pulverized diamonds

Forty Days

Wed, 30 Dec 2009 04:14:57 GMT

Forty days in the wilderness

with nothing but your baptism

to hold you. A hot wind

that hums like a devil;

why not turn the rocks

into bread? Why not

let the angels catch you?

Take the riches of the world

and suck from an evil breast.

Cry for pity.

Take me home! I'm weak

and I'm crawling

on the broken floor.

Take me home! I'm dying

from dust and a solitude

that burns my very soul.

Take me home! I'm empty

inside these bones,

inside this human skin.

Take me home! I need

the faith that I lack,

or the end to come

at last!

Forty long days of prayer

in the emptiness of this world,

under the hard heel of the sky.

No one knew where you found

the will to shake off temptation,

but you did, throwing a devil down

behind you, on the desert floor.

Then you began the long walk

back to the world of humans,

returning to the yoke of living,

back to us.

---

all good things / jobe

A Winter Morning, Lamar County, Texas

Tue, 29 Dec 2009 04:35:15 GMT

The tarp we put over the woodpile

whispered tales from the walls of Troy.

We were young, too young to listen.

Our own walls were silent, but warm.

The tractor contained a crispness

that one expects to find in Marine sargents

and schoolgirls; the purring engine

had the feel of clean linen and friendship.

The work we did rewarded us for our youth.

It felt immortal to throw hay from the loft

down to cows below, we were timeless!

The sharp wind on our young faces!

Later, we walked back together,

joking, to eat the simple noon meal.

But something of the morning went with us,

into the house, in our hands, in our skin.

---

all good things / jobe

The Load

Mon, 28 Dec 2009 04:18:21 GMT

It's a lot to carry, the weight

of my mortality, the ache of old sorrow,

and the very cage where I might die.

Walking, when I might fly.

Struggling. Alone.

The barren ground is patched

with ice and snow. My claws fight

for traction and I am forced to consider

things like balance, endurance,

and the sweat due of me tomorrow.

The load seems heavier with every mile,

pulling me down, where voices

from the cold earth call me. How long

until I am crushed? It's a lot to carry.

I carry it all on my back.

--

all good things / jobe

That Look

Sat, 26 Dec 2009 16:20:57 GMT

Your eyes on mine. That look.

The slow way you reach for me, our eyes

never parting. My lips on your hot throat,

the taste of your neck, your sweet skin.

Your hair in my face with a scent

of summer, a breeze of love. Your arms

around my neck, the long years melt away,

and I am myself, naked, with nothing

against my flesh but you. My lips

and yours, your snake of a tongue,

coy and silent. The need of you, the heat,

your eyes upon me; the earth is bed enough.

The earth welcomes our bodies.

Your breasts, your stomach, the long, soft lines

of your legs, there for my kiss. My hands

on your thighs, sliding up, slowly spreading

your legs. The salt of you, your ocean,

the ferns of of your beach, the waves of you,

the tidal pull of your moon, the waves,

the salt taste that I carry with me.

The goddess within you

welcomes the god within me.

The timeless sacred union, body in body,

joined in heat and love, the vast emptiness

of time and the moment,

the union of nothing, the union of all.

Our bodies in blessed delight, our souls

are one for a moment in the divine.

That which love is.

That which love can be.

--

all good things / jobe

Yellow Star of Bethlehem (Seren Fethlehem aur)

Fri, 25 Dec 2009 16:26:56 GMT

-for Sarah Coles-

A new year begins! Welcome it

With a fresh dream and a sacred flower.

Not a rose. Not a lilly. Offer a flower

That is a guiding star, a beacon.

The Yellow Star of Bethlehem,

Long, lean, European. Six soft petals

As bright as the star that frightened Herod,

Clear and fine. The very star

That led shepherds and mystics to pray

At Christ's feet. All of Israel

Illuminated, warm. A flower worthy

Of fresh dreams and a new year.

A Yellow Star of Bethlehem

To bless you.

--

all good things / jobe

poetry event in Livermore, California

Fri, 25 Dec 2009 16:21:55 GMT

-forwarded to me by Connie Post, originally from Cher Wollard:

Friends --

I'm excited to invite to an afternoon of poetry featuring two really outstanding poets, Danusha Laméris’ and Penelope La Montagne on Sunday, Jan. 3, from 2-4 p.m. at Ravenswood historic site, 2647 Arroyo Road, Livermore. (See attachment)

Laméris’ work has been published in Lyric, Poetry Northwest, Alaska Quarterly Review, The Sun and The Crab Orchard Review, and numerous anthologies. She lives in Santa Cruz.

