Poetry Page 6 by Robert R. Cobb
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© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb
All my original material is protected by creator's copyright, according to this footnote:
 "Copyright protection subsists . . . in original works of authorship fixed in any tangible medium of expression, now known or later developed, from which they can be perceived, reproduced, or otherwise communicated, either directly or with the aid of a machine or device."  17 U.S.C. 102(a).     "A work is "fixed" in a tangible medium of expression when its embodiment in a copy or phonorecord, by or under the authority of the author, is sufficiently permanent or stable to permit it to be perceived, reproduced, or otherwise communicated for a period of more than transitory duration."  17 U.S.C. 101. 


You are among friends
where ever we chance to meet
on the Internet or street
of any city,
cyberly-connected links.

E-mail me your thoughts
of art and poetry, friend,
share your tears and your laughter
as I will with you,
dreaming voices and faces...

From unknown places
words travel swiftly forward
and back home again
making space and time
as close as two breaths of air.

© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb

By Candlelight...

Rekindle the flames
that ignite your passions
and spark your desires.

Let Barbra lend her voice
as a backdrop to a seasonal
sensuous interlude.

Whispered loving words
exchanged pillow talk.

Two warmed bodies
close, spoon-snuggled.

Lovers, each movement
an eternal moment,
a promise renewed.

© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb

Steamy Stuff

Put some "Heet" in your car,
some cream in your coffee,
a smile on your face,
and, keep all things

© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb


   Gore has reported today that he still has "a 50/50 chance." What do you
   say? I say, I sincerely hope that he still has a chance, but the odds are
   elephantinely stacked against him! Whatever your persuasion might be in
   this election debacle, politically or poetically speaking, I offer this



   Intimidation tactics and dirty tricks,
   we have grown to expect from GOP-ricks,
   who strut and boast and assume the stance
   of arrogant cock-crows at a victory dance.
   Money to spend, money to burn, on rallys
   orchestrated, spontaneous mobs that return
   daily, chanting taunts and spurious slogans,
   waving placards, shouting, no more counting,
   the election is over, the booths are all closed!
   They proclaim the big white house is ours,
   and saying thus, they rehearse the West Wing roles,
   from their self-ordained presidential scripts
   while a voice prompts from the shrubbery,
   off-stage, psst..."read my lips!"

   © 2000, by Robert R. Cobb

Dear Bluers,

   I thought some of you, perhaps all, would appreciate my poetic take on
   the election debacle in Florida.



    Butterflies are free...
    in the Sunshine State
    where ballots like wings,
    both left and right,
    are designed to confuse
    non-elephant lovers.

    Butterflies are free...
    they migrate from state to state.
    With wings folded at rest,
    like ballots into boxes,
    no one can clearly tell
    what patterns they behold.

    Butterflies are free...
    as elections are meant to be,
    where deception prevails not,
    and real choices are not muted,
    nor diverted by design.

    Butterflies are free...
    in Austin, Texas, hiding
    amidst the "shrubbery,"
    while elephants gather
    to truncate their plans,
    before true counts are made
    to inform a waiting nation.

    © 2000 by Robert R. Cobb

Well done, thou good and faithful poet, David.

   Truer words were never so
   cogently articulated as those
   that graze within the bounds,
   like cloned sheep seeking
   their identity in a vastly,
   over-crowded field of clover.

   © 2000, by Robert R.Cobb

We need a dead animal religious love poem about poetry.

   - Kim

   Kim--remember, you asked for it!



   You were nothing but a mutt,
   but I loved you, Alexander,
   as a mottled wrinkled pup
   chasing your tail in circles
   'cross the yard that you,
   later disappeared from
   on nightly forays
   siring puppies of your own.
   Returning home after a night
   on the town with some bitch in heat
   like a sailor with a dame in every port,
   inspiring poetry like your name-sake,
   Alexander, the Great, conquering your enemies
   in dog-fights that would do Snoopy's Red Baron proud.
   Until one day, you never came home. I prayed for your
   safe return that day in church, and every day,
   for three long months, the dog-days of summer.
   Then you returned, limping home, one ear chewed off,
   one eye swollen shut by a massive tumor on your jaw.
   Dad said, "We have to put him down, son,he's in pain."
   He handed the 20-gauge silently to me, then, finally. said,
   "Take him to the open field across the way. We will bury him
   on the hill." I prayed again that day after Alex was,
   mercifully, shot-gunned-dead,over a make-shift cross,
   above his grave. You were nothing but a mutt, Alexander,
   but I loved you.

