Sharks have entered the river, just a little ways,

Where there is still some salt in the water.

Silver-white and beautiful in their pride and strength.

They are not ferocious with cruelty, like mankind;

They live only as they must.

And in broken days the trees call out for storms and lightning,

Not like a man who wishes for death, but like a congregation

That hopes for a minister with more fire, more heat.

Who doesn’t want that?

Wolves live beyond the laws of man,

And they don’t give a damn who cares; that is a life worthy of respect,

A life that claims its own passion, as hard as steel.

James, there is that which is not, and that which is;

This is your own life to choose, yours.

Today I am ready to suffer. See, Mother? I have dragged the cross to the hilltop. I have built the gallows myself, the pistol is loaded, and here is a nice whip. I even have a hairshirt. I am guilty and I repent everything. All of those sins. Even the ones that aren't really sins at all. The priest has marked my forehead with ash and shoved a wafer into my mouth. Nothing lasts forever, Mother. Try to look on the good side of things.

The salted rock was a wasteland. We walked in search of water, in search of something kind. A dried lake, an empty river. The taste of dirt. Hope in the form of a rose. No one knew how it survived. A hot wind from Hell's furnace. The sound of a hammer on steel. We belonged to the deadly kiss, owned by the blackness of ash. A skin of poison and copper. The snake of the damned. We cursed for rain, for even a drop of relief. The miles were eternal, and the agony defined us. Step after step. And that which we love survived it all. Dear one.

The land doesn’t have a name, and neither does the ocean; it's people who do that. Narcissism and humanity walk this earth together, often sharing the same shoes. We have it all backwards. The world doesn't need us. We need the world. You can't own the world, but if you live well, the world might own you. And that's somewhat better.

The fire.

I took the rules that were shoved down my throat when I was a boy and I fed them to the fire. I took my despair and my depression and fed it to the fire. That long struggle to become some kind of a man that might actually be worth knowing, I fed it to the fire. The deaths, the deaths, the deaths; I fed them to the fire. I took the blood that I shed and I fed it to the fire. I fed the fire with the light of the morning, and I fed it with the sad darkness of the night. The pain that I created myself, I fed it to the fire. I fed my life to the fire. And those few tomorrows that remained; I fed them to the fire. The fire was my end and my beginning, my savior and my devil. And while I stood watching, the fire raged and raged, and when it was done, I wrote the story of my life in the ashes.

The meaty hours.

I had always been somewhat uncomfortable inside of my own skin, so it was that wolves took me in. I slept better with the warmth of their fur around me. I learned to hunt with the pack. When the moon was full I joined my family, canis lupus, under the glorious light. In the meaty hours we ran and we howled.

Pearl River. Night.

Suddenly shining a flashlight

Across the dark water at night,

I can see the eyes of several alligators

Before they slip under,

Slipping down below

Like submarines with cold souls.

There are owls and frogs

Making their lovely noises,

And every so often

There is the yell of a frog

That has been taken suddenly

By a water moccasin.

Nature sets a hard table.

Magnolias and willows make a roof

That is lit by the campfire.

Beyond that?

The moon, the stars, the universe,

And maybe Heaven.

On one side of the river is Mississippi,

And on the other is Louisiana.

Man has a need for borders,

But alligators don’t.

Walking to the edge of the river,

I shine the flashlight again,

And again the eyes go down,

But this time closer, much closer.

And if the sun was not the sun?

If the warmth of today wasn’t here for tomorrow, with no hand to touch, no breath to swell the chest? If the shadow swallowed the earth whole, leaving us cold, frightened, and waiting for the end? If you were not you and fate was exposed for the ruse that it is? And if another light should appear in the sky to guide us, to raise the dead, to lift some form of matter out of the nothingness that is the void, a new hand to touch, a fresh breath, to warm us and calm these fears; what then? Who or what could we become? And until then, what?

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I used ice to get the gum out of my hair.

I had no idea what I was doing, but then, I seldom do. It hasn't stopped me before. She said she wasn't looking for a serious relationship, and I said that was probably good, because I was not serious about too much of anything. Neither of us believed in Hell, so we got married. One day led to another, you know how it is, like Dorothy going down the yellow brick road, you take it one stride at a time. You begin at the beginning. How did the gum get into my hair? Now that's a good question.

1964, A blessing.

The boys wore blue slacks and white shirts with blue ties. The girls wore blue smock dresses with a white blouse. The nuns lined us up for the counting like prisoners of war in a camp. They had The Lord's blessing to beat us in the classroom. Jesus smiled when Sister berated us until we wept. Our sins were so great, so vast, that we needed to be broken. After all, we were eight years old. Time to grow up. And me? My ass was sore when the nun made me stand off to one side while Father blessed the class. I did not deserve The Lord's blessing. "Young master, I hope you learned something from this," the old priest told me. And I did. I absolutely did.

