One finds comfort and solace in the printed words,
the remembering of pleasurable warm smells,
voices that speak quietly with reassuring sounds,
hushing and calming desires with soft gentle touches
that bring to mind the tenderest thoughts
of a first love's kiss upon lips' sweet wine tastes.
The seasons, each in turn, yield up their own unique smells
that blend with the weather in all varied sounds,
from winter's chill howl, to summer's tanned touches,
North to South post cards, exchanging cold for warm thoughts,
while fantasizing travel plans, rendezvous for lover's tastes,
where love strangers awkwardly embrace with endearing words.
There are many ways to communicate love's sounds,
but none can surpass a sensuous smile, body language, knowing touches
that convey through heart-felt gestures, deep, yearning thoughts.
The champagne, shortcakes, fresh berries and whipped cream tastes,
and napkined love notes, hastily scrawled penciled words,
making love while skinny dipping to the scent of chlorine smells.
The "missing you" messages that sigh for unfelt touches,
through clandestine E-mail postings seeking cyber thoughts,
channeling kinetic energies to transform pathways to tastes,
never using obscenities, offensive language words,
that could permeate the air waves like foul dangerous smells,
only dulcet tones that are found in love song sounds.
I can hardly wait to hear from you your latest thoughts,
about lobster dinners, or oysters' succulent tastes,
invitations with candle light and moon beam words,
hot bodies on cool percale partaking lover's smells,
Alabama's rains providing background love music sounds,
for the climaxing duality and, close, spoon-snuggle touches.
Lives apart, distant miles, thwarted longings for sins' tastes,
only collaborating, Platonic voices wafting poetically inspired words,
full of, not too subtle fantasies, of silken scarves and other exotic
smells,
not facing the realities of our dearest, closest sounds,
we spend nights, wet-dreaming, making pillow kissing touches,
all in vain excitement, and un-fulfilling thoughts.
Envoy: Words cannot describe the sounds, smells, tastes, nor
the touches our thoughts have alluded to,
our collective memories, along with faithful E-mail posts, printed
copies of drawings,
phone calls, letters, and monthly post cards exchanged..
(A Grandfather's Prayer)
by Robert R. Cobb
Someday,
If twisted minds unbend
Allowing brains to be unwashed
And whole again.
Truth,
Now hidden by disguise,
Designed to warp and hypnotize,
Will be revealed, and open eyes.
Lives,
Once shattered, by dreams misplaced,
Someday may find the peace
The lies erased.
Hearts,
That long to beat as one,
Father/Daughter, Mother/Son,
Will understand, when grief is done.
Love,
That still exists, for some,
Is kept alive through hope
That God's will be done.
The box that is me is not really a box you can see.
An essence is seldom contained, catalogued, captured or framed.
I am.but, why am I? My box is full of life. Hopes, dreams and
schemes,
Illusive, unpinned wings.
Art, Love, Music, Poetry, daily group encounters, formed cross words
of the mind,
Teaching.only to be taught that life is too short to encounter all
of
God's mysteries, let alone, figure them out.
The "box", if it be a box at all, has not top, nor bottom, nor walls,
Yet, it's never empty, but unable to be filled, usually in motion,
or,
reflectively.still.
Age comes to many, wisdom to few, thoughts keep on flowing, but the
senses aren't new,
Trials and tribulations, family and friends, old ties and new ones
bound to their ends.
Boxes of memories, future and past, cannot be captured, nor put under
glass;
Only savored, remembered, regretted, forgotten, (past due), promised,
fulfilled, or started anew.
Debts.to society, corporations, and friends, taxes and insurance that
only death ends.
Bills that come due.some even get paid.at the end of the month.others,
delayed.
A sense of humor, though a few tears may fall, but.if winners of
sweepstakes ever come true,
Then, my share of something, (worthwhile or not), may fill up my bank
book, but never my box.
Early retirement? Changes in style? Life-time commitments,
vacations,
life's never dull.
Occupations, professions, exciting and fun, routines, no routines,
work
never quite done.
Interests within, interests without, no box could ever hold a
grandfather's doubts,
The mechanics, and other fools of the trade, only breed ignorance,
and
cars that get stayed.
Neighborhoods, school yards, houses and rooms, organized confusions,
meetings foredoomed!
Places for everything, well out of their place. No box can ever
hold
them, no pencil erase.
Life is a treasure, its gems to enjoy. A hedonist's pleasure, a
vicarious ploy.
If boxes were meant to hold fools like me, then why should I resist?
I resent being labeled politically tagged, don't like being ordered,
hate being nagged.
With all my foibles, mistakes and sins, Pandora is unleashed and
un-boxed again.
Don't try to collect me, nor figure me out.the times I've enjoyed
wasting were never in doubt.
