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We're slow dancing to music
from when we were young,
and we move so easy together,
that perhaps --for a few minutes--
we are young. Cares and years
peal away, and you smile
like a flippant girl again. My!
Your school uniform is askew!
My hands are on your waist, moving
you, my eyes dance with your eyes,
and you shyly put your arms
around my neck. Our bodies
slide in close. Smokey Robinson
has moves.
So do we.
--
all good things / jobe
Wed, Nov. 25th, 2009, 06:10 am
Resting
Who are we under this common skin?
We began as two, but as time danced by,
we merged. I'm not sure when. Somewhere
between the births and the funerals
your sweat and my sweat became the same,
a sheen, a mist. Even now, after so very long,
in your arms I find a festival,
and between your thighs
is the only jewel worth having,
the only treasure that I will ever want,
as rich as life, as tender as a rainbow's kiss.
Your lips are a soft pillow,
my dear, and I am so very tired.
--
I have a Facebook friend in England named Laura. Recently we were joking about the difference between irony and sarcasm. I said something like "Americans are too stupid to get much irony; sarcasm and satire are more likely." Something like that. Well, how's this? After four nights of nearly no sleep my brain is too dull to write a poem, so I make some minor edits on one called 'Resting.' And here it is. You might not get much more from me today.
all good things / jobe
Tue, Nov. 24th, 2009, 08:08 pm
The Dullness
We have no memories, no thoughts.
There is a dullness now. Once
there were children playing, the sounds
of their games. Now
there is only a rumor of war,
far away,
far away.
That quiet family, down the block?
They
buried
a
son.
The grief they carry
weighs more than their son did!
The mother
cannot bear to throw away
a box filled with her son's toys.
The father
turns away, stays
inside himself, lives alone
in his own skin. They never
touch each other again.
We have no memories, no thoughts.
There is a dullness now.
A
dullness
now.
---
A first draft. The wars of America drag on and on. I fear that some day the whole world will burn for it.
all good things / jobe
I have learned to speak in whispers, and I pray
to whispery gods. These quiet prayers escape
into the air where only the slightest of gods can hear.
These gods are too slender to cast a shadow
or a doubt, and often when I pray to them
I must keep up both sides of the conversation.
Whispery gods are but a single heartbeat,
thus do these gods enter my life,
quickly, nearly silent, holding
my prayers out before them.
--
A first draft, before work today.
all good things / jobe
Maybe in the beginning
there was someone to trust;
I don't know, I wasn't there.
Now everyone with common sense
is insane, and the sane
have no common sense.
Run.
This country is run by old men
who never grew up, angry boys
really. They want some revenge
on their fathers, who they hate
but pretend to love.
There is no logic to it, no heart.
Run.
What this country needs
is not nameable, and it is not easy
to get to, being far below sight,
guarded by women who will not be tamed.
You have to go far, far down
to even look at it.
Run.
If you go down that far,
you might never come up again,
the journey is dangerous.
You could spend eternity
below, trapped
beneath the unnameable.
Run.
Run far and fast. Don't go back
for the things you leave behind.
Don't even look back,
for the country you leave behind
might reach out a claw and cut
you down, no place is safe from that.
Run.
--
A re-edit here. When my sleepness passes the third night, writing begins to become more difficult as my mind is shutting down from the sleep deprivation. So I edit things.
all good things / jobe
Mon, Nov. 23rd, 2009, 06:50 pm
When I Die
A fisherman mends a net under a sun
that sets on white surf, white sand
A blue jay is loud and rude, bothering
a tired cat who sleeps away the afternoon
Lovers love, quarrel, and love again not noticing
that every second their lives are changing
A soldier kills a soldier who was also a killer,
sad, that happens everyday anyway
The earth shakes in one place, burns lava-hot
in another, is at peace someplace else, still, silent
In a garden water sprays from a leaky hose
on the herbs, on the flowers, whispering to them
"This life is forever, this life is mine, is yours,
life is just the unpaved road that we walk"
--
A re-edit. How had I not seen? Was I blind? :-)
all good things / jobe
Mon, Nov. 23rd, 2009, 06:31 am
Love Slave
...light as a baby's coo, sweet
as the first taste of pussy. New love...
--Lori Williams,
from I Should Have Known By The Diamond
The skin on their upper thighs
tastes
so
good,
how can you not enjoy it just a little
before you kiss their pussy? Women!
The taste of them, the feel of their warmth
as they ease down and cover your cock!
It's like sliding into a heated swimming pool
on a cold January night.
Cover
me
now!
Gaia! Earth mother! I surrender!