Penelope La Montagne is the poet laureate emerita of Healdsburg, a California Poet in the Schools and founder of Morning Haiku on KRCB Radio.

After the featured readers, we'll have short break with goodies, followed by an Open Mic.

Admission is a mere $5.

Feel free to pass this along to anyone who might be interested. It's the first event of the new year, so let's start 2010 off with a literary bang!

Call or e-mail me for more information.

Cher

Cher Wollard
Livemore Poet Laureate
"More than full service - Ultra Service."
Windermere Welcome Home realty
1790 First Street, Livermore, CA 94550
925 824-4824
cherw@windermere.com

---

all good things / jobe

What The Universe Knows

Fri, 25 Dec 2009 05:53:39 GMT

-for Brian Dewayne Powell-

There are things in the world that love me calmly.

The smell of fresh-turned earth. The bounty

Of the peach tree two springs after I prune it.

The lonely sound of the barn owl.

Things that love me most calmly live very close.

Their breath and their heartbeat clock my time,

And measure my true footsteps.

There are things in the world that love me in secret.

The taste of a fresh kiss. The sweet mystery

Of the darkness we each own. The way dogs

Look at each other and wag their tails a little.

These things weigh the transparency

Of my most recent incarnation,

And measure my love for simply being alive.

And who is to question the dreams

That we never understand? With pen and paper

We outline what we can't know, and draw

What we can't see. We write down secrets

And think that they are still secret.

But the universe knows.

The universe unfolds exactly as it will.

There are things in this world that don't love me.

The earthquake in its infancy. The mark

On a nation's soul that is left by war.

People who know that hate is wrong,

But hate anyway. These things

Take aim at me, drawing a bead,

And measure my chances at survival.

Beauty is the distance between me and death,

And I measure the steps carefully.

--

all good things / jobe

The Gift

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 22:09:53 GMT

Sunrise, Christmas morning,

and my finch, Lord Aragorn,

offers me his best song.

His chest puffed out,

Lord Aragorn trills and sings,

turning and bouncing.

I say his song is for me,

for in all the house

only we two are awake.

--

From last Christmas....

all good things / jobe

You're Here

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 03:29:58 GMT

You're here, but you're not.

You're walking in a cold field at night,

but you're not.

You're in your animal body

like a pea in a pod, like a mouse

in a maze, but you're not.

You could be a dark vein in granite,

a swell breaking bitter on winter's beach,

or the sweet song the young girl sang

in praise of god. You could be,

but you're not.

When morning comes around

with newspapers and a whiff of sun,

see if you can find me;

I'll be having a cup of tea

in my urban disguise.

I'm not that different from you.

Thick woolen socks

and a couple of escapades

worth forgetting.

A talent for trouble.

A bad habit of forgetting

my own dreams.

You're here, but you're not.

You're sailing forgotten

on the underbelly of the seven seas,

but you're not.

You're in the world of substance and light,

shining out, but you're not.

You're snug naked in my arms

under soft, warm blankets

on the longest night of the year,

my eternal love, my heart,

always with me, my soul,

but you're not. You're not.

--

all good things / jobe

The Binding

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 03:19:15 GMT

You bind your life to me,

and with something like hope

we lay our bodies down,

skin on skin and eye to eye,

a love like faith,

and a faith like fire.

I bind my life to you,

and with something like strength

we rise up each day

with the sun,

even our scars are beautiful,

and our wounds are healed.

We bind our union to the earth,

and with something like love

we become golden,

a light for all the world to behold,

hand in hand,

blessed and bound.

Blessed and bound.

--

all good things / jobe

poetry event in Placerville, California

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 02:46:45 GMT

From Taylor Graham: Upstairs Poetry reading Wednesday, Dec. 23 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

Mom at 78

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 14:26:33 GMT

Nena is balloon tied to my wrist by a weak string.

I am a small boy at a fair or carnival, and my balloon

brings me an easy joy that I don't need to explain.

A part of me wants to untie the string and watch

this balloon slip away into the heavens of the sky.

Another part of me, a darker part, is afraid

to untie it, and that part will hold on tightly

for as long as the string will let me,

for as long as the balloon still floats.

