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the other side of the sky

the other side of the sky

6.12.2025

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book of jobe
Jun 12, 2025
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the other side of the sky
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Sixty-eight summers pass, and I am still a fool. I do admire consistency. All is illusion and duality, and still I walk myself into positions of opinion. This and that. Yesterday and today. It's foolishness, I know. This is the wheel of meat, Saṃsāra. As I write this, it is afternoon. From the park across the street I can hear a mockingbird. It lives a life, yet it needs no name.

jobe


a beach with a lot of white flags on it
Photo by Takafumi Iwase on Unsplash

Strange things blow in through my window on the wings
of the night wind and I don't worry about my destiny.

Carl Sandburg

is it windy enough for you, jobe

the winds

passing up this valley

come from the ocean

far away

the blow of nature

across the flat earth

twilight as I write this

and through the window

I can see the pine tree tops

waving hello to me again

jobe

THE SWAN, a poem by Victoria Chang

grayscale photo of persons hand
Photo by Dapo Abideen on Unsplash


which is the dog and which is the wolf

which is the priest and which is the demon

the jailer and the prisoner

the killer and the victim

and where shall I make my stand in this world

jobe



on the other side of the sky

the victims are the victors

and the victors are the victims

life is a balance yes

on the other side of the sky

the windows are mirrors

and the mirrors are windows

even now the the victims

and the victors are looking

at each other through glass

is it real is it a reflection

on the other side of the sky

that is not an issue

a hand reaches out

to touch another hand

and touches glass instead

then very slowly

the owners of those hands

each look into the face

and eyes of the other

jobe


A POEM BY WALTER PAVLICH:

Fatness

In the corner of the exercise yard,
Near the boxing ring,
In the short-breathed heat of July,
A shirtless man in prison jeans stoops
Down to feed his ration of turkey hash
To a twenty-eight pound cat.

It eats past fullness,
Stuffed fur mountain
Rubbing its appreciation on the knuckles
Of a man who shot his wife, his dog,
And his car before lunch.

He loves the beast in a fat way,
Because it pisses off voluntary jays,
Because it once backed up
And sprayed a lieutenant’s pant leg,
Because it won’t eat what kills.

It is not just the walls they share.

He pets it for nothing, grimly.
It understands, purring freely.

Walter Pavlich, 1955-2002


I remember all of the times that I have let myself down

it is something I carry with me into my dreams

those times — those failures

and also my few successes

in dreams I embrace my failures and triumphs

and I name them as my own — a part of myself

and in doing so I can release them all

and so find my rest

success without pride failure without regret

let that be the road where I walk

the bed where I sleep

jobe


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Albulena Panduri

We can’t save the world by playing by the rules,
because the rules have to be changed.

Greta Thunberg

my beard is nearly all white now

and the top of my head

is becoming more bare all the time

(like many old men)

there is seldom a sunrise that I miss

I like to wake up early

and meditate while the house is silent

how silent?

like a mouse in soft slippers

walking gently on a carpet

let the mind be empty at dawn

and in doing so leave yesterday behind

one day is enough weight to carry

why carry two

jobe



Losing the ability to describe the birds,

You become a bird.

A Clapper Rail in the Delta, perhaps.

Feathers. Like your finest suit.

Little claws. Strong like iron, like steel.

Like your mother at her strongest.

Beak. It is at once a weapon, a tool,

And a place to put food.

It is a kind of whistle.

And wings. A life in flight.

You cannot describe the birds anymore,

It's a little sad, but you feel better

As you bank into the wind

And rise up to the roof of silver clouds.

jobe


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