An on-line tapestry, more colorful than black could ever be,
>From connected threads of warp and woof and vanity.
Of boxes and bridges, riversides too…fried eggs somewhere,
Phantoms on the wall…shadow talk, darkness…light also there.
Sun, Moon, and stars in the night cannot reveal
The python’s focused undaunting sight…
It's amazing the things that happen on the way to adulthood,
Collective "strands" that surpass our wildest dreams for good.
Riverbanks, riversides, and even river edges, (s)pools of thought,
Mind encounters form fantasies of woven treasures.
Old folks and young folks, daughters and sons,
Grand Dads and Grand Moms, and new babes on the run.
Fishing holes and marching bands, and fingers in the mud,
Flowered fields and Septembers, and shooting stars above.
Memories of pastel and lace,
Form part of our pattern in deep cyberspace.
Spoken in eternal rhyme, worlds long past, worlds ahead,
Our whispers softly form the prayers for our dead.
Dreams have come and gone of countless unseen faces,
Bring close-up awakenings at dawn’s early traces.
Like quicksilver are the glances and smiles of strangers’ faces,
Their elusive eyes mirror our soul, but never will embrace us.
Sometimes there is hurt in the knowing, other times, true joy,
We make plans to gather…the tapestry keeps on growing.
Echoes resound like sound bytes gone awry…doors keep on
Opening…jet trails forming smoke ring windows cross the sky.
Winds forever blowing upon the pages of our minds,
Like the blurs from drunken evenings…a page or two gets left behind.
Midnight choirs sing B. Neuwirt’s song, indeed,
And, in the magic of the moment, find us all the time we need.
"There is truth in there",…as Nantoo once said,
About Merasu’s "Walls", built to hide our pains and tears.
We search for "The Grail", our thirst to "Quench all",
>From a "conch shell", found in Kalnin’s hall.
Time is slow in passing…for those who mourn and grieve,
The demise of loved ones, shared tears upon a sleeve.
For empty chairs that are neatly clean, and celebrations,
Memories unforeseen, returned from the closet, dust covered bottles, no
There are times to leave, if there’s nothing left to say,
Its nice to believe in tapestries, whenever we’re away..
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Censored for tasting
Forbidden fruit over-ripened
On Internet trees
Banished from Eden's
Cyber-garden for a month's
Penitence from me
Forbade entry by proxy
Although I may knock
No door will open
I may not be entered in
Because of errors
Mortal sins explored
Against Microsoft's Command
May be forgiven
Erased, expunged sins
They will lift the proxy shield
Guarding Heaven's Gates
Reminding me not
To visit forbidden sites
Flesh-pots' access links
Do not look upon
We control your kind
There's no privacy
On the Internet, take care
Big Brother's watching
His "cookie" machines
Track every crumb-byte anywhere
Chastity belt persuasion
Covering events untold
Will legislate no sex found
No age of consent
Lists of words and verse
Banished breasts of AOL
A "Case" gone berserk
Citizens be alert
For self-proclaimed censors lurk
And spies are everywhere.
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COVERING THE SUBJECTS
>From Adam and Eve's fig leaves
Modesty was borne,
(Probably the first clothes worn).
Later, then primitive men,
Covered breasts and loins
With furs and savage beasts' skins.
In biblical lands hair shirts
Became prophets' suits.
Along with wool woven frocks.
While Romans and Egyptians
Sported toga styles,
Cavorting at their orgies.
Tartan plaids and kilts galore
For lads and lassies
Of highland clans and counties.
Grass skirts, sarongs, muftis worn,
By either sexes,
In tropical lands' climates.
Mayflower pilgrim folks,
Dressed plain as Quakers,
Broke bread with loin-clothed natives.
Colonial men in rags
Fought Redcoat Brits and allies,
Royal rule to end.
Settlers moving west,
Wore drop-drawers, jeans, and vests,
Bonnets, gingham dress.
Were made to last through siblings,
Patches were no shame.
Fit proper clothing
Made the man, disguised the place
>From whence he begun.
Decades have changed,
Fads and fashions' dictates too,
Long, short, tight, baggy.