There was a young woman who became a ghost.

She had grown tired of being a human and suffering so. Let's call her Cathy. No one knew exactly what hurt Cathy, for she never told a soul, but watching her life was like watching a feather caught up in the wind. And since no one ever really understood her, when Cathy became a ghost, most people quickly forgot her. "Oh, it's too bad, isn't it?" They said things like that. But Cathy wasn't really gone, she was just a ghost now, and she lived on in shadows, and in dark rooms, and in those pleasant sounds that a soft rain makes. She became very soft as a ghost, a memory that lives on its own and has a will. And she lived on in the heart of one young man. Let's call him Elvin. Cathy's feather was always just a little out of Elvin’s reach. He tried to catch it, but he never could. But when Cathy became a ghost, well, Elvin caught that right away. Instantly. And so for a while longer, a few years, Cathy lived on as a ghost in dark rooms, in shadows, and in Elvin’s heart. She finally gave up on the shadows and the darkness, and then she just stayed in Elvin’s heart. Elvin eventually grew old, as those who continue to live do, and in that way, they did have a lifetime together. And she remained like the pleasant sounds that a soft rain makes. Forever. The end.

The end is always coming for us.

When the time comes, if I should die at night, I hope that I am fortunate enough to have seen that final sunset, to see the darkness cover all of the light, and then the world, and then the very last second of my life.

Likewise, if I die during the day, I would like to see that sunrise, the growing glow of light, here to bless and surround the world, to take away the darkness, and then to simply take away me.

Adios,
James

Your mind is a cave, says he

thank goodness for that, says me

The mountain snow loves the river

the river loves the valley

the valley loves the trees

and the crops (so do we)

the universe is a family

my sisters and brothers

Before you even notice

the barn owls have sewn you a blanket

from a cloth made of darkness

the cloth of night

to keep your dreams warm

dark as night and warm as sin

your dreams play on

like your own personal Kubrick movie

and when you whisk off the blanket

the dreams are over

it is morning again on earth

time to wake up

be thankful for the barn owls

Yuba River, so cold

even in August

to ease in (or jump)

on a blistering day

refreshes everything

your body, mind, and thinking

is reborn in the cold water

woodsprites laugh

and jump in behind you

floating along in the current

you feel complete

a human in the universe

We need to speak now of moon farts

you see, the moon farts

at the American president

— not just the current one, all of them —

passed gas for George Washington

for Herb Hoover and Jimmy Buchanan

left, right, or center doesn’t matter

the moon farts at politics and at the wealthy

stinkers for corporation or armies

stinkers for prime ministers and kings

popes, senators, and TV ministers

— astronauts and scientists are ok —

the moon isn’t here for those who are in charge

the moon exists for children and artists

for poets and howling wolves

for people making love

the moon is yours and mine

goddamn it all

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That which follows is a warning.

I am dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.

I am hot on the run.

Chased by men in hoods.

Their faces hidden.

A land under a gray sky.

With gray buildings.

Gray trees.

A shadow world.

There is no color.

Racing through the drab landscape.

Unsure why I am pursued.

Or who is after me.

Or where I am going.

Running faster than the humans of the world.

Faster than a race car.

Leaping the gray trees.

Up the sides of granite mountains.

Across the slanted roofs in the village.

Hooded men are hard after me.

I leap.

With all my strength.

Breaking the bonds of gravity.

Up through the gray clouds.

Past the gray sky.

On into outer space.

Passing galaxies like a streak of light.

A universe devoid of sound.

No matter how far.

No matter how fast.

I cannot escape.

They follow me like a curse.

They follow me like a sin.

Never forgotten.

Never forgiven.

The storm approaches.

Lightning strikes from the sky to the ground,

and yes, sometimes we can escape these bodies.

Please excuse me, friend, if I wander away;

I’ll be right back. I’m just seeking some thunder.

The life we chose.

She hardly knew me when she asked,

“How many minutes will I be beautiful?”

Her eyes were as dark as coffee. The sun shined

against her coal black hair. In her face

I saw a life that we might have, if we wanted it.

Everyone has a few minutes to be beautiful, right?

so I answered her with another question,

“Why do you want to suffer so?”

I kissed her then, very softly, on her neck,

and then again on her lips, just so.

And it turned out that we did want that life.

She has been beautiful for many minutes,

Even now. Yes, especially now.

Sacramento Valley.

This is a fine valley for being a person.

The rains feed the creeks and streams, which all flow to the great river, the valley’s heart, much like blood veins in the circulatory system.

The soil is rich, and dark, and beneath it the earth firms to form the bones of living.