I
am
your
faithful
slave!
--
all good things / jobe
Because the grinning green
of the old jack pine
against the white of winter snow
is waiting silent on my life's palette.
Because the wild finches downtown
still trill "here I am, here I am"
to the aching, empty people standing
so cold against their final bus stop.
Because the sun, the moon, and the stars
make themselves known to me,
circling the clock of my being
with the white lights of hope.
Hope is born in all of us, one of the lessons
we are here to learn is how to keep that hope,
how to hold on, and that speaks to me of the god
and the goddess, hope holding hope, love holding love.
Because spring follows winter just so,
just as rebirth follows death, just as
we swing in again closer to this star
that shines bright our days, oh how bright our days.
Because the goddess in the wind blows
the seeds of tomorrow where they need to be,
so new plants will breathe fresh air back out
into the wind again and again.
Because in your eyes I see all that is timeless.
--
Came to me driving home after having tea with poet Stuart L. Canton...
all good things / jobe
for Stuart L. Canton
..and I'm wasted and I
can't find my way home..
--Blind Faith
I'm pretty sure that I am lost.
This isn't the road that I thought it was.
And it's true, friend, that I don't plan
to stop and ask for directions.
I prefer to heed the omens of the sky
and the omens of the earth.
I prefer to let the magick of living
tell me where to go. That way
when I get lost it doesn't matter.
Wherever I end up is correct.
Wherever I am is where I should be.
And friend, I am pretty sure that
I
am
lost.
Ritchey Creek Napa River Watershed
There are four sides to the world, corners, and four sides to the sky.
I am the one who stands between, and I'll tell you something
that you may not know; I am here of my own choosing.
We have scrub oak here, and laurel, and manzanita. Douglas fir,
madrone also, and I can smell the grapes that the two-leggeds grow.
I like what they plant much more than what they build.
This creek runs down, down, trinkling down, splashing to the river.
Is that a song? It is a kind of music to me, the gurgle,
splishing, splashing, trinkle, trinkle. I listen all day, all night.
The wind dances by, from one corner of the sky-earth to another,
at times roaring, at times whispering, or silent, or singing
through all our leaves. Shoosh, whoosh ... thats music too, isn't it?
Shoosh, splish, whoosh, trinkle, music from the earth-sky,
thats why I stay, the two kinds of music, beautiful, marvelous,
an earthjazz for my leaves to dance to, free, eternal.
--
This poem was first written about a dozen years ago. I was hiking along Ritchey Creek in Bothe-Napa Valley State Park and I hiked too far, I had not noticed the sign marking the end of the state park property. I wrote some notes for this poem when a very long-haired man with a shotgun appeared. The gun was leveled at my stomach. "Private property," he said. "Sir, clearly you are right and I have made a mistake," I answered with a smile. He did not smile back. He walked me back out. Likely I was close to a pot farm. Thank the gods I didn't see any weed; those guys will shoot you and use you for fertilizer! I chose to leave that part out of the poem, which I never published. I just stuck with what a redwood tree had told me.
all good things / jobe
Sat, Nov. 21st, 2009, 06:23 pm
Jobe-ology
These poems loom large in my personal mythology. Cold mountain rivers and rocky trails, half-remembered lovers and pointless fears, buses, cars, and the madness of living, truths - both said and left unsaid - populate this city of poems that I am building. And the poems are everywhere! Every moment that we live or dream is simply dripping with poetry. We only have to see it, and it is so. A poem is knocking on my door even now. Excuse me while I go and let it in. -- all good things / jobe
Sat, Nov. 21st, 2009, 08:09 am
Invisible
Often I wonder if she even sees
me anymore. Perhaps
I have become like a chair
that you seldom use or a shirt
you never wear; you just don't
even notice it anymore.
It becomes invisible. Lately
I keep noticing
this one blue washcloth
with a frayed edge.
It is getting worn out with use.
Like me.
It is middle-aged, approaching
old age. I see it in the bathroom,
or in the laundry. In fact,
if I am the one to change out
the linens in the bathroom
I will give myself
this particular washcloth.
I am waiting now to see
how long until she notices
the frayed edge and tosses
the cloth away. Whose frayed edges
will she notice first? How long
until she doesn't want me?
--
Lots of poems are coming to me right now. Maybe 20 in the last 2 weeks. Of course, not all of them are all that great, but still, it feels good to be this loose, to keep hearing, seeing, finding poetry in nearly every corner of my life. I'll take it.
all good things / jobe
The softness of your face
against my palms. The little lines
growing at the edges of your eyes
from decades of smiles.
Your eyes smiling with love.