Pretty French gowns
On runway models gaunt forms,
Brides to be, proud Dads
Walk down aisles in wedding clothes,
Gowned and cumberbound.
Entourage, best man and others,
Maids of honor, sisters, mothers.
Invited guests, all,
Both sides, families and friends,
In Sunday best, shed tears.
After weddings lie
Birthdays, diapers, often changed,
Sleepers, blankets too.
Children out grow clothes
Before you realize they're grown.
Old clothing passed on.
Life' cycles go on,
>From diapers on to "Depends",
Funerals, more tears.
This is where my poem
Ends covering subjects' clothes-ing,
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For brooks that babble,
for towers of Babel.
And cities like Babylon,
with people who prattle on.
For boxers who weave and bobble,
on knees that quake and wobble.
For squirrels that chatter,
and birds that preen or gobble.
In trees, acacia babul,
their babblements carry on.
For dew-like baubles,
and on-line squabbles.
For witches' brews,
that boil and bubble.
For feet that stumble,
and cookies that crumble.
For utterers who iterate,
platitudes that self-inflate.
For mere trifles, small trinkets,
cliches` that multiply like wrinklets.
For those that babble, from dawn,
'til setting sun, beyond.
Take a breather, take a break,
muffle yourselves for Heaven's sake!
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If you accept the basic premises that your disbelief suspends,
the hero/heroine must survive unless the series ends.
Close calls provide the necessary pecuniary reason,
that he hero/heroine earns so much each season.
Our hero/heroine must always be smart, witty and urbane,
to defeat the villains, solve the crimes, and come in from the rain.
Heroes/heroines in the movies, TV, or on video tapes,
rarely make any errors except on the out-takes.
Mistakes in judgement, due to character flaws, temporary insanity,
whatever the cause, are overcome before there is real calamity.
The enemy misses, or the hero/heroine gets lucky,
"Its merely a flesh wound", nothing too yucky.
Should the hero/heroine need assistance from any "second banana",
the rescue occurs before the end of the next stanza.
Or, sometime, with but minutes to spare, just in the nick of time,
but first, a plethora of commercial messages to make a buck or dime.
Should our hero/heroine ever suffer lasting pains or trauma of the brain,
except in mini-series,…to be continued, series' hiatus, cliff hang.
Concussions and amnesia, life support on over-load,
our hero/heroine recovers completely before the last episode.
The hero is always handsome, in a rugged sort of way,
while the heroine is beautiful, in a sexy negligee`.
In the movies, on TV, whenever bullets fly the most,
somehow they miss the major stars and end up in a post.
If there is nothing left to hide behind, whenever bullets scatter,
they only pock the soil or ricochet somewhere it doesn't matter.
At least in books, or scripts that have a ring of truth,
do bullets, zipping, pause one to think of youth.
Action and adventure heroes/heroines personify the lore,
while, it seems, only villains die…to even up the score.
These "are just a few" of the many scenes to give us pause,
to suspend our disbelief in all, is to believe in Santa Claus.
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Maintain no permanent crossing of sanity lines
Between the "real" world's discovered shapes
And the imagined world's dream forms.
On trips taken and thoughts' spoken colors
Blended and bent mind warped textures
Recreating reality's old remembered spaces.
In any divorce, contested or not, lies' true textures
Cannot disguise the pained life forms
Left to deal with the losses of familiar shapes,
Of deeds left undone, of love denied, of vacated spaces
Devoid of "once upon a time" happy multi-colors
Now blackened souls, hardened lost life-lines.
Images of the past life confound the present forms,
Making uncertain new possibilities of brightly-lit colors.
Housing realities, lottery waiting lines,
Excess baggage, precious dear shapes,
New cargo to love, to help fill empty, lonely spaces,
And provide substance and sustenance to life's textures.
New loves revisited may define desired spaces
For families caught between proverbial lines.
Smooth out all the wrinkles and rough textures.
Make promises anew, beginnings to forms
That will bind up all heart-broken shapes
And restore the luster of love's true colors.
Mistakes forgiven, lost weight reduced shapes
To be toned still, to firmed sleek muscle textures.