The sky blesses it all with light, sunshine, the warmth that holds us in its arms.

I love the valley, and I love the great river, but most of all I love the little creek that flows not far from my house.

Here, a person can dig in and make a life, and so my wife and I have. We raised a family, grew fruit trees, and a small garden.

We invested love, time, and some work. That’s a life. The bones of living on this earth, in this wide, green valley.

This is a fine valley for being a person.

Adios,
Jobe

Under the stars, the face of night whose voice is fading.*

Dreams and trees, milk and honey. The scythe slicing through silk, through wheat, and through all unreasonable expectations. Silver and gold, filtered with rubies and the wetness of love, filtered with diamonds, and with the smells and flavors of sex. Togetherness. These are the ways that the humans find themselves, the ways that they find each other, for night is here, night and silence. Now they might hold one another until day returns, if only they can find the courage.

*The title of this poem is a line from Georg Trakl’s poem ‘Mourning,’ translated by James Wright and Robert Bly.

Eternal and lovely, a light rain falls on the dry fields.

The stars, hidden by the rain clouds, shine nonetheless. I feel the need to look up. What is that power that speaks to me? At the tail end of night, this rain came. Staying inside of my old house feels like living in a cave. The wind knocks on the door the way a policeman knocks. I had a desire to be outside. Smoke rises from almost every chimney, and there are no dogs on the street. The sound of rain on pavement. Life is timeless. I have no beginning and no end. Life is eternal. Lovely and eternal.

Brief journal update, 09 SEPT 2016.

Not the best of nights; a lot of getting up to pee, odd dreams, and moving about to try sleeping in different rooms (which never actually helps anything).

In one dream my toes became bulbous, like the nose of a bleary old drunk, and in that dream I had a vision of them becoming puss-filled and infected, and eventually amputated. That was weird.

In the rest of the dreams I kept looking down to see if my toes were alright. In fact, I checked them again just now, after writing that sentence.

Also I dreamed of these young single mothers, dozens of them, who all had to save their babies from rising floodwaters in old rotten frame houses in places like Mississippi and Alabama. That one became like a reality show on TV; there was an announcer. In that dream I was just a spectator, I did nothing but pray for the babies. No one drowned.

In yet another dream these older women kept wanting me to hold them. Not in a sexual way, but as they grieved. I was quite young in the dream, and I stopped what I was doing and held them all for as long as they wished.

Around 2 am I read for a while, an old book that rated youth hostels around Japan; I hadn’t seen it in the house before, but Avelino, our middle kid, went over there a few years ago. Must be his. As I read, Thelonious Monk was playing on the radio.

Hand to hand, we walked.

When Johndad Wheeliss died in his 80s, he climbed the rope up to Whatever Is Next with his big hands, worn hard by decades of farm work. An old cotton farmer, he was very kind to me, a city boy. He knew I didn’t understand cows, chickens, or what went on at a cotton gin. He would take me by my small, soft hand and lead me around, explaining things to me. Rains County, East Texas. 1961. If I drew the old man a picture, he would cry and hang it on his wall, and show it to everyone who came in the old frame house. We all called him Johndad, not Grandad, because he was Grandma Allie’s third husband. My real grandfather died quite young, when my father was still in school. Poor Grandma, a house full of kids to raise, crops to get in, animals to tend. The second husband was evidently bad, and no one would tell me exactly what happened, but my Dad and Uncle Earl ran him off at gunpoint. Johndad had been my grandfather’s friend, he and Grandma married in late middle-age, and they had more than twenty good years together. They are buried side by side in Point, Texas. Grandad Jobe is one row of graves over, straight across from them. Friendly placement, it seems to me now. I told Johndad what I never told my Dad, that I wrote poems, and I showed him some that I had written in a notebook. I was fifteen then, 1971. He seemed to like them, and he suggested that I stay in school and away from cotton. l wept when he passed away while I lived all the way across the country. Johndad climbed the rope up to heaven with his big hands, worn hard by so much work. I don’t believe that we will meet again someday, but if we do, I will take the old man’s hand once again.

Wyatt Earp. Los Angeles, California. 1929.

Now I am lighting the fire.

It is a hot day, but I don’t need water; I need fire. This thirst can only be quenched with flame and ash.

And what of my grief? I will burn it down. I don’t expect the worst, I am the worst.

Friend, I’m not saying this to impress you. I just want you to step back when I strike the match.

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Hand to God.

Your voice could falter. The part of you

That is hollow could be sliced open.

A fever with no relief. No balm.

Your emptiness laid bare before all.

The wingspan of your verbs, your nouns,

Now empty, unable to lift you anymore.

What is this thing that you have become?

And how on earth did you come so far?

