THE WINTER POOLS
The last pools of winter
are splashing against the door.
They gather like the songs of geese
that are returning north for spring.
At the door I listen
with one hand on my heart,
this holds onto my love
of that which is cold.
The other hand is on my head,
touching my dreams of spring.
jobe
MY FATHER’S COFFEE
I wake up and it is fifty years ago; I am back in my room at my father’s house in East Texas. Have I dreamt it all? My wife? My children? The aching feet? The grandchild that lights up my world?
Although it is only just after sunrise I can feel the heat through the open window, beginning to build. It will be a hot one today. I get up and put on my work clothes; it is my job to tend the livestock. I can hear my father in the kitchen and there is a welcome smell of strong coffee.
I walk past a mirror and see that I am not a teen, but still sixty-eight. What will my father think of that? I am older than him! But then the alarm goes off and I find myself in my own bed, in my own world. It is a cold morning in Northern California, and I can still smell my father’s coffee.
jobe
HOPES AND TRUTHS
I want the army to lay down the rifles and missiles and then dance to mad Cuban music all night.
I want the children of the dead to forgive their killers and travel west, and follow the setting sun like cowboys.
And I want my sister to surrender her drugs and sleep, and wake up refreshed, clean, and with her mind clear.
In this land we tell the children weak lies about heaven and hell, when this place is hell, and heaven waits for all.
In this land the wealthy strip the meat from the bones of the poor, and demand entertainment from the skeletons.
When will we stop this chaos and hold each like family, like lovers, like children holding the father who returned?
Grant us this: that we might know our own souls, and that we might find a way to put hatred behind us.
jobe
DREAMS BUZZ AROUND MY MIND LIKE BEES AROUND THEIR HIVE.
In my dreams I am young, usually about thirty years old. My hair is thick and brown again, and my feet and knees do not hurt. I often have superhuman strength, or can fly, or become invisible. I am connected to the flowers, to the earth. I move through these dreams the way bees carry pollen. I am beautiful, and can almost taste the honey. The queen is pleased with what I do, and with who I am. Oh look; it’s time for bed!
jobe
You’re asking who knows the truth.
One may move so well that a foot-print never shows. -Lao Tzu
Step into the corner of night, the edge of the blue-steel future, step into those things that you have hoped for, but haven’t said.
You are a field left fallow, an unanswered question, a small slice of winter that was hidden and saved for the long, slow heat of summer.
Where are your foot-prints now? What is it that you have hidden, buried deep somewhere? How will you move at all, so badly wounded?
You are the sum and total of your every experience, your every thought.
And this is the boat of your life, slicing through a choppy, shallow bay, the dog that just walked away, the river that laughed at the bayou and went where it wanted to go, the sun that burned and ravaged the land.
Step into the corner of night, the edge of the blue-steel future, step into those things that you have hoped for, but never said.
You wanted to know the truth? Friend, the truth is inside of you.
You are the only one who ever knew the truth.
jobe
Right now I’m having amnesia and deja vu at the same time… I think I’ve forgotten this before.
Steven Wright
Once, the instructions for living were much simpler.
Love Jesus with the simple faith of a child.
Wet hair. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
It was clear what one was to do.
Walk. Don’t walk.
One understood what was expected.
One would think of the police and the government
As being good, trustworthy, accountable.
Plug the cord into a wall socket, turn the power on.
One’s parents always taught the truth.
The years roll by
And one begins to see things differently.
Jesus? An enlightened man, a prophet.
The government? It lied about the war,
It lied about all of the wars.
The police are murderers and thugs.
There is a man behind the curtain;
The wizard is not real.
Your parents twisted your soul
With their own twisted souls.
They could not help it,
They had been twisted by their own parents.
If one wants to live true, one must build the truth
Like a carpenter builds a house.
One must become the bison that breaks free
From the herd, and runs alone,
Thundering across the prairie.
-jobe
bansheebeez