Like Popeye said, with a grin, "I yam what I yam. Don't ever
box me,
you just cannot win."
Sanity is but an imaginary dream,
hear the primal voice within-awake and scream.
Memories, like fossil finger prints,
provide the evidence.
That the past we recollect may be a lie,
as well as the future and present-tense.
You came to me and gave so much,
is there still room to give me more?
Pain becomes the virgin,
where pleasure is the whore.
Time is a clock-maker's whim,
we must face and bear it.
Seek the truth we hunger for,
that all may feed and share it.
What makes the ancient sun blaze on
conjuring life-giving gods to everyone?
Under time's water-shed face of tears,
we find reality too-is but a dream,
dissolved,
in a salty sea.
THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE by Robert R. Cobb
I have been there,
to the "middle of nowhere",
a gas station/restaurant.
It does exist, "nowhere", that is!
On U.S., Route 50, fifty miles
from Anyplace Else, (Ely), Nevada.
Stopped in one fine summer day,
not a cloud in sight, no hint of rain.
Needing gas, bladder relief too,
stepped inside to seek a restroom,
when, at that instant, I heard
a thunderous BOOM!!
"Was that thunder?" I asked
to no one, nowhere. A patron replied,
"I think that was your car!" I gave him
a blank stare.
Looked out the window,
as steam clouds billowed,
from radiator hose exploded!
Family in wagon, trailer in tow,
Hood in the air, all stunned
by the blow! Nowhere, no go!
"Not a garage, only a trailer, out back",
said a feller who wore a "Middle of Nowhere" cap.
"Wait for the state police to give you a ride",
was the suggestion given from the capped man inside.
"We have no tow truck, just Mom's disabled Jeep",
he added, "I'm sure that she is no longer asleep."
"Perhaps a hose from her Jeep will fit your Ford",
he knocked on the trailer door to get her word.
Ten dollars later, used Jeep hose transplanted,
we're on the road to anyplace else on the planet!
Arriving in Ely, to the one garage in town,
just as the Ford decided to reject its transplanted item.
Another thunder BOOMER, another cloud of steam!
Fortunately, proper repairs could here be found.
"The Middle of Nowhere"< now only a dream,
several hours later we camped near a babbling stream.
Other incidents, less Ford traumatic, happened in
another state of panic, Wyoming, but, that's another poem!
of all wing-ed things
that have metamorphosized
from larvae cocoons
fine, metaphorically
speaking of, houseflies,
horseflies, dragonflies, and many
butterflies, other flutter-byes,
I think that the moth
still has the prettiest wings.
What goes around comes around,
no matter how you slice it,
or portion out its measure.
Take a little bit of Heaven
while you can, be it art or poetry,
they both to life bring pleasure.
Wonder no more, wander any highway,
there is beauty to be found,
along side each and every byway.
Observe quietly, listen to the sounds,
forming words of wisdom, truth abounds,
waiting for the seeker, poet, artist, child,
To come, to find, to ferret out the treasures
in surplus, enough to go around for every man's
childish pleasures. Artistry, poetically,
all the words are there to describe the beauty
of the world's uncovered secrets,
and to make them visible treats for all minds to store.
The sometime poet writes again,
and hope you folks aren't bored yet.
When does "the furnace clicking" close,
is there time for one more sonnet?
I hear the café` neighbor, dwain, shouting,
"Duck.another one.incoming!"
He ducks his head beneath the bar,
and nearly spills his brew.
The other patrons of café`, blue persuasion,
for some time have not responded.
Trev's "obscenities at wife" line,
may have them discombobbled.
Or, perhaps, 'tis "dog's toenails",
that hinder their composes.
I'm sure its not "the hardwood floor",
where we all danced awhile.
It cannot be that poems made,
by fools, like me, have sent them all a-hither.
If so, let this be, my final poem of sequential phrases,
Trev inspired creative thoughts to flow from
many different stages.
LATE AT NIGHT MISSING
YOU.
WHEN THOUGHTS
CAN'T
BE DISTRACTED,
IGNORED
NO
MORE.
ALONE IN BED
I
THINK OF
YOU
AND WHAT
WE
HAVE
TOGETHER.
PART OF ME
IS
GONE, WHENEVER YOU'RE
AWAY.
LIFE IS
NOT WORTH
LIVING DREAMS
UNSHARED.
MILES AWAY
BEFORE
WE MEET TO
TELL OF
EVENTS.
TRAVEL
SAFELY BACK
HOME.
To exorcise the fat within,
to become, not exactly thin.
A waist is a terrible thing to mind,
to diet is too, by itself, unkind.
Celebrations and holidays abound,
everywhere I go, rich food is found.
Eat this, nibble that, try not to gorge,
I still get fat.