You want to speak, but have nothing

Worth saying. Your voice could falter.

You raise one hand to the canyon

Of your mouth. That leaves you one hand

That you can raise up to God.

Your voice could falter. And there,

Now it has.

Soon, my symphony will begin.

The orchestra of my old age hasn’t begun playing yet,

but the musicians are indeed tuning up,

and I can see the conductor waiting just offstage.

The audience has been seated

and everyone has a program.

It won’t be long now until the symphony is under way.

The crowd seems a little edgy.

I’m hoping it is a long piece.

— I’m ready when they are.

Everything.

In the end, maybe the universe is everything.

Love, growth, god, kindness, joy; sure.

And hate, violence, greed; everything.

Dream-time is over.

Love? That seems to last. At least

I have seen many people die

And I kept loving them just the same.

That counts for something.

In the end, maybe the universe is everything.

The past, the future, now. Everything.

Plant two trees side by side, and what

Do they do? -- Reach out in the other direction

from each other, into the open space.

Into the open air. Into the sun.

They seem to give each other

Some room to grow.

There is a lesson in that.

Of course, we’re all dying,

But is that a reason to stop living?

No.

In the end, maybe the universe is everything.

Your kindness.

-for Lauren Santillano-

I still have the lovely, painted plate

that you and your mother filled with brownies

for me several years ago.

You gave it to me one Christmas.

I keep it in a special place,

away from the plates that we use everyday.

I save it for special times, not holidays,

but for when I make something new for my wife.

Whatever the treat is, I present it on that one plate,

and in that way, the gift from you and your mother

is a gift once again.

From one fine moment, many more are born.

You see, your kindness lives on.

Poems by James Lee Jobe

01 JUNE 2026

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The voice of the clock says that it is time to return outdoors.

The darkness is soft and warm like a blanket, and you have wrapped it around your tiny soul. Beneath the blanket is the skin that you don't yet understand, the skin of your parents, the skin of their parents, and theirs. And lower still is your own skin, and that flesh is cold. You know it is time to return outdoors, the clock tells you so with a tick-tock voice. Resigned to this, you wrap the darkness tighter around yourself and your history, your tiny soul, your life, and you stand and walk to the door.

At night you sometimes climb out of the box and pray for snow.

Hands to the sky, hands to heaven, praying like those old-time East Texas country folks. Snow, Lord, let it snow. Cover the earth with a white blanket. Everything is so dark and empty. Let it all be cold and slow and white. And most of the time the prayer goes unanswered as prayers often do, and so after a while you just return to the box and climb back in, closing the lid tight behind yourself. Do you ever see me there, waiting at your grave?

The pages of my dream book are written in crayon.

They come to me at night, the dead. In my dreams. Sometimes troubled, or challenging me in some unique way. More often they are just themselves, and we sit at a table and chat. About little things, not life and death, or the afterlife. The ghosts of my life. What is it that opens the door to my dreams and lets them come in? Time is a slow moving insect at times, and yet at other times it is a lightning bolt that strikes the lone tree in the field. I try to keep track of it all, but often I fail. It isn't easy, the pages of my dream book are written in crayon, and tell of these things, time and ghosts, and doors that I cannot find even though I know in my heart they are there.

I thought I heard my woman cry, but no, it was the dogs of my heart.

A hard night and a hard day. The mass was in Latin, and was hollow in the way that the wind is sometimes hollow, and for a moment I was a boy again. The moment passed, leaving me as empty as ever. The jigsaw puzzle of this life has always lacked some key pieces. There was never a shallow end in this pool, and there was never a lifeguard. Swim at your own damn risk. The weather was turning cold, geese flew overhead, and above them were the damned airplanes. The street was completely empty, there was no one there but me. I wanted to weep and rend my garment, but I had no reason. When I walked my footsteps seemed loud and cruel, like hammers on steel. I thought I heard my woman cry, but no, it wasn’t her. It was the dogs of my heart.

Prose-poems (and notebook pages) by JLJ.

25 MAY 2026

Adios for now,

James Lee Jobe

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Over twenty years in this house

and we are on our third peach tree

which I planted back in March

the first two grew (one at a time)

produced well for a few years

then produced less

and then died

so my peach tree average

is about a decade per tree

I have no idea what I am doing wrong

(or right for that matter)

but as I approach seventy years old

I do hope to survive the new tree

(and eat more peaches)

In the time it takes to blink your eyes

a million new suns are born

and a million old suns die

crossing a universe this vast takes longer

than driving from here to Fresno

Morning

city park

Davis, California

the glows of summer fill me with power

the touch of grass on skin

warmth

I know these trees

and I know the flowers

a flush of blood and sweat and energy

then from my bare feet roots come forth

and leaves from my flesh

the Universe holds out her hand to me

and this time I am ready to take it

How long should a life be?
You don’t measure the length of a life,
you measure its depth.