A healthy body, tanned, sun-saved colors,
A mind that opens communication lines.
An allowance for differences, respect for personal spaces.
Motivation to grow, to make connected forms.
Harmonizing in unified composed calm colors,
In peaceful, loving, bed sharing spaces.
Mutual expectations of the future forms
The warp and weft of together tapestry's textures.
Patterns made from twinned threaded love lines,
Trusting in God's love in all His three shapes.
ENVOY: Basic Elements-artistically arranged lines, shapes, forms, colors,
textures, and spaces,
organized to create harmonious relationships, extended to include family groups, the love between
women and men, specifically husband and wife, as well as in the production of works of art.
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Leave a wake-up call
for the millennium year,
alerting the complacent
that have nodded off too long.
The malaise inflicted
by the millennium bug
is real. Blissful ignorance
won't make it go away.
The sky is falling, the sky…
is falling, Chicken
Little. Prepare now for the
The worst is coming,
case scenario, pre-ordained!
forecast a global doomsday,
ominous, total melt-down,
no quick fix this time,
the clock is the enemy.
10, 9, 8, 7, 6,
5, 4, 3, 2, 1, ought, ought,
does not compute, a still-born
New Year's Baby boy
Father Time's scythe, on hold!
systems, once "smart", now "dumbed-down",
grounding air traffic,
trickling faucet pipes, darkness.
Cars that are confused,
by missing one hundred year checks,
phone systems, emergency calls
out of commission ,
elevators stopped between floors.
Factories shut down,
federal departments too!
Banking, business stand-still!
Millions of dollars,
already spent, budgets depleted,
no one knows what is enough
dough for status quo,
no easy "chip shots", for sure!
crises' requires solutions,
committed people, working
night and day, over-time,
taking firm creative measures.
to prepare the world's units,
to undertake damage control,
faith not blinded by
the millennium malaise.
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every once in awhile
a gathering occurs
of things thought lost
drafts of poetry,
keys to locks
may be bolted
the organized clutter
two or more
"put things into
their proper place,"
and neither can remember
at an exponential rate
i could be robbed
and never discover
of real loss.
are like that
they are neatly
to share with
one man's junk
is another man's
we might never
we may bestow
the final audit!
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ON THE ART OF FLICKERING
To female folks, those of frivolous flashes,
Who flick and flutter their locks and lashes.
To all the flickers with long fabulous fluffy tresses,
To flirts and fritters who flaunt their fancy flitters.
To flippant flirts who take flights of fancy,
To fly-by-flings on flickers’ wings.
To flukey flukes, to flim-flam fakes
To flicker tails, to flirtatious rakes.
Who flex and feign their false intentions,
In mirrors of fluctuating dimensions.
If you must flick…then do so, please,
But without any pretensions!
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Do everything in moderation, a fine delicate balance,
Between the good and evil things that give life rhythm.
Take care not to exceed the limit, whatever the variety,
Of speed, credit, calories, sex…can there be too much repetition?
Don’t answer that merely rhetorical question…no need for contrasts
To my own opinions, I asked only to suggest…emphasis!
The ups and downs, the ins and outs, the breadth and depth of rhythm,
Beating hearts, beating drums, beating the odds, allowance for variety
Of counts, numerical references, sequence of events, steps in repetition,
Innuendoes, double-meanings, slightly hidden subtle contrasts,
Stressed vowels, stressed bowels, stressed emotions for emphasis,
Need breathing spaces, regularly paced movements, on time balance.
Equality for all, peace and mutual harmony, no wars for variety,
Between sexes, races, countries, "Imagine all the people…"repetition,
"Living in harmony…", John Lennon’s dream for the world, contrasts,
"You may say that I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one…", emphasis,
"Why don’t you all join us, and the world will be as one…", balance.
And, the beat goes on…from generation to generation, a shifting rhythm.
Somewhere along the way the stilled voices need to be heard anew, repetition,
A progression that will build from past foundations, edifices of contrasts,
Honored for their differences, respected for their existence, enduring emphasis,
To be desired among all the peoples and nations, recognition of real need balance,
No stigmas or prejudices attached, freedom to glorify all life, insisting rhythm,
Unity, solving global problems, moderating world environments’ variety.