Scales that tip upon my step,
deny my thin, svelte inner self.
Overweight, yet not obese,
I still am able to see my knees.
Time to stop this food fad chase,
count calories, exercise, fat to erase.
Pace myself to walk away my gain,
to relieve my stress could be a strain.
Resolutions to keep, (this time for sure),
eat only healthy foods, extol a virtuous cure.
Avoid the fat, select only the lean,
trim down my bulk on the treadmill machine.
It took me awhile to add all these pounds,
the miles of treading to "melt" them, astounds!
How many months will it take? I think, forever?
Upon this treadmill, I must endeavor.
A fair weather athlete, who has found too many foul days,
the treadmill, (God, give me strength), to wall anyways.
In spite of the weather outside my home,
like a crazed hamster, the treadmill I must roam.
Perhaps with a regular exercise regimen.
I may become pleased to see myself again.
Mornings and evenings, if I religiously train,
ought to rid me of pounds and inches extra I now retain.
By January, the treadmill should be fully installed,
to take me on the endless journey to where I've been called.
A trek that will lead to places, not seen for awhile,
I am prepared to hike for many a mile.
No more love handles, back to a "regular" size,
a thinner mid-section, trimmed and firm thighs.
With a pack on my back, and music in my ears,
I will remember Philmont, shedding pounds as well as tears.
By June, if I exercise on both fair and rainy days,
I should take off enough pounds to put a smile on my face.
Of course, if my loved ones all follow my routes,
we should all feel better about our birthday suits.
(Dedicated to the pounds that will disappear, and to the time
and energy expended to make this happen.)
"It will not be.a piece of cake!"
The treasures are to be found,
In the richly layered phrases,
That trip lightly across the lips and tongue,
but weigh heavily upon the body, mind, and soul.
Dear Alabama Annie, thinking poetry,
Renga chains and other things,
sestinas and villanelles,
locking horns and
bruhahas
curmudgeon's note
provoking.
Salvos, more self-absorbed spews,
maunderings halted,
night wishing for ass kickin'
and put up or shut
up thoughts,
a gal wonky, late
at night.
Bathsuit tied to pool's ladder, skinny dipping fun,
swimming free as one re-born,
inspiring poems, like Erato,
writ down by amused
fool, me,
with nothing better
to do.
Littering broken hearts, strewn
unfinished love poems,
songs unsung, pictures undrawn,
cast out by pilgrim
children,
Mother N's recycle
squad.
An embarrassed troglodyte
seeking shelter from
rainy Alabaman downpours,
hoping friends from
back East show,
persuaded to spend
the night.
No matter how mnemonic
reflective dreams be,
recalling things not done yet,
unmeasured fantasies'
parts
are only estimations.
No Calliope's epics here-
but, before I quit,
if staying power clicks on,
collaborating science
may write one hundred
stanzas.
Please awaken to hear your own shadows
And know they tell truth without illusions.
They have experienced painful renderings
Before, and have the wisdom of contrasts,
If not of wise decisions. They suffer de-visions,
Splitting you apart from earlier reflections.
Proclamations, to the air visions,
Images lurking in your own reflections,
Mirrored scenes through dark scrimmed shadows.
Intermittently bursting, un-silent contrasts,
To kept normal thoughts poetic renderings,
And half a lifetime of ghostly illusions.
Dreams spoken aloud, reflections,
To "break no laws" man en-visions,
Strident voices, harsh, raspy contrasts
To natural conversant tonal renderings.
Concern for comforting self illusions,
"Keeping Up Appearances" shadows.
Free to choose, to speak, to echo voiced contrasts
That suffer un-deafened ears expectant renderings,
Of two-way conversations, not self de-illusions,
>From tabled rooms or closed door shadows.
Chaotic nonsense, bounced surreal reflections?
Imbalanced, drugged reactions' visions?
I see you, sometimes, in my own illusions.
Compulsive, inner thought shadows,
Voiced silently, to myself, reflections.
Faceless, nameless, mindless visions.
Compelled by forces unseen renderings.
Draw your own conclusions' contrasts.
Quick, vignetted, gestural renderings,
Real, but unreal, seen, but unseen, contrasts!
"This is me!" stranger with un-faced illusions,
Angry at suggestions of past reflections
That we recognize from hospital shadows,
And in places we no longer care to see in visions.
BY ROBERT R. COBB, 12/27/97
ENVOY: Unseen voices, heard remarks from unknown sources, spoken
to the air voices that linger in mind shadows. Visions of reflections,
hard to recognize contrasts from one we have loved from the start.
Illusions, we try to tell ourselves, that we no longer care to remember.