And what happens after?
What is next doesn’t matter,
it’s your choices now that matter.

And how do I know what is right?
When you don’t know, it isn’t right.

Why doesn’t the universe speak to me?
Friend, the universe seldom shuts up.

Poems by James Lee Jobe

Her n me

For 26 MAY 2026

-ADIOS-

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We lay down now on pine needle beds, on pillows of moldy leaves.

It is the sunset of tired bones.

Let us not dwell on the betrayals, or on miniature sorrows, the larger sorrows are weight enough.

Free your soul and you might also free your mind.

Or not.

Sleep, if you wish, in the forest of heaven, and dream in vivid color of some pleasant tomorrow.

Rest your bones, rest your heart.

Tomorrow could be a tasty treat, and breakfast is served early.

Dew on the grass in the warm morning sun

Mount Diablo tall in the gray distance

Summer

Singing while I walk

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A sigh that lasts a lifetime,

Friend turning on friend for a feel of money,

The small wake from a crocodile easing toward her prey,

The lover who turned away first,

A parent whose patience came to an end,

The war fought over nothing but profit and greed,

Claiming the name of God for your own politics,

Replacing blood with oil and oil with blood,

The monkey that screamed for no reason,

The people that worship the false gods at their banks,

Tears that cut channels through your cheeks,

Heartbreak, heartbreak, heartbreak.

How long are our lives?

How precious are our souls?

Here, I’ll just slice my flesh open

And make a river with my blood.

Idle boats in the dead of winter. A dog

Eating a fish head on the icy bank. Catfish

Swimming deep in my blood. “Here,” I’ll say,

“Is where I’ll dig my hole.” Bloody hands

On the shovel. Wet feet in the cold mud.

I’ll slice my flesh open a second time

And make a forest, and a third time

To make sure that I don’t survive. Survival

Would be so disappointing. And when I die

I’ll rot in that forest to feed the trees.

When spring returns the dog will be long

Gone and so will I, but the trees will grow

New leaves and new fruit, there beside

The bloody river. Maybe you were expecting

A happy ending, but friend, I am not here

Attempting to cheer anyone up.

Every human being equally deserves freedom, justice, food, shelter, healthcare, and safety. It shouldn’t matter if you’re from Guatemala, Syria, or Chicago. And it shouldn’t matter if you are in Guatemala, Syria, or Chicago. Every. Human. Being.

by James Lee Jobe

23 MAY 2026

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Hey. S’up?

Thanks for reading today’s post on the Book of Jobe. This post is public, so feel to share it.

Adios, y’all.

Imagine that an ocean is filled with compassion.
The fish of kindness would swim there.

5.20.2026

Humans

We have our tools

our language and rituals

we have art

our creations

we know love

and yet for all that

the universe will go on

long after we are gone

friend don’t waste your life

love someone

sing sometimes

Being Lost

To be lost in my valley is to be drunk on life, to have honey cakes for eyes, to be able to remember all of your old dreams.

Jasmine and walnut trees. Tomatoes and corn. Sunflowers. Lost in this valley? The Sacramento Valley? That’s a blessing.

To be lost in my valley is akin to wandering pleasantly while being followed by a choir of angels. (How would I know that?)

Looking out through my own honey cakes all that I see is home.

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In this western body, the sheriff is me.

I wear this heart for a badge, and I fire off love like bullets.

The color here is human skin and forest green,

Held in the bosom of the trees,

Held in the coolness of the brief night.

I answer to no one but the beauty of the birds,

And your opinion has no weight in the hope I bear.

Stand back.

I will not count your shadow or bury you.

If you want a gallows, you’ll have to build it yourself.

It is up to you to find someone to hang

And damn you if you do. I am the sheriff in this body,

And I only hunt for those who need love.

Jobe In The Void

no one to be seen

and no one to see me

this valley farmland goes on and on

peace

the sun at noon

crops growing in the warm light

as far as the eye can see

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Those flies that buzz the faces of the poor know the meaning of the word “equality.”

CHANGE OF SEASON

This golden light is delicious, and the silence is total, like living somehow magically encased in amber.

February has passed on to regions elsewhere in the solar system, and children, or perhaps mice, scurry about.

There is a fresh, clean feel to the air, and from the woods I can hear the sound of drums.

Tomorrow at dawn I will climb the hill and ring the bell, and the earth and the sky will reach out for change.

We all need change.

CALL IT THE SOUL

Hidden within the folds of the living,

Rests a diamond beyond measure,

And in the darkness of life it shines,

More fair than the loveliest of stars,

More bright than the full moon.