    © 2000, by Robert R.Cobb



   Can anyone possessed
   with God-given talents
   be unfeeling exercising
   the gifts?

   Sharing whatever fruits
   are bountiful, in measured
   portions, with those in need,
   requires compassionate talent.

   Talent will overcome doubt
   if, in its creative presence
   exists a heart-felt spirit,
   true compassion is also about.

   © 2000, by Robert R. Cobb

Vociferous Villains

   Say what you will, even be profane,
   insinuations, self-created strife
   in Cafe-Blue, blockers try to abstain,
   deleting trolls invoking diatribes.

   Exciting literary issues,or threads-bearing tedium,
   may be saved, possibly deleted, likely ignored.
   We offer new-comers drinks for free at our cyber-bar-forum
   and hope that they may never to baiting succumb.

   Beware of word piranhas who school aside Cafe-Blue's beach
   lurking for tender morsels, phrases to consume,
   prey that they may ravish when within their grasp and reach.

   © 2001, by Robert R. Cobb

Viktor wrote:

   muscles in marble
   sperm is a fluid plaster
   afterwards we are but

   Bob added:

   first spurt of sperm
   ejaculate speed
   28.2 miles per hour
   fastest runner
   100 yard dash
   27.6 miles per hour.

© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb

In the Interest

In the interest of brevity
with a serious intent
to leave out levity,
I rise to make this statement,
to be taken as a motion,
"I propose we ruminate
awhile, eschewing rhyming
words, to designate,
that we are true poets,
and all others, free versites,
are johnny-come-lates."

© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb

Robert R. Cobb writes
Imagination. . .

seeking reality finds
some dreams can come true.

known values, numerically,
assumes the unknown.

data statistically
proclaims evidence.

expands universal truths
making us feel small.

Apiary hives
illustrate existing plans
assuring our space.

 © 1997, by Robert R.Cobb

   Open Window

   Storm clouds arising,
   passionate, impatient dream
   lover sleeping, quiet and still
   open window, rains
   cooling the night air.

   Framed, silhouette dark,
   back-lightening bolting sky,
   curtains blowing wet, and I
   shuddering, close sash,
   turn to lover's sleepless call.

   Warmed in her embracing arms,
   driven by torrential sounds,
   snuggled, draw, locked together,
   comfort found, knowing
   rhythms unite us.

 © 2000, by Robert R.Cobb


As a retired teacher, I see little harm in this site,
(but, who really knows, I could be lying.)
Kids today are exposed to many things that are detrimental to their
lives. Schools are particularly concerned about violence, hazing,
sexual harassment, sexual abuse, drugs, truancy, behavior
problems, discipline, suicides, security, theft, vandalism, cheating,
plaigerism, peer group pressure,racism, and lies. They have a full plate menu!
Sometimes education has to be achieved through a back-door,
due to all the problems that kids today have, emotionally and physically.
Schools have a large burden, being "in loco parentis,"
trying to do all and be all to ensure the health, safety, educational
growth in a multi-cultural, diverse abilities, adolescent population.
Tolerance for lies in the classroom is an issue that most teachers
don't want to deal with, but feel that it is necessary. To promote
the truth is a virtue that teachers have or soon acquire...to be fair,
to respect authority, to honor honesty, to prepare students to accept responsibility,
or face consequences for insuborination, or other offences. School rules have to be followed.
Kids, will make mistakes. Zero tolerance for mistakes is not the answer!
Kids need the opportunity to learn from their mistakes in a safe environment.

© 2000, by Robert R.Cobb

Internet Heaven

Dear Lord of All above,
beyond infernal, etheral space,
through Your eternal love
please prepare me a place,
where I may receive and send
e-mails as I rest in peace.
Keep me connected, no end,
if I may pray to be so bold,
forever is far too long to be on hold.

I am just an Internet junky,
I confess that I'm addicted
to universal relay locator keys,
and world wide web, unexpurgated.
Please, Lord, forgive me for my sins on Earth,
if ever You may deem me enough educated,
to confide just what Your Addy's worth.

Dear Lord, if it is not too much to ask,
I'd like a Heavenly keyboard, free
from typos and sins of omission, tasks
made user-friendly, designed orthopedically;
And, a computer system, well within Your Power,
that is secure, without cookies, nor virus, virtually
3D, DVD, surround sound at any given hour.
No spamming, no channel jamming,
no list-serve trolling, no uncontrolled flaming.
No need for cyber-nannies, no porno-passing-hosers,
no hackers, scamming hustlers, no pedeophile chat-room posers.