The perfect fit of our arms
and our bodies in an embrace.
Our bodies locked together.
The familiar taste of you,
the taste of your soft body.
Sweet kisses on your skin.
The expression of your orgasm
in the candle-lit room, your skin
damp with sweat. Words
that become the sound
and the blessing of love.
--
All Good Things / Jobe
Fri, Nov. 20th, 2009, 07:19 pm
Rebel
One foot in the grave
and one foot on the pedal,
I was born a rebel - Tom Petty
I like to listen to Tom Petty
with a California freeway rolling
underneath me and the sun herself
singing along -hey hey hey!
I was born a rebel! The city unwinds
around me, a snake coiled and built
with sweat, steel, concrete, asphalt,
and more than a few complaints.
Even the skyscrapers rock back
and forth in time with music -
down in Dixie on a Sunday morning!
My old station wagon throbs and pulses
with the beat, then finally gives up, stands
on its hind wheels and dances! I dance, too!
Look at the middle-aged man, dancing
with his car on Interstate 80!
Finally, even the other commuters join in! -
I've got one foot in the grave, one foot
on the pedal, I was born a rebel!
I like to listen to Tom Petty
with a California flowing
underneath me. I was born a rebel.
---
all good things - jobe
--for Ravi Shankar A most amazing thing, a soul in a body!
We welcome the new ones into the world,
and though their soul may be ancient, their heart
is brand new, and this is for us to nurture,
this is for us to love.
Fri, Nov. 20th, 2009, 08:38 am
Crawl
If you can do better than me, Go
-Tom Petty
Is your razor sharp? It's past thirty years,
I'd love to see which of us wears it better.
I knew the next few men you went through;
we formed a club later, "Laura Anonymous."
"Hi, I'm James, I'm a Laura addict."
"Hi, James." "I've been sober 32 years."
At first I hoped that the earth would eat you,
but that hurt my heart. Then I started wishing
that you would do so well, be so happy,
that certainly you would never be
down in the hell where I lived. It eased up
after that. Later I even forgave you, then
good memories returned. You astride me
at sunrise, running your silk nightgown
up and down over breasts as you smiled
with your eyes closed, the first rays
of light behind you. We seemed immortal.
And you telling my stern old father to
'lighten the hell up, it's fucking Christmas.'
How we cried together that cold winter
in Paris, Texas, when starving wolves
got one of our puppies. I loved
everything about you, I wanted
no other. But you could do better
than me. I hope you did. Go. Crawl.
-- all good things / jobe
Thu, Nov. 19th, 2009, 07:36 pm
Long Slow Kiss
I love the way you cross the room, looking
me in the eyes, moving easy and circling
toward me, almost like I'm prey,
like I'm dinner. You drop your clothes
at your feet, and as you stalk me
they leave a trail that smells of you.
When you finally reach me my breath is gone.
Am I still breathing? I could bite your lips,
I want the taste of hot blood, I want your flesh,
your skin. There is a fire that is without a name
and without a blessing that guides our hands,
our tongues. My fingertips across your breasts,
they rise and fall with your every breath.
I am breathing with you. Your hands
on my shoulders, you push me down
in front of you; just a taste
of your naked skin, then I'll be safe,
I'll dream again. A long slow kiss,
a long slow kiss, so slow, so slow....
Tomorrow will never stop us.
---
from Tim Kahl:
The Sacramento Poetry Center
Presents
Lee Herrick and Michael Medrano
Mon. Nov. 23 at 7:30 PM
HQ for the Arts at 1719 25th Street
Lee Herrick is the author of This Many Miles from Desire (WordTech Editions, 2007). He was born in Daejeon, Korea and adopted at ten months. His poems have been published in ZYZZYVA, Berkeley Poetry Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, MiPoesias, and The Bloomsbury Review, among others, and in anthologies such as Seeds from a Silent Tree: An Anthology of Korean Adoptees, Hurricane Blues: Poems About Katrina and Rita, and Highway 99: A Literary Journey through California’s Great Central Valley, 2nd Edition. He has also recently served as Guest Editor for the Rio Grande Review, the literary magazine of the Bilingual MFA Program the University of Texas, El Paso, and for Asian American Poetry and Writing, based in Los Angeles. He is the founding editor of In the Grove and teaches at Fresno City College.
Michael Luis Medrano was born and raised in Fresno, California, the heart of the San Joaquin Valley. He holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities, and has performed his work at Stanford University, The Loft Literary Arts Center in Minneapolis, and the University of Colorado, Boulder. His work is forthcoming or has appeared in North American Review, Bombay Gin, and The Cortland Review among others. His debut collection of poetry Born in the Cavity of Sunsets will be published in September 2009 by Bilingual Review Press. Once again based in Fresno, Medrano is teaching, hosting a literary radio show, and working on completing a second collection of poems.