This jewel is the fortune of existence.

The passage down to the body,

And the passage back to heaven,

Both are lit by this diamond.

These are the most sacred of journeys

And are not made in darkness.

The paths are lit,

And the light has a name.

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A WINTER DAY

A light rain lays soft across the ground
And kisses the trees.

This world is good, war itself will fail in the end,
The universe has not forgotten us.

A few go mad, it happens,
And I pray for their souls.

The rain
Is so beautiful.

TEENAGE JAMES

In the living room my mother had this picture of Jesus. If you looked at it one way Jesus was suffering on the cross, but if you moved your head a little Jesus was healed, dressed in white, and rising up through the air, presumably to heaven. That was the room where I most enjoyed making out with my girlfriends, under the watchful eye of Christ. I am certain that He approved.

THE CLOCK STRIKES THE HOUR

This is the hour that shapes your life.

Your senses are aware of the clues to solve this odd puzzle of being human.

A handsome power in you grows and shapes your thoughts.

What is real and what is not?

The curtain has been lifted and the show is about to begin.

You have waited for this for so very long.

PROMISES

Abuse no maiden universe,

White with the seams of winter,

Doused in flames of snow.

Abuse no dreams or ideals

That are loved by children or fools.

Tomorrow is not promised to you,

So live one heartbeat at a time.

Every winter ends, friend,

And not every promise is fulfilled.

Love while you are able.

Live while you can.

5.14.2026

The horse that I ride
travels through the wormholes in space
from galaxy to galaxy
from dimension to dimension

— my goodness! —

the horse that I ride
is named Poetry
she and I always travel together
and breathe together

— for how long? —

until we become dust
in the darkness
until we become silence
in the dark and endless void

— the the ride will be done —

Perhaps

I have said too much

already

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4 A.M. the sky is heavy

with stars and the air

is clean and delightful

I inhale the galaxy

and my chest swells

I exhale the moonlight

and the starlight

with light shining

from my two old nostrils

I miss you my handsome son —

where are you now?

everywhere

everywhere

In the stillness of the void

you and I (and everything)

are rich notes of music

the sound we make

soothes the universe

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I am afraid

that if I continue

telling you these things

the world will explode

like a raw egg

in a microwave oven

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5.11.2026

You want to pick up a lovely rock

that is a pale shade of blue but you can’t

the rock has grown roots like an old oak

and has attached itself to the earth

looking closely now

you see that the entire planet

and everything on it

has become one sold rock

now your feet are rock too

so is your body

and you are attached

perhaps forever

to the earth where you stand

I am sorry but this where I must leave you

for I am a busy man

and I am not attached to anything

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A dream: I am pushing through the crowd to see a woman who is dressed in lion claws. It is Tuesday and the world is naked again. Thank God, the world is better that way. Lunch is served; bird heads and gristle on an old wooden tray. I am raising up the first bird head to the roar of approval from the nude population. It is crunchy and tastes like November. The lion claw lady dances seductively to the music of the gristle. “Is this gristle pork or beef?” The waiter ignores me until I ask again in Spanish. “Señor, esta es la cabra,” he tells me. Goat gristle. The lady spins and twists as I chew, her lion claws clicking perfectly in beat in time to the drums under the midday sun. When she asks, I tell her that my name is Enoch, though, of course, it isn’t.

Goodnight sleep tight

rest now holy world

I can see that you are tired

be easy

close the eyes of this earth

and sleep

let the sky keep watch

just rest

you don’t have to weep tonight

this love will keep growing

until tomorrow

yes until tomorrow

love will be enough

I filled a rusted pail with water from the river of you. Your name and your face splashed out over the sides as I walked, stumbling, carrying you into my house. I was parched for the lack of you. On top of the old table, I plunged the cup into your cold water and quickly drank you down into my body. This refreshed me. On some days I almost forgave you for leaving me to join the river, and I thought that one day I would, that I would get stronger, and know how to forgive. But it hasn't happened yet.

Gifts:

mountains built
from the bones of the earth,
as if by magic

stars
the candles of night

oceans
massive yet moved by gravity

humans
solitary yet moved by love

the sun and moon rise and set
as steady as the hands of a clock
going around in an endless circle

a day
a year
a lifetime

we open these gifts
give thanks
and then pass them on

Poems and prose poems by James Lee Jobe

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At night the dogs and cats
leave their graves and play
like small and happy children
whose lives have not yet
been touched by sorrow
then at dawn our old friends
slip back into their graves
and deeply sleep in peace

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Cross the Yuba River
stones on the far bank
stacked and balanced
by passing hikers
beauty in the water
and beside it
every day that we live
is a gift and a blessing
every single day
each and every breath

The world opens to you
and gives all of its beauty
and you repay the world
with your own death
giving your body back
to the world to feed
the earth itself
in this way every thought
every breath is beautiful
and so even death
becomes beautiful too

That I might let go
of my many judgements
how easily they come
that I might learn
to respond with kindness
and forgiveness
to people
to life
and to myself

Poems by James Lee Jobe

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5.5.2026

Liza Minnelli in the sky.

