Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous James Lee Jobe Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous James Lee Jobe poems. This is a select list of the best famous James Lee Jobe poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous James Lee Jobe poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of james lee jobe poems.

Search and read the best famous James Lee Jobe poems, articles about James Lee Jobe poems, poetry blogs, or anything else James Lee Jobe poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by James Lee Jobe | Create an image from this poem


  for C.
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.

Written by James Lee Jobe | Create an image from this poem

Redbud Trail - Winter

 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.
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.
Written by James Lee Jobe | Create an image from this poem


 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.
Written by James Lee Jobe | Create an image from this poem


 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.
Written by James Lee Jobe | Create an image from this poem

Moon In Virgo

 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.
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.

Written by James Lee Jobe | Create an image from this poem


 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.
Written by James Lee Jobe | Create an image from this poem


 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