--
all good things / jobe
Washing Her Hair
I pour the warm water slowly, my mother
bent over the too small kitchen sink,
unable to get her mastectomy stitches wet,
and I work the water into her thin, gray hair
with my fingers, feeling her head in my hands.
Once we were one body.
Today we are connected by the washing,
and as I lather her I feel as if
I could wash all of her 75 years of living.
If I rinse her clean enough
we will be one body again.
Whole.
--
Ah, I'm thinking about my Mom today. She turned 82 a few weeks ago, still fighting the same fight. In remission. Out of remission and back in chemo. In remission. Out of remission and another surgery. Right now it's chemo for two weeks, then skip a week. Repeat. I live so far away, too. Couple thousand miles. Still, Nena is a tower of strength. She says things like, "What the hell? I'm not ready to toss my hands up and yell Take Me Lord! So, bring it on, baby!" We talk almost everyday. There's only me and my sister, and my sister is no help at all, being an addict. I have some stepbrothers and stepsisters who are really wonderful, kind people, but like me, they all moved away.
--
Cancer
Down to her last breast
my mother lays there,
tiny, old and frail.
Nena is helpless,
an abandoned child,
a dog wounded in traffic.
She asks me with her eyes
for the hope and strength
that she needs from me now.
She asks me, "How do I look?"
Hope fails me. I suck in my fears,
reach back for some strength,
and tell her a joke. "You look good, Mom,
just like Abe Lincoln." She laughs
until it pulls her on her stitches,
I can see that she is grateful for the attempt.
I tell her I need to go to the restroom,
and once inside I breakdown.
--
Both of these have been published, but I no longer remember where. They're also both first drafts. I just couldn't bring myself to change them. The poetics of cancer.
All Good Things - Jobe
Wed, Nov. 18th, 2009, 09:13 pm
Getting Loud
A little rain. The raindrops
call out to the cells in my body.
It's like a radio station
that just won't shut the hell up.
My parakeet knows
something is up and hunkers
down in his activity corner.
I hear the rain, and so does he,
but he also hears other signals,
tones from outer space sometimes,
or from Martha Raye's ghost.
It could be a storm blowing in.
It could get loud.
--
all good things - jobe
Old women smoke marijuana in the alley, their breath horrid,
their armpit hair is long and braided, decorated with jewels.
Their hair and eyes are the night sky of Egypt! Their little feet
are petals from jungle flowers, picked by bored monkeys!
On stage, a 'poet' reads some endless lines, but I don't care.
I join the women in the alley, sunset! Look at that sky!
---
from Connie Post:
As the holiday rush approaches, a quick look ahead to early 2010 Poetry in Pleasanton:
Sun., Jan. 17th Getting Your Poetry Published Workshop by Connie Post
So you've written some poems. Ready for some for some common sense advice and strategies on how to navigate the path to publication? Connie Post, the first City of Livermore Poet Laureate (2005-2009), has been published in over 30 national print journals in the past four years. Learn how to navigate editors, submissions guidelines—and rejection—and get your poems published!
Jan. 17th 2:00–4:00 p.m. Towne Center Books, 555 Main St., Pleasanton
Cost: $10.00 Reservations recommended info@townecenterbooks.com (925) 846-8826
Sun. Feb. 7th Celebrating Robert Frost! with David Alpaugh
David Alpaugh, a nationally renowned Pleasant Hill poet and popular performer, will present a celebration of Robert Frost and his poetry. A graduate of Rutgers University and UC Berkeley, he has taught poetry writing and appreciation at the UC Extension and hosted Bay Area poetry readings in Walnut Creek and Crockett. Noted for his wit and humor, Alpaugh will perform a dozen of Robert Frost's favorite poems with special commentary and biographical tie-ins, and also share entertaining stories and tidbits about the American literary icon. An Open Mic follows.
Sun. Feb. 7th 2:00-4:00 pm Century House, 2401 Santa Rita Road, Pleasanton
Cost: $5.00, students free
--
from Taylor Graham:
Upstairs Poetry reading next Wednesday, Nov 25 from 6 to 7 p.m. at The Upstairs Art Gallery, 420 Main St (2nd floor), Placerville. It's a poetry open-mike read-around, so bring your own poems or those of a favorite poet to share, or just come to listen. No charge.
We hope to see you there!
--
all good things - jobe
jamesleejobe@gmail.com
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