I see I have arrived a little late

for the end of my life.

I have been in no hurry, and it’s true

that I get distracted quite easily.

An owl hoots and I might listen

for a couple of years.

And that cloud - it looks like a flower,

No, it looks like Liza Minnelli.

The dinner last night took me

several months to prepare.

Just slow down everyone,

What’s the hurry? Let Death wait a bit.

Why miss out on all the wonder?

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Smallish sharks.

Years ago as a young man in San Francisco

I would see old men (think Methuselah)

catching young sharks along the Embarcadero

sharks about a foot and a half long

thrashing (think angry roller derby skaters)

and snapping about

mean as nuns teaching elementary school

(think paddling my ass for Jesus

so my soul would be saved but not my ass

which would burn in hellfire)

the old men would help each other

bring in the snapping bastards

while hooting and laughing together

(think drunken cowboys in Abilene)

Now I am an old man too

and I am not far from San Francisco

perhaps I could join the old men

(think Knights of Columbus)

but I confess that I do not know

what to do with an 18 inch shark

Faith

Be humble. Walk steadily
Across the burning ground.

How empty is your midnight?
Is it down to just you
And those things that you fear?

Do you have a name for that?
Is there a strength that you can call upon?

Move simply.
In simple things
There is a faith at rest.

Be humble. Walk steady
Across the burning ground.

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Our bodies are mostly water

they teach us that in school

when we are still quite young

and with water we thrive

and so this long dry Sacramento Valley

craves water to drink

and indeed is itself part of a huge watershed

moving water from rain and snow

to creek and river

and so on to the ocean

the valley thrives greenest in the wet years

and yellows a bit in the dry ones

have you ever felt dry and brittle

like perhaps you wouldn’t make it

to the next wet year

I often have

especially when missing my late son

mid-winter looking west

I see a front coming in

it will rain in this valley today

5.2.2026

Only one of my giant ears

still works a little

but I do have two

somewhat functional

(if bifocaled) eyes

and I absolutely see

the difference

between right and wrong.

Resist.

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So Water said to Mountain,

“I have an idea. I will drop down on you as snow.

Nice and cool. A water supply for you.

This snow will slowly melt

and run down your sides and make rivers.

The rivers will give you a rinse

and take water down to the flatlands.

How’s that?”

Mountain like the idea, so they did that,

then a few hundred million years passed

and it was today.

I drank a fair amount of espresso today.

How beautiful,

how perfect

the flowers on my cactus

that live for just one day

they bloom with color and glory

if only for a short while

and I stand there marveling at the sight

wondering why it is

that the cactus flowers move me

like no other

more than roses

more than lilies

when it dawns on me

that they are all the more lovely

because they will die so soon

how human of them

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My road to heaven is not the same as yours

likewise my road to hell is different too

life is often random

I have had two marriages

one lasted thirty minutes

and the other lasted a lifetime

love is often random

when I was young I was ruled by my anger

I had to learn to let that go

my choices can be more random

I live a quiet life now

I say ’no’ more often than ever

the things I say ‘yes’ to are quite random

I might mention heaven and hell

but I don’t believe in them

or fate

I believe what happens in life is mostly random

now I will end this poem

I might make an espresso or sweep the kitchen

or both

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4.29.2026

I have surrounded myself with nouns

and verbs, adjectives and adverbs.

Also, there is punctuation and languor.

I toss all of this together in a bowl

like a word salad, and readers eat

the poems that I make in this manner.

How does this one taste?

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This nose isn’t my only nose
behind this nose is a second nose
and why is this so, I don’t know
but if the first nose blows
does the second nose know
again I just don’t know
what the second nose knows
and that’s just how it goes
you and I don’t get to know
what the second nose knows
but if the first nose blows
you’ll be the second to know*