--

Written four years ago, during another health crisis of Nena's. These last 12 years, there's been so many, sometimes more than one at a time. Breast cancer, colon cancer, and the various surgeries and chemotherapy that goes with cancer, several glogged arteries, head injury from a fall... it's a long list for a little old lady to have to endure.

all good things / jobe

Winter Solstice 2009

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 05:12:48 GMT

This moment has another side!
Just look, the longest night of the year

passes a diamond of sunlight to grow.
Light begets light! The earth turns and warms

like a worm on the sidewalk. Sundials rejoice
and look forward to spring. Now life will slowly return.

Tomorrow is once again a promise.
Tomorrow bears a measure of hope.

---

all good things / jobe

The Prophecy of the Sky Monkeys

Mon, 21 Dec 2009 03:00:42 GMT

When the sky monkeys

rain sunflowers on us

from the broken trees,

we will have no more need

of rifles or fear.

Creatures from a green sea

will greet us as brothers, as sisters,

dolphins and giant squid,

and we will no longer need

to blow up a marketplace

or to cry in shame.

The same sun will shine,

the same moon will rise;

it is we who must change.

Put your hands to the earth,

the signs are there.

Words whispered in brisk winds.

An almost glimpse of nothing

that you didn't really see.

I know this from the magick

in my heart.

The petals of sunflowers

will lie in beauty at our feet.

Honored by sky monkeys

and other greater beings

we will no longer go to war.

Kinship alone will at last

be enough.

--

all good things / jobe

This I Ask

Sun, 20 Dec 2009 09:27:36 GMT

I want to sleep like dogs sleep, an afternoon

in the valley sun, an old rug on a warm porch,

curled into a ball. If I dream, let it be a dream

of running. If I do not dream, let me have silence

and emptiness. Let no one wake me.

Let the afternoon become very slow.

This I ask.

I want to run like deer run, quick as a snap,

through the manzanita, through the oleander,

with leaps and kicks and scurries. If I should stumble,

let the hunter's aim be untrue. If I should falter,

let it be deep in the underbrush, unseen.

Let me run with no one watching.

This I ask.

This is my animal body! My animal flesh!

My spirit is wrapped in the flesh and bone

of Jobe the animal. It is the animal flesh

that reminds the soul to long for the moon,

to sing. The animal body is named Jobe,

is secret, and knows no one!

At night it is alone with the cold moon.

I want to dig like moles dig, fur to the dirt,

nose in the soil of the valley, claws like shovels.

If I dig too deep, let earthworms tell me to breathe

again. If I go too far down, let the heat of the world

draw me back up. Up to life again.

Let the earth be a sister to love.

This I ask.

--

all good things / jobe

The Walk

Sat, 19 Dec 2009 13:42:16 GMT

The day will come when you must walk

this last corridor alone. Light from candles

will cast your last shadow on the ground.

Your steps will make no sound, no angels

will sing. Figures in shrouds stand

along the way, silent, menacing.

If you try to speak to them the words

will catch in your throat, choking you.

No one wants you to explain.

It doesn't matter what is at the end

of the corridor, maybe heaven, maybe

something harder, colder. No wind

will sing to you, no voice will offer you

comfort. Just silence and finality.

No pennies for any boatman,

just a long, lonely corridor.

Place one foot in front of the other.

Walk. Just walk..

---

all good things / jobe

Potato Bug Feet

Fri, 18 Dec 2009 14:37:33 GMT

At bedtime

my son and I talk to the moon

and say a tiny prayer.

How tiny?

Smaller than Potato Bug feet.

--

all good things / jobe

WHAT ROBERT PERRY’S CRAZY OLD FATHER TOLD ME IN HIS EAST TEXAS SHACK IN 1969

Fri, 18 Dec 2009 01:49:01 GMT

You might think I’m crazy when I say this,

But there are more things that have souls

Than most folks are willing to admit.

Trees, the crops, every danged blade of grass-

Mountains, valleys, rocks, every single grain of dirt!

They’ve all got souls and they all talk a secret language!

People used to know this language, but they forgot it all.

And even crazier, all of these souls together make one soul…

Boy, I believe that’s what God is.

--

all good things / jobe

CHANGES

Thu, 17 Dec 2009 04:35:23 GMT

Look at the skeleton people

that your toes have become!

Perhaps they have lives of their own!

When the master pulls the strings

they rattle their bones at him.

It is all in a day's work.

A World War One vet said to you,

"You'll know you're old

when the whole rest of the world

seems like idiots."

