Like the craze on porcelain, fine branches
apportion the lonely white sky.
Miyazawa Kenji
a windy wet day — and I see my son
through an opening in a stand of pines
— it's been years since the funeral
jobe
If the trillions of cells in our bodies can run amazingly complex functions without our conscious effort, then we can only imagine the wisdom of Mother Earth that we have not yet learned.
Ed McGaa, Eagle Man, 1936—2017, Lakota Sioux, Veteran
Note: I’ve had this book for many years; it’s excellent. Skip Amazon, though. Why pour more money on Jeff Bezos? Powell’s Books is better.
walking the trail between the mountains and the cities
the path of being a true human being
the way between the light and the darkness
you can see crows and owls and lizards
skyscrapers and bridges
trucks laden with nothing important that drive
from nowhere that matters to a place without a name
look for the rivers
look for the desert
learn the names of the plants
sunrise and moonrise
and the stars across the sky
this trail — this path
it goes on for one lifetime
you can stop where you want or turn aside
and you can choose to walk to the end
but whatever you decide to do
keep your heart wide open
so the love can flow in and out
jobe
Having a place means that you know what a place means...what it means in a storied sense of myth, character and presence but also in an ecological sense...Integrating native consciousness with mythic consciousness.
Gary Snyder
Even birds
don't cry now;
that bloodshot
one-eye may have left the sky.
Miyazawa Kenji
opening my front door — the past
blows in uninvited
I open the back door
so it can blow back out again as well
no past — no — future just this moment
may I pour you some coffee?
jobe
Do Lipton employees take coffee breaks?
Steven Wright
shivering on the north bank
putah creek rolls on under my reflection
the creek moves along
but my reflection remains still
a cold winter morning in winters california
jobe
And These Are Just A Few, a poem by Melvin Dixon !950—1992
winding the old clock
I ask it about all of the hours it has shared with me
no answer just the sound of morning rain
jobe
A poem by Kabir:
I talk to my inner lover, and I say, why such rush?
We sense that there is some sort of spirit that loves birds and animals and the ants —
perhaps the same one who gave a radiance to you in your mother's womb.
Is it logical you would be walking around entirely orphaned now?
The truth is you turned away yourself, and decided to go into the dark alone.
Now you are tangled up in others, and have forgotten what you once knew,
and that's why everything you do has some weird failure in it.
Kabir, 1440—1518 CE
the dharma is my rock
and this present moment
is my flower
I love to rise early and sit in silence
long before the rising sun
jobe
returning, a poem by Brandy Nālani McDougall
love has already won
even if it doesn't look that way
especially then
jobe
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