm light
6 One day the angels[a] came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan[b] also came with them. 7 The Lord said to Satan, “Where have you come from?”
Satan answered the Lord, “From roaming throughout the earth, going back and forth on it.”
8 Then the Lord said to Satan, “Have you considered my servant Job? There is no one on earth like him; he is blameless and upright, a man who fears God and shuns evil.”
The prayers of Father Jobe. (haibun)
In my dream, a lady grieves. I don't know her, but I try to comfort her. We pray together with a good deal of passion and intent in an old cathedral, and finally the monsignor comes to join us. Yes, he joins us, but it is me who leads us through the rosary. Now, hours later, I can still hear the Hail Mary being recited from within my heart.
In dreams, we might fly
or defeat a vast evil -
waking, we're still small.
__________
My hair is turning white, starting at the bottom and slowly working its way up. Baldness is creeping in as well, starting at the top and working its way down. My head needs a traffic signal to keep some terrible accident at bay. Isn’t life funny? Sometimes I think I can hear the laughter from the studio audience.
__________
yes I am free and
with this freedom
I am watching
the sunbeams break
through the branches
leaves and shadows
of the many trees
I am free to be one
with the light and
I am free to be one
with the shadow
what are you doing
today
__________
I don't believe in God or Jesus or The Rapture, but you have no idea how many times I have been absolutely wrong.
__________
no one to be seen
and no one to see me
this valley farmland goes on and on
peace
the sun at noon
crops growing in the warm light
as far as the eye can see
—james lee jobe
A poem by Franz Wright, 1953-2015
Boardinghouse with No Visible Address
So, I thought,
as the door was unlocked
and the landlord disappeared (no,
he actually disappeared)
and I got to examine the room
unobserved. There
it stood
in its gray corner:
the narrow bed, sheets
the color of old aspirin.
Maybe all this had occurred
somewhere inside me
already, or
was just about to.
Is there a choice?
Is there
even a difference? Familiar,
familiar but not
yet remembered ...
The small narrow bed.
I had often wondered
where I would find it, and
what it would look like.
Don’t you?
It was so awful
I couldn’t speak. Then
maybe you ought to lie down for a minute, I heard myself
thinking. I mean
if you are having that much trouble
functioning. And when
was the last time
with genuine sorrow
and longing to change
you got on your knees?
I could get some work done
here, I shrugged;
I had done it before.
I would work without cease.
Oh, I would stay awake
if only from horror
at the thought of waking
up here. Ma,
a voice spoke from the darkness
in the back seat where
a long thin man lay,
arms crossed
on his chest,
while they cruised slowly up and down
straining to make out the numbers
over unlighted doors,
the midnight doctor’s;
in his hurt mind
he was already merging
with a black Mississippi
of mercy, the sweat pouring off him
as though he’d been doused
with a bucket of ice water
as he lay sleeping. “I saw the light,”
they kept screaming. “Do
I saw the light!”
Ma — there ain’t no light
I don’t see no light.
— Franz Wright - Dayton, Ohio
Franz Wright was the son of James Wright, both winners of the Pulitzer Prize for poetry, the only parent/child to have ever done so. CLICK HERE to link to a very fine letter from the father, James, to the son, Franz.
“I’ll be damned, you’re a poet. Welcome to hell.”
― James Wright
“Should each individual snowflake be held accountable for the avalanche?”
― Franz Wright
CLICK HERE to link to a poem by Elizabeth Willis, Letter To The Corinthians
Thnks for reading, it’s easy to subscribe. —JLJ