"Some people are born old," you told him.

Your fingers

have been replaced by ploughshares,

beaten from someone else's sword.

Each digit lives it's own dream,

so your hands are like movie theaters!

A matinee is starting soon, and anyway,

the real money is in the snack bar.

You hold your fingers up in the bathroom light,

lightening bolts shoot from the tips,

and you remember, for once,

that really there is only this day,

this very moment.

Dreams and memories

seem more and more alike,

and in those moments

when you are neither asleep or awake

it is hard to tell the difference

between the two. What you did,

what you remember,

what you dream - it is all the same now.

Why compare? Your nose is a hound dog,

here to sniff it all out!

Your ears are also dogs,

and they stare at the gate, waiting

for the master to return.

If ever you were innocent,

you can't remember it.

You've always been behind

your place in the race,

but with a good reason

that you just can't explain.

Your eyes

have pages like a book,

and written on these pages is a story

that you really don't need to know.

Please be careful not to lose your place!

Each page is the weight of a submarine.

The sun is setting, but it is winter,

really it is still quite early.

Don't be fooled by darkness!

Dinner will be ready soon,

and the family will sit together

in a circle. Every meal,

every year, every day,

you pull them all closer

and closer.

--

Sort of a drastic re-write. The original poem is several years old.

all good things / jobe

A California Freeway in the Rain

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 17:02:15 GMT

From my speakers

Pink Floyd's 'See Emily Play' is my ethereal friend.

On the other side of this soaked Sacramento freeway

the headlights of the oncoming traffic are

a tremendous jeweled snake, or like lights

floating on a swift river. I am hypnotised

and leave my body, I fly over Egypts

and Mesopotamias with my mind, I am a snake

dancing to a piper's tune, I am a wet wind

blowing rain into the Nile, into the Tigris.

I become a thought

that is drifting,

drifting.

I no longer know or care who is driving the car.

--

all good things/ jobe

poetry event / Placerville, California

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 16:38:50 GMT

from Taylor Graham:
Upstairs Poetry reading next Wednesday, Dec. 23 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

Goodnight, Tuesday

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 03:31:46 GMT

Goodnight, Tuesday.
And what a fine day you were!

There was the morning,
right where I expected it to be,
easy and timely.
Anselmo the parakeet sang for me.

Noon was a good fellow,
with cheer, and a bit of sun
broke through the winter gray.
And my friends sent me magical messages.

And evening sat soft
with homemade split pea soup,
all the Christmas lights danced,
and for entertainment, Mozart!

And now it's done. Look at the time;
it's half-past the first dream!
Even the books on the shelves
are starting to nod off.

Goodnight, Tuesday, my friend.
And what a fine day you were!

Fare thee well until next week.

--

Sort of a spontaneous little thing. Just came out as I sat down here.

all good things / jobe

What The Turkey Vulture Said

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 03:21:19 GMT

It takes more than wings.

There is a will to be lifted,

there is a sky that is inside me!

Released to the day, there is flight,

a life on wings.

The sun is the taste of life,

and the moon is the taste of beauty.

Freedom is a cold, cold thing,

far above the pull of the earth.

Here the wind whistles of immortality.

I will never fall.

--

A turkey vulture stopped by and told me this, just now. ;-)

all good things / jobe

Waiting

Mon, 14 Dec 2009 03:54:03 GMT

Before the soul of a new child

is sent to a mother's womb

it sleeps on the banks of a kind river,

deep and low in a valley of heaven,

guarded over by gentle swans.

These souls wait for someone on earth

to love someone else; it is this love

that wakes them. Then, needing a body

and a taste of this love, these sweet souls

are led downstream by the swans,

to life, to the womb,

to the world that is possible.

--

all good things / jobe

When The Work Is Done

Sun, 13 Dec 2009 18:39:31 GMT

Comes a time when the work is done,

or we're just too tired to do more,

and my father, old J.L. Jobe, puts the tractor to bed

with a 'nighty-night,' and the crops in the field

say 'goodnight, Jimmy, see you tomorrow,'

the tools have been cleaned and sung to,

each put away in its own place, snug, happy,

the chickens have pecked and questioned the dirt,

a cheery snort from the old hog, and quiet

settles in over fields whispering about rain,

and in the little house my sister puts on a record,

the Beatles 'Hold Me Tight,'

and she and I do the twist

with dirty faces.

--

From Rains County, Texas time of my early teens.

all good things / jobe