Are we getting closer to the time of Armageddon, 2000, Y2K contrasts?
Computer malfunctions, electrical systems, global networks, banking, health-care emphasis,
A closed- for- repairs, shut-down, back-to-pencil-pushing situation, with no way, no balance!
Will Man’s inherent genius for problem creating/solving, finally be an undone rhythm?
Ignorance will not be so blissful, when the end is near, nor will any other options’ variety.
Decisions costing millions, outcomes to be nothing more than status-quo, repetition.
Damning God for human frailties and all our sinful vices’ past emphasis,
Can only lead to self-fulfilling prophecies, Nostradamus without balance,
Does hope remain in Pandora’s Jar, condemning us to all evils’ rhythm?
Optimism is a virtue that I stubbornly still cling to maintain possible variety,
A semblance of order out of chaos’ unleashed furious, unceasing repetition,
A denial, perhaps, of things to come, but preferable to the logic of what contrasts..
All things being equal, which they never are, emphasis that there may not
balance between things of contrasts, no yin and yang existence, no harmonious rhythm, only on-going repetition
of past mistakes, but, clinging still to illusive hope for the future of mans’ existence and variety.
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That the phone/door bell will ring,
as you step into the shower to sing.
Delivery men are always later,
than any procrastinator.
The roads you choose to travel.
Lead to ruin, ruts, or gravel.
Junk mail, sweepstakes by the ton,
proclaiming, "You may have won!"
Along with countless bills that never cease,
are credit card promos to make your debt increase.
Just when you think your work is done,
more comes along to spoil your fun.
Meetings, committees, wherever you congregate,
always obligations, crises that cannot wait.
Birthdays, weddings, and other occasions,
requiring gifts and cards of all persuasions.
Retirement seems so far away,
first must come mortgages to pay.
But, rest assured, the day will come,
if health permits, no nursing home.
Life goes on till death and taxes take their toll,
and "Rest In Peace", becomes your goal.
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CREME DE LA CREME
Cream always rises to the top,
But, when it sours it is
Just so much clabber!
If we must separate
The cream from the milk
I guess I would…
Just as soon be included
In the 2% cream/milk category,
Homogenized, of course.
Siduri, milk of human kindness,
Please, for the whole house,
Put it on my tab!
Lactaid for all those bluers
Who are lactose intolerant,
Make sure that this milk
Comes only from contented,
But not too cute, cows.
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My on-line connection to cyber-speak is broken,
and I am adrift, cold turkey, disabled, unspoken.
Computer gurus and gadget wizards are attacking
my computer's innards.
The operation could take "several days",
the "de-cluttering" first, saving stage.
Then reprogramming, 28,800 mode,
Windows 95, same pass code.
All for the sake of electronic salvation,
my confusion to become reorganization.
Faster, better, more powerful locomotion,
double-click moused graphic resolution.
My Packard Bell 486, multi-media, sound blaster machine,
will be revived, restored, anti-virused, and clean.
A present for Christmas from Mini and Jon,
I can hardly wait to get back "on".
Meanwhile, it is Eduquest Forty-five,
upon which I must survive.
Lorna's 'puter, brought home from school,
with my Panasonic Quiet b/w printer, how cruel
but I suffer now from withdrawal pangs.
My friends on-line from AOL, must wonder,
what kind of spell that I am under.
Poetry I may still find a way to write,
but not yet rhyme any on-line flight.
Exercising my mind will have to do,
until the treadmill arrives, nothing else is new!
So, my friends, I hope you still are,
when I get back to Cyberia, afar.
I wish you well, "Happy Holidays",
and a "Happy New Year!" computer age.
(Dedicated to my friends on-line to whom this may concern, and, to whom
may read this, upon my return.)
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ON BECOMING A HOUSEHOLD NAME
Becoming a household name,
or cause celebre`
of world-wide web acclaimed fame,
hitting the top-ten's listing,
the most wanted for anything…
Struggling to arrive someplace,
identity intact, still
not knowing who is a friend,
seeking love that never ends.
