I find comfort in books, writing paper, pencils, and pens. I keep them handy. Also, the sunrise is a friend, each day the rising light wakes me with a reminder, "You are still alive." It's a good thought to start the morning. Other things, too, please me. My wife's hand on mine. The smell of coffee brewing. The sounds that birds make. A fresh breeze that catches me all of a sudden with a reminder, "You are still alive." So, overall, I find that life has been good to me, for I have all of this, and I remind myself that I am still alive, and right here. I am right here.
may the earth be cleansed
may the sky be cleansed
may the waters be cleansed
may our love be cleansed
may that which defines life be cleansed
cleansed and renewed
cleansed and renewed
Missing my late son, Will, I took down an old photograph of him at five years old. He was holding a pumpkin at a fall festival, this son that I lost. His hair was getting long and slanted across his forehead. My young son squinted his eyes in the afternoon sun. I remembered the day; I had a bad allergy attack at that place. There were bales of hay everywhere and that’s all it takes. Will didn’t look too happy about it all, not at all, that day 28 years ago.
how long should a life be?
you don't measure the length of a life,
you measure its depth.
and what happens after?
what is next doesn't matter,
it is your choices now that matter.
and how do I know what is right?
when you don't know, it isn't right.
why doesn't the universe speak to me?
friend, the universe seldom shuts up.
the above poems/prose by jobe
The Home of the Sacred, a poem by Ofelia Zepeda
Meetings, a poem by Elizabeth Moody
Facing It
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My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't
dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way—the stone lets me go.
I turn that way—I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman’s trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.
Yusef Komunyakaa
Zhen-Zhen, my somewhat lackadaisical doggo, will take off after any squirrel she sees. She can be as relaxed as you see in this photo, which is her usual state of being, and instantly be on the go after a much faster squirrel, should she see one. No one taught her this. Something about squirrels just affects her this way, and I can understand it. I have had relatives that affect me the same way.
I can’t help but wonder why. If by some means the laws of physics could be ignored and she actually caught the trickster, what would she do with it? She isn’t violent and doesn’t bite, so I don’t picture her attacking the furry rodent. She might give it a good barking. Zhen-Zhen my doggo is a lot like me, and so is far equipped for taking an unexpected nap at any particular moment.
It’s alright. Seeing and chasing a squirrel is a hopeful thing. You might catch it. Even a doggo deserves a moment of hope once in a while.
Thanks for coming along for the ride today. I appreciate it. Why not subscribe? I do a couple of these a week.
jobe