Written by
James Lee Jobe |
for C.
G.
Macdonald, 1956-2006
Charlie, sunrise is a three-legged mongrel dog,
going deaf, already blind in one eye,
answering to the unlikely name, 'Lucky.
'
The sky, at gray-blue dawn, is a football field painted
by smiling artists.
Each artist has 3 arms, 3 hands, 3 legs.
One leg drags behind, leaving a trail, leaving a mark.
The future resembles a cloudy dream
where the ghosts of all your life
try to tell you something, but what?
Noon is a plate of mashed potatoes and gravy.
Midnight is an ugly chipped plate
that you only use when you are alone.
Sunset is a wise cat who ignores you
even when you are offering food; her conception
of what life is, or isn't, far exceeds our own.
This moment is a desert at midnight,
the hunting moon is full, and owls
fly through a cloudless sky.
The past is a winding, green river valley
deep between pine covered ridges;
what can you make of that?
Night is a secret plant growing inky black against the sky.
When this plant's life is over, then day returns
like a drunken husband who stayed out until breakfast.
A smile is a quick glimpse at the pretty face of hope.
Hope's face is framed by the beautiful night sky.
Hope's face is framed by the gray-blue dawn.
This is your life, these seconds and years
are the music for your only dance.
Charlie,
This is the eternity that you get to know.
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Written by
James Lee Jobe |
It??™s two muddy miles from Highway 20,
just past the north fork of Cache Creek,
across the broad meadow, through
blue oak woodland, up, up to the ridge,
and back down to the creek bank,
the crossing point, me striding with
mud caking my old hiking boots.
For a millennia the Miwok people walked
these canyons and ridges.
Pomo, too.
Gathering acorns to trade, the sweetest
was said to be from the Coastal Live Oaks.
Or bringing down a mule deer, a Tule elk,
meat for everyone, garments or a drumskin
from the hide, tools from the bones,
a knife, a skewer, thanks given
to the beast??™s soul for its gift.
Once up on the ridge, the view takes me,
Brushy Sky High Mountain looms above
like an overanxious parent, the creek sings
old songs for the valley oaks, for the deer grass.
Less muddy, I kick my boots a little cleaner
on a rock that is maybe as old as the earth.
I used to come up here and cut sage for burning,
a smudge to carry my prayers to Her in smoke.
I grow sage now at my home, but still I come,
eating down by the creek, building a medicine wheel
from creek stones, in winter spreading a small tarp
across the mud to eat and sleep on.
I make prayers
for my mother, to fight the cancer inside her,
for my children to know peace and plenty,
prayers that I might find the right way.
The Pomo, the Miwok, the Patwin
were all basket-weavers, makers
of intricate designs from White Root,
Willow, Oak sticks.
Gathered here,
at this crossing, century after century.
Medicine too, from roots, bark, and nut,
prayers and songs offered up, thanks given.
Here.
Medicine that healed the hurts
the Earth caused, but could not ward off
the diseases the Europeans brought.
The people died by the thousands;
where are their spirits now?
At peace with the creek, I hope,
and I send a little prayer to them, too.
I take an apple from my pack,
bought at a Davis, California grocery store,
where the Patwin village Poo-tah-toi
once flourished.
Children ran
and played, families grew, all gone now.
There is a little opening at the base
of a Valley Oak, I imagine that it is a doorway
to the Other World, and leave the apple,
a snack for whatever may find it,
a raccoon or deer, a lost spirit,
or maybe even The Great She.
You can cross the creek here, but in winter I don??™t.
Two more miles through the Wilson Valley links
you to the Judge Davis Trail, which snakes
up the spine of a long ridge on an old fire road.
Too much mud this day, so I just nap
until I get cold, pack up, the friendly weight
of my pack on my back, down to Highway 20,
down to the other world.
Redbud Trail.
Winter.
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Written by
James Lee Jobe |
It could be Valley Oak or Snap-bean,
Elderberry, or Cattail rising out of the creek;
all began the same, a spark of life inside,
the need to be coaxing their will into action.
Seed and pod, nut and bulb, cajoled awake, called
by the warmth of the sun, moisture in the soil,
swelling them, filling their hearts, beginning
the slow push against the dormancy of the husk.
The earth itself helps, offering its richness
to eat, till one by one each plant claims a soul,
and bursts free into the air, breathing, giving breath,
living in the sweet light of the distant sun.
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Written by
James Lee Jobe |
You are not beaten.
The simple music rises up,
children's voices in the air, sound floating out
across the land and on to the river beyond,
over the valley's floor.
No, you cannot go back
for those things you lost, the parts of yourself
that were taken, often by force.
Like an animal
in the forest you must weep it all away at once,
violently, and then simply live on.
The music here
is Bach, Vivaldi; a chorale of children, a piano,
a violin.
Together, they have a certain spirit
that is light, that lets in light, joyful, ecstatic.
"Forgive," said The Christ, and why not? Every day
that you still breathe has all the joy
and murderous possibilities of your bravest dream.
Forgive.
Breathe.
Live.
The moon has entered Virgo,
the wind shifts, blows up from the Delta, cools this valley,
and you are not beaten; the children sing, it is Bach,
and you are brave, alive, and human.
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Written by
James Lee Jobe |
It's mid-winter and the sunrise knows it, and wakes me
with a shudder; I'm just a man.
For 5 cold mornings in a row, the beautiful pheasant
has come to our patio to steal some of the dry catfood,
sometimes right in front of my cat.
The house is still, and I enjoy the Sunday newspaper
with strong, dark coffee; the smell of it dances
around in the early darkness.
Driving to church there is bright, eager sunshine,
and the shadows of bare winter oaks stripe the lane
like a zebra; shadow, light, shadow.
At church I pray for my favorite aunt, Anna, her clock
seems to be quickly winding down, dear lady, widow
of my favorite uncle, Richard; mostly I just pray
that she finds her center.
The pheasant is a male, strikingly colored,
so beautiful, in fact, that I've begun to scatter extra catfood
to draw him back; we have become his grocery store.
I tell my wife that if he comes a 6th day, I'll give him a name,
Richard; but he never comes again.
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Written by
James Lee Jobe |
I planted my grief
in freshly turned earth
A tree grows there now
You should see the size of it
I filled my wheel-barrow
with all my pointless regrets
I put them out by the curb
A truck will pick them up on Thursday
I spent some time following my cat
She led me all around our yard
stopping to rub her face in mint
I rubbed my face in mint, too
The moon shone on and on
climbing higher above the park across the street
"Who can stay awake longer?" I asked her
as she began her long arc back down
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Written by
James Lee Jobe |
Quiet! Today the earth tells me, be quiet.
Ssh! No talking now.
Our soul
is listening to tiny things, almost silent.
This is a language that you feel.
Our soul, says the earth, hears every little sound.
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