Above it all? Have a clue?
Your head in the clouds?
Found ancestral coat of arms?,
birthright, makes all blood run blue.
A place in history claimed,
calling cards upon a plate,
give us a call, set a date,
party of one?, family rate?
Pseudonyms, pen-names, akas,
"Who was that masked man, Mom?"
Tonto says, "Kemo-Sabe,
means a good and faithful friend."
No identity crisis large,
Alzheimer's disease, creeping
senility, no children weeping
a pauper's grave, blank tombstone.
Better to have lived unknown,
than to die alone.
The fickle finger of fate,
tracing time-lines, declaring
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In another place and time, where memories abound,
their re-collections are, in telling, sometimes skewed.
Motion picture images and musical messages bring
us back again to revisit days long gone, reviewed.
Distance has blurred events and circumstances
that accompanied their passing footage frames.
Horses, people too, flickering, backwards across the screen.
Never quite have understood how Dad could back up trains.
We all danced to the old familiar tunes, and sang ‘till voices strained.
At family get togethers we shared food, our gifts and blessings.
Sometimes we shared tears and sorrow, as death could only measure,
the lifetimes of loved ones we remember, fondly missing.
Wedding vows, marriages, children, laughing, playing.
Birthdays and parties, days of sunny weather,
the chill of winter’s wind, the warmth of days to treasure.
More than fifty years, returned on reels, spliced hocus-pocus.
Come flooding, cracked celluloid dreams not quite in focus,
of Christmases, Easters, Thanksgivings, reunions’ picnics,
parks, vacation trips, fishing, camping, campgrounds’ ruckus.
Puzzles pieced, cherished quilts also, paintings, magic tricks.
Life-times, laugh-lines, growing up and old, gaining pounds,
still seeking wisdom, weren’t we promised it in our youth,
that it would come when we grew older and understood the truth?
The truth is seen, in mirrors reflected, no take-up reels re-wound!
Wrinkles, gray hair, we wear bi-focals on our faces,
but we still think young and though we’ve lost a step or two,
our love has grown, for each other, stronger through the ages.
You’re still beautiful. You consider me a handsome fool.
We have connections, we belong to each other’s heart,
we grew up together, best friends, through all tomorrows,
whatever changes we will remain such until death do us part.
The Great Director up above has had the script right from the start.
He made us all, the cast and crew of "Early Memories",
a whole variety show, filmed slices of sense and nonsense
with accompanying flaws, we’re captured for posterity,
few scenes did he edit, nothing on the cutting room floor.
His techniques, which I adapted, filming thumbs and the like,
double-exposures recorded David’s birthday riding a horse and trike.
Filmed lovingly, if not with skill. If your head aches from viewing
doubles, set the projector on pause, get up and take a pill.
The head ache will pass, but the heart aches may linger,
when you view the back of someone’s head, dark Christmas trees,
two-to-be wedded, both unknowns, recognized, a thumb and finger,
mini-series, generations of storied dimensions, horse shoe games with vigor.
Fractured time capsules, developed, canned, reeled and spliced,
re-produced, somewhat edited, times past, now compressed,
copied onto video tapes to share with families and friends, who else?
Brought to you by Cobb & Co. Studio Arts, better known as Bob & Lorna.
Sorry, all of you who may fret and moan about seeing un-photogenic sides,
but re-takes are quite impossible, now that we are miles apart and grown.
The light bar has died that blinded all our eyes, no more flashes, only darkness,
we fade to black, no more frames, b & w, nor color scenes in bright sunlight!
This poem has been revised, edited from the original text, written quite a few years ago. It is my hope that you may recognize that the poetry has improved, along with my poetic skill. View the video at least one more time again, the staccato glimpses of planes in flight, backward-walking glances, kids once more, without cares or apologies, nor any malcontent. I re-dedicate this poem in memory to my Dad, John J. Cobb, with all due respect. His life was spent in serving youth, a Scouter until the end. "Early Memories"…this poem is over-done, but the memories remain, unfaded, along with the Bell and Howell... images that have burned holes into my brain.
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