Incessance

jo'b   

Unsteadied by a recognition of endings,               

thrown off my stride              

by the wreckage that surrounds me,              

a few old oaks holding their leaves,              

a few daisies still neon under thatch,              

a few souls the way they were              

still living in my sleep,              

the leafless sound of the wind              

no longer the sound of summer,              

living incessantly in change,              

offering my silence as my proof.              

Still and Quiet

jo'b  

On the cabin porch in the leaf fall,

still and quiet, so quiet

you hear the last leaf touch down,

so still you imagine you feel

the speed of the planet

as it whips around the sun,

the whole spinning system

hurtling through infinite night,

and to think you come here

because you love to sit on the porch,

just you and the dog, dozing off

as if nothing were happening.

Kingdom Come

Late October morning                     jo'b   

                              After a nightmare

                              the wooded hill

                              is a kingdom of sunlight and fog.

                              Is it warm where you are?

                              I have too much to carry

                              through empty rooms.

 

                              When you get here

                              on the cusp of winter

                              I will show you everything.

                              Something must come of this.

Our October

jo'b   

Lost in a fallow field

of rational neglect,

no one will find us

in the dark maroons

of thorns and vines

but the few true souls

who love us with no explanation,

as we do them,

fallen, forgiven, and stunned.

Welcome, Night

jo'b   

I shut down the splitter, unplug my ears,

and sit on the porch, resting my bones

in what the Scots call the glimmerdim,

a sudden stillness in the dusk, atingle still

with the roar of the saw.

A lone raven flies out of the crimson west,

its wingbeats slow and powerful,

its croak echoing in the woods

as a flood of mist rises from the valley.

The woodshed is nearly filled.

The shadow of the earth engulfs me

as it drifts across the field toward the trees.

I feel the planet roll, I welcome the night,

at peace with the dark in me, knowing

I have but one life, this time through.

I Never Asked for Flight

The moon still rose                  (jo'b)   

I bled for years

and now you're back

but I have changed

there is so much

I need to tell you

so little I can say

I built a life

and tore it down

the sun kept shining

the moon still rose

coyotes screaming

in dark fields

I write it down

the fleeting shadows

of  the hawks

pass over me

I write it down

the thin red fox

crosses the road

from standing corn

to standing corn

the rattle of  the wind

I write it down

the way first snow

touches my skin

and suddenly

is snow no longer

I write it down

I write it down.

—affected by the moods of Ocean Yuong

Big House

jo'b   

 

How strange to be here

in two places at once,

by here I mean on the earth,

on the coast at daybreak

with the wind pouring in off the sea,

 and in this fall mountain field 

watching Orion lead his old dog

out of the dark crowns of oaks

and into the endless universe,

which is my home afterall, 

and yours too,

we live in a big house

with mostly empty rooms,

but we're all alive at the same time,

and we need to take care of each other.

  

Painting the Air

Rain, Steam, and Speed, The Great Western Railway -- J.M.W. Turner, 1844

My valley brims with mist,

mist enough, it seems,

to fill the expanse

between continents.

Home so early?

J.M.W. Turner's housekeeper asked

when the famed English Romantic painter

returned unexpectedly with his easel and brushes

from the banks of The River Thames —

Turner painted the air,

gave tint and tone to the mysteries

of haze and distance –– a mood made visible,

much as a songwriter makes audible

the anguish of yearning

with sustained minor chords

that can set you adrift,

And on this hazy morning in Upper Turkeyfoot,

with you so far and long away,

I know what Turner meant

when he replied, The fog lifted,

and you could see everything,

and there was nothing left to see.

—image from the public domain