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

Haiku for the Will of the People

Viewing the Bayeux Tapestry     

(Associated Press photo)     

 

Stand together then                         

Against the feudal stitchwork                         

Of our own rash time                         

Not Letting Go

On her rooftop in New York

                                        She came home again

                                        as she sometimes does

                                        in a dream

                                        I tucked her in again

                                        as I sometimes did

                                        home from the office

                                        in the middle of the night

                                        She held onto my collar again

                                        as she sometimes did

                                        looking into my eyes

                                        smiling quietly

                                        not letting go

 

                                        Who's to say what is real

                                        and what is heartache

                                        and which is which

                                        or one and the same?

—for KJO'B (12/13/1970 - 4/28/2008)

Heirs of the Wind

jo'b     

It's helpful to remember

we live in the Age of Insects

and not the Age of Man.

What do you think

a swallowtail thinks?