Renderings that we wish gone.
being in your arms
warmed by your close body heat
caressed by your touch
heartbeats quickened in time synch
matching rhythms steady, sure,
together, rising.
feverish pitch, tossed
aside clothing,
connected,
physically one
emotionally,
two souls
cleaved, eternally
bound
by faith, love strengthened.
committed beyond
reason for life and breaths shared
facing the future
unafraid adventurers
on the journey, now, always
for each other's fate.
Capriciously we dream and gather,
to scheme surreal imaginations.
From our fertile, fickle minds-a-flight,
we journey to precarious destinations.
Knowing not what our visions will become,
we amble on as pilgrims do.
Searching for the dreamscape places,
where unfettered minds may roam.
With vagaries intact like virgins' maiden-heads,
I resist the impulse to consummate.
But still, my dream songs must be sung,
to anyone who cares to listen.
Listen now to tenor tones of whimsicality,
until wisdom brings about tones of reason.
VANITY, IS THY TRUE NAME, POET? By Robert R. Cobb
Poets seeking publishers in vain,
may pay dearly for the privilege.
Poets who become household names,
are finding different paths and other ways.
Avoid the publish or perish mythology,
vain glory makes a sad anthology.
Pen names and aka's may provide anonymity,
some famous poets are nameless entities.
Pomposity is seldom worth the price,
vanity, is thy true name, poet?
Drawn in be contests, lured by prizes,
entry fees and vain disguises.
Appealing to some urgent need,
to seek recognition or fame.
Some publishers seem to be well-versed,
to scam and scheme away the naïve` poet's
purse.
True poetic justice would not be so blind,
if more scoundrels were to be derided.
Expose them all, for charlatans they may be,
who poetically prey and practice their chicanery.
VERNAL EQUINOX by Robert R. Cobb
spring has sprung sweetly
but nothing sweeter than you
could dispel longing!
Waiting for your presence here
your voice, your face, your bold touch.
come to me dearest
soon, for your love is needed
to quench my thirsting
and nourish my hungry soul
you alone can fill up.
collaboration
mystifyingly amiss,
am I out of place
and out of order, wanting
to hear expressions unheard?
Time passes slowly
but doubts unreasonably
occupy my thoughts
intruding impatiently
on my bemused poetic mind.
Another vernal
whimsey winging its way south
hoping a "mistress of revels"
kindly responds
towards a northerly ear.
Casting
all aside
making haste to reply
soon regarding questions
of a collaborative kind
from one who misses annie.
WE'RE SORRY! By Robert R. Cobb
4/10/98
We're sorry, all lines
are busy. Please hang up now
and try again later. We're
The message repeats,
obviously re-looped.
Are they really now?
Sorry? I dial them once more,
after all, it is later now,
they are still sorry,
but, I am growing angry!
They promised service,
never more, sorry, busy
lines. We've up-graded now
for convenience,
no more customer delays.
Peak time, no problems,
they lied to me, not once, twice,
now three times, four times, more, plus,
they are not sorry,
never were, not now, no time!
They are profiteers,
who deceive their customers
with false-hoods and dis-connects,
altering contracts,
no warnings, no prior notice!
No replies, accounts,
erroneous extra bills,
no mistakes from their viewpoint,
all done on purpose,
no service is unlimited!
We're sorry, you have
our number to make complaints,
but, our lines are still busy,
ain't our service great!
We charge extra to unwary.
Credit company,
card numbered account, dispute,
e-mailed to alleged server,
also sent by snail mail,
Platinum Plus, complaint dept.
No resolutions,
yet, still on hold, off on-line,
try again.much later now,
same message, unchanged,
We're sorry, all lines are.click!
I fell asleep and dreampt,
of clicking furnace noises.
I awoke to hear my neighbor,
shouting obscenities!
I looked to my right, across the bed,
at wife, still sleeping.
And, got up, to stretch, and seek relief,
from a bladder, full, distending.
Dog's toenails raked the hardwood floor,
his tail was where I landed.
WHERE IS SPRING? By Robert R. Cobb
April, a critical time of the year. Winter's breathe lingers on.
Snow, dead flowers, and pot-holes. Road repairs in full-bloom.
Heaven's gate was more than enough to make my head spin.
I can live with a few dead flowers. Finding my way to work is
always an
April challenge. Spring break has come and gone, teaching, only
to be taught again.
Challenges and risks, who dares to make and take them? Every
month has its fools.
But, thanks to God and the IRS, April seems to garner more and more
fools every year!
And yet, after many trials, I am back. No longer searching cyber-space
for
the blue denizens.
Not quite on the level of true salvation, but definitely cathartic.
Will Spring ever arrive?
Right now, I'll just try to ride out the rest of April, and hope for
an
early Summer, more poetry tobe penned, paintings to be painted, and
life to be lived.