You can say god or allah or jehovah

krishna

white buffalo woman

I don’t care

you can say that you answer only

to your own conscience

and that’s fine too

you can pray for guidance

or just trust your own heart

I am still your brother

we are both flesh and plasma

and something else

something inside that can be kind

draw me a map to where you are

and I will draw you a map to me

and then let us move toward each other

each on our own journey

a journey that was envisioned by the other one

and wherever we meet I will hold you in my arms

because I am your brother

This is where it all ends

the road just doesn’t go any farther

if you want to keep going

you must leave this wastrel planet

and travel through space

to the moon and the other planets

stay here or go on

neither is the best choice

and neither is the worst

I have been standing here thinking about it

all day long

In my dream I was returning to New Orleans to eat a sandwich. It seemed perfectly normal to do this. I rode a bicycle with ladders tied to the sides, long ways. Cumbersome, sure, this also seemed like a perfectly normal thing to be doing. And New Orleans is only a couple of thousand miles away. The dream changed into some problem with my mother, who seemed to be a different woman than my actual mother and I had to keep squinting my eyes to see her. That was OK, too. I never got to New Orleans and I never ate the sandwich. Somewhere along the way I lost the bike with the ladders, in some endless shopping mall. And the problem with my new mother was never resolved. Good morning. Did you sleep well? Did you dream?

4.26.2026

YOU BUILT YOUR HOUSE WITH SEVEN WORDS.

Your doctor is prescribing new syllables. Take them at meals. A Protestant moves through the underbrush, but his tall hat and his weak prepositions give him away. You have him in your crosshairs. When you play chess, you always want the black pieces, and when you write, you try to avoid using too many adjectives. Did you know that you can build a year with only seven seconds? That you can live without vowels or judgment? You can lose your mind and still find your way to the store, or to the ammunition. It happens everyday. Seven stores, seven bullets, seven nouns. Bodies that are still on the cold, waxed floor.

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FOOD DOES NOT FILL ME.

Silence does not still me. I can walk a thousand streets and I will not find what I seek. What I want has no name and no face. What I love is as blank and null as I am. Ring the bell at midnight. Call out the names of the spirits one by one. Who am I? I am the one who seeks. I am the one who finds nothing.

I COULD DIE FOR THE BROWN EARTH OF YOUR EYES.

I could remove my own eyes and slip them into your pocket, to go wherever you go, to be wherever you are. To watch over you. Or would my tongue be better? I could pray for the softness of your voice late at night, when the storms pass and I am reminded of how I love the tumult that comes from being a human in this fractured and storied world. Prayer is a blessing in itself. When you enter the ocean, as perfect as a fish, the salt water welcomes you the way that I welcome you to my arms, perfect and complete and whole. You are also as perfect as the ocean. As much a part of my life as my arms. As my eyes. This is the story that we populate. The beginning of our tale was written long ago and the end hasn’t been written at all. We live this way, welded to each other, entwined like rope. This is the story of a long marriage. I could die to make your funeral complete. I could die to the beat of my loyal heart. I could die to embrace the sweetness of your grave. I could die to laugh at your fruit trees and tomatoes. I could die to sweep the sky of clouds and fear. I could die for the warmth in your feminine soul. I could die for the brown earth of your eyes. The brown earth of your eyes. But I choose to live here, for one lifetime, with you.

Creating prayers.

I am here to write these poor poems and to create prayers. I leave the weightier matters to fools and kings. I am neither. They stammer, and I am the wind, I am a storm, ridden by birds of prey. Is that too much? I have many prayers as of yet unsaid, and it isn’t hard to distinguish me from those who kneel. I am upright. They are the fish and I am the river. Vapor rises from the water of me, and in this way the new prayers form.

Prose poems by James Lee Jobe

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4.23.2026

LIFE WITHOUT PAROLE.

I spend too much time

Thinking about death.

I do not spend enough time

Thinking about death.

One of those must be correct.

My eyes are thieves,

And my hands are the police.

Look, I am under arrest again.

I have handcuffed myself to the truth.

I am always in trouble,

Or so it seems.

In this courtroom

You make your own justice.

And in this courtroom

Justice rules.

Even

if I found

enlightenment

I’d still need

to clean up

this yard.

Dang.

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BIRTH.

Experience, born of poverty.

Love, born in spite of abandonment.

Ability, born of failure.

Life itself, born from hope.

And death, born from life itself.

The world is here

And we have nowhere else to go.

The mirrors are still at last, and you are so tired.

You are listening to the wheezing breaths of the smokers. Even your mind is tired, and you don’t really want to think anymore, but you don’t know how to stop. From a dark corner of your consciousness you sense that the animals are slowly returning to the forest, and you wish that you could join them. You will die one day and until then you will never be free of this reality. Yes, there are cracks in time, you’ve seen them, but they are too small to slip through and escape. Your life is a slender being, moving from shadow to shadow, slinking in memory and loneliness. The room smells of disinfectant and the nurse with the cart is bringing the medication. You check the mirror one more time and then look up at the plain-faced clock and see that three minutes have passed since the last time you looked.

LATE AFTERNOON.

watching the valley sky

what would it take

to fill this sky

with octopuses

I don’t know but I bet

there’s a poem in trying

by James Lee Jobe