The instructions said to plant the seed in moist soil and then worship whatever grows there. The wind whispered to me as I turned the soil.
Can you see nothing of the moon?
Who is cooped up in their room day and night?
A prisoner of the walls and of the ceiling?
Is the window closed? And are the drapes drawn?
Can you see nothing of the moon? Nothing of the sun?
Are your legs now too weak from atrophy for you
To stand and walk to the door?
Does your hand still possess the strength
To throw the lock and turn the knob?
Do you wish nothing of the fresh air or freedom?
Are you alive or merely existing?
Can you see nothing of the moon?
Sometimes the Light inside of me is so strong and bright that even the stones by my feet have voices. Life opens up like a present, like a gift, and so it is. Listen to the wind, and listen to birds, for they understand the wind. Unwrap the gift. Is this too fast for you? I can go slower.
This is the first night of your solitude.
The window is closed;
You are on one side of the glass,
And the strength and power of night
Is on the other. The darkness cheers you on,
Like cheerleaders at a basketball game.
Someone has passed the ball to you,
And you were not expecting it.
You are moving quickly down-court,
Watched by the eyes of a thousand strangers,
And yet alone.
I love Cuban music, poetry from long ago in Japan and China, and art deco buildings in old cities. I embrace the idea of space travel, but before lift-off I would have us first make sure that every belly is full. And speaking of food, I like hot sauce on mine, and I crave coffee so strong that the neighbors can smell it, and come over for a cup. To watch the clouds drift across a blue sky pleases me, and so does the sound of an owl late at night. It is good, this life, like a kind child slipping beneath the blankets to sleep on a winter night. I hold my hands up to the moon and stars to give thanks, and the endearing light shines down with the sweetest love.
That I might always speak up for those whose voices are not being heard.
Watch them flow into the river.
Let these tears water the trees.
The sun shines with roaring flames,
And the cool wind is like a friend.
Someday all wars will end.
Do you remember that night you bathed in the river of fire? The current was strong and the flames were high. Come join me, you said, but I was afraid. Wash and burn your sins away, you said, but I was afraid. Do you remember that night? It was a long time ago. You bathed in a river of fire, and I stood on the bank, dirty and alone.
Large and heavy
afternoon stomps through the valley
with elephant feet
come evening
only the footprints remain
Here. Take the knife from my hand. It is sharp, like a storm, like ice, like your father's flashing, angry eyes during another alcoholic rage. Those screams? Ignore them; everyone else does. People often pretend not to notice horror. There is an elephant in the room. And this happens all day, every day. Do you want friendship? Do you want understanding? Are you waiting for the golden light? Then take the knife. It was always meant for you. And it is waiting.
It was a poet I admire
whose poems I love
but at the reading I was bored to tears
every line read in a monotone
yet when I read those poems at home
zingZingZING
the lines fly from the page
and carry me off to secret heavens
oh life
you funny bastard
you gassed me again
Feeling wild today
I went outside twice
!!!
A hermit’s life
Dew on each and every leaf
every blade of grass
sunrise is magical
how blessed am I
everyday
just to see it
When I was a young man
I lived in a body
that was like a sports car
fast and powerful
I went through a lot of fuel
racing everywhere
today I live in a body
that is more like an old minivan
it has rust spots and carpet stains
and doesn’t like to start in cold weather
but I don’t need nearly so much fuel
to just putt around town
The stink of skunk
and pigs
summer heat so intense
it could put me to sleep
at any time
a slow and sweaty drowsing
in the woods - mosquitoes
are attracted to my sweat
just as I am attracted
to the dark trees at midnight
my time in east texas
how many lives ago was that
how many deaths ago
armadillos and scorpions
rivers and lakes
pine woods filled with magic
Thanks for reading this. All poems and prose poems are mine.
jobe