because life is good, the river offers its soul to the earthsee how life flows away downstream – that’s no accident
no coincidence – the living thrive in song and praisethe crows caw to the morning light
to the power of the new suncome evening the crickets will sing while the flowers listen
and thank goodness for thata woman wades into the cool water
the drops bead on her beautiful brown flesheach drop reflecting the light above
behold the river – the sky – the earthgive thanks and behold your own soul
enriched by your own lifejobe
Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.
Norman Maclean
lost
crossing the desert, lost
you are speaking to the stones one after another
you are lifting them up to your thirsty lips
and whispering secrets, those terrible things
that you did and don't like to admit
the rocks and stones will hold your secrets
go ahead and tell the whole truth this time
don't hold backcrossing the desert, lost
you are walking on pained feet and rationing
the absolute last of your hope
how far is there yet to go? no one knows
even jesus was out there for forty days
and forty nights tempted by evil
and friend, you're no jesuscrossing the desert, lost
humans often carry their own evil with them
sometimes buried deep inside themselves
sometimes right out front, in the open
which is the better way – you ask that
of yourself at times if you are being honestcrossing the desert, lost
this desert is a pain in the ass
every step is more troubling than the one before
there isn't much of a choice
you start out in middle and either cross or die
but cheer up, you're going to die anywayjobe
A poem by Rilke—
Evening
The bleak fields are asleep,
My heart alone wakes;
The evening in the harbour
Down his red sails takes.Night, guardian of dreams,
Now wanders through the land;
The moon, a lily white,
Blossoms within her hand.Rainer Maria Rilke
1875 –1926
René Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke, who later changed his first name, was born in Prague, capital of the Kingdom of Bohemia. Bohemia was then part of Austria-Hungary, and is now capital of the Czech Republic. He wrote and spoke mostly in German, but he could also speak and write in French. Rilke died with leukemia. A rough end, to be sure. He also had a rough beginning; Rilke’s Mom lost a daughter before he was born, and when he was small she often dressed and addressed him as a girl. With a start like that what can you do? You either conquer Europe or become a poet. I would also note, after observing a number of photographs, the he wasn’t great at trimming his mustache. I’ll never be a Rilke, but by God my mustache is tight.
jobe
There is no war in us when we sleep.
We are all just children breathing, and our hands are open. We rest in the quiet rhythm of the world, the quiet rhythm of being human. We need peace after many years of war. Our hearts are so tired. If only presidents and kings could meet in their dreams. If only the soldiers would set aside their weapons and hold each other close through the long nights, each one feeling the chest of the other as it rises and falls, rises and falls.
jobe
Barbecue may not be the road to world peace, but it's a start.
Anthony Bourdain
In Kyoto,
hearing the cuckoo,
I long for Kyoto.Matsuo Basho, 1644-1694 CE
Two poems by Joan Jobe Smith of Long Beach, California. My cousin, born in Paris, Texas. Joanie the founding editor of Pearl and Bukowski Review, worked for seven years as a go-go girl before receiving her BA from CSU Long Beach and her MFA from UC Irvine. And she makes a fine pot of pinto beans and ham hocks. Here’s a fun, short interview with Joanie. It’s been some years since I last had a visit with Joan and her husband, the fine poet Fred Voss, also from UC Irvine, who has his own Wikipedia page. Dang. Besides the poetry, these two are truly good hearted people.
The Way It Is
Faint shadow, a house, and traces of rain.
In the courtyard depths, the gate's still closed
past noon. That lazy, I gaze at moss until
its azure-green comes seeping into my robes.
Wang Wei, 701-761 CE
May I be merciful, and in doing so find mercy. May I share what I have, especially when there is not much to share, and in doing so find my own heart. May I forgive those who have wronged me, and in doing so learn to finally forgive myself. This I pray.
jobe
Track
2 A.M. : moonlight. The train has stopped
out in a field. Far-off sparks of light from a town,
flickering coldly on the horizon.
As when a man goes so deep into his dream
he will never remember that he was there
when he returns again to his room.
Or when a person goes so deep into a sickness
that all his days become some flickering sparks,
a swarm, feeble and cold on the horizon.
The train is entirely motionless.
2 o'clock: strong moonlight, few stars.
Tomas Tranströmer, 1921-2013 CE
If you have enjoyed reading the book of jobe, please subscribe. Your support is appreciated.