to draw on the patio with chalk

2.7.2025

Photo by Pavel Danilov on Unsplash

Martinez.

Reaching for your notebook, you write out a list of your sins.
In between sins, you look out of the train window. You are racing
through Northern California at night. Rolling golden hills
under bright moonlight. Headlights in the distance. Sins done,
you also write out some vows. Your breath is slow and even.
The train pulls into a station, and people are standing, struggling
with the suitcases stored in overhead bins. Your vows? Be kind.
Be decent. Do harm to no one. Tell the truth. Help when you can.
Do your best in all things. Don't make assumptions, Not ever.
And finally, take nothing personally. The list seems right.
You forgive yourself for your sins, because you have to.
The guilt is gone, maybe forever. People are leaving the train
and you see your own face reflected in the window glass.
"I will be decent." You think that. Or did you say it out loud?
A man in the aisle is watching you. You ask him, "What town is this?"
"Martinez," he says, "We're in Martinez, California." You repeat it,
"Martinez." And he smiles, and then so do you.

jobe

Kindness is a decision. It’s a decision to incline the heart toward goodwill for all beings, especially those that are suffering in ignorance, knowingly or unknowingly.

Ruth King

Photo by Chris Whatley on Unsplash

Our life is beautiful, o humans.
We are flesh and blood and life.
We are stone worn smooth by the flow of a river
That never knows rest.
We are the night clouds hammered like folded steel
Into swords that carve the stars from the sky,
Swords that cleave the light of the waxing moon.

And our life is beautiful, o humans.
Watch as our life grows through time
And kindness and sorrow.
Each teardrop strengthens a muscle in our heart,
Each kiss creates power.
Our children love us and need us,
And we need them even more.

jobe

in memory of second brother

like drygrass in a cow’s footprint
I lie down
throught the wizened yellow
I see clearly
my secong brother who died young
on childhood’s doorstep
spitting up blood
and then sitting in it
so that mother
who would soon be home from work
wouldn’t see

Yang Jian, 1967-

Photo by Dev Leigh on Unsplash

Gifts.

There’s a place in my yard where I can watch
the sun set between the trees. Evening comes on
as slow as can be, and a cool breeze blows away
the summer heat. My granddaughter runs up,
she wants to draw on the patio with chalk.
Soon, she'll want a small story as well.
Breathe, jobe, breathe. The gifts of this life
are all around you, every day, and if you slow down
and look, you don't have to miss any of them.

jobe

You've gotta have some scars if you wanna be a poet.

Ray Wylie Hubbard

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