No Devil, no e-mail demons, no casino scenes,
no sweepstakes,  games of chance, nothing untoward,
nor censored, nor monitored, filtered, all kept clean.
Perhaps I am asking for too much from Your Word,
what with other plights demanding Your attention,
like famines, earthquakes, floods, and fights,
pestilence, sanctity of life, nuclear proliferation.

I am not praying for any satellite-spy-in-the-sky,
God, You know that's not what I'm seeking,
nor any Big Brother looking askance with one eye
upon my private business affairs, tracking
my life movements and moments telescopically.

God, you know what's in my heart and mind,
what's really behind words, poetically spoken,
I put  faith in You, Lord, my convictions blind,
to cure the world's ills, to fix all that is broken.

 © 2001, by Robert R. Cobb

 Freshly Squeezed

Putting words that rhyme
together seems to be so glib.
Either I am past my prime,
or the poetic pot needs a lid.
Someone should invent a word
to rhyme with orange, is that absurd?
No crises in mid-life or line,
oranges there are too sub-lime.
To open lines of rhymes that say
orange, fruit or color, is okay.
Orange marmalade on toast, may
even be the thing to start your day.
There's seldom any citric-acid splash
from orange juice, freshly squeezed, in a glass.

© 2001 by Robert R. Cobb

Owed  to Bernard

Bernard is a poetic saint
who makes up rhyming words that 'aint
about purple, burple beer.
Bernard is a brave saint
thrusting rhyme-words, parry, feint,
no cowardly lion, hued orange,
he has courage, courage, courange.
Bernard is a word-smith rhyming saint,
his words never lack-luster, nothing quaint.
His poetry licence entitles him, by degrees,
to coin new rhyming conundrum-bies.

© 2001 by Robert R. Cobb

Poetry Catamaran

   "Just how advanced a poetic craft need be
   to sail along the 'known mainstream' down
   to the poetic sea?"

© 2001 by Robert R. Cobb

Robert writes:  Dear Bernard,

This has been fun!  Perhaps, if you agree, our poetic exchanges
could find their way, sequentially, into the next issue of  P.O.E.M.S.


All things considered. . .

Progress 'aint all it's cracked up to be
I' ll cheer for health, wealth, longevity
A mind that still has all its faculty
Grand kids upon my lap and knee
A wife growing up and old with me.

©  2001, by Robert R. Cobb

Bernard Gluck wrote:

 I DON'T use conundrums for yearsHave even cut down on my beersWe know it protectsWhile engaging in sexLet's all hear it for progress ! THREE CHEERS !
----- Original Message -----
From: rrcobb
To: Bernard Gluck
Sent: Sunday, April 01, 2001 6:12 PM
Subject: Re: Re Robert's need to rhyme with "orange"
 Owed  to Bernard

Bernard is a poetic saint
who makes up rhyming words that 'aint
about purple, burple beer.
Bernard is a brave saint
thrusting rhyme-words, parry, feint,
no cowardly lion, hued orange,
he has courage, courage, courange.
Bernard is a word-smith rhyming saint,
his words never lack-luster, nothing quaint.
His poetry licence entitles him, by degrees,
to coin new rhyming conundrum-bies.

© 2001 by Robert R. Cobb

Bernard Gluck wrote:

Re Robert's need to rhyme with "orange" P.O.E.M.S. #529 A Rhyme For "Orange" It isn't hard to rhyme with "orange"Just be brave and show some courangeYou can stretch pronounciationWith a word of your creation.See? You knew just what I meantSo that word's a little bent !But the meaning came out clearJust a little strange to hear.How about a rhyme for "purple""Some folks say that beer is burple"Bet you knew what I just said !Just exactly what you read. Bernie

Dan Is Great

Ah, but what is greatness
Upon whose table
have I dined?
Whose words eaten thus?
I am full
of greatness plus.

© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb


God moves in mysterious ways,
His wonders to perform.
He made the world in 6 days,
then rested on His throne.

If He, in time, makes all things to pass,
Dear Lord, please, I pray for more than...
© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb


   I feign an attitude as a primate
   by taking everything way too serious
   especially food sold past safe due date.
   In efforts to appear not delirious, 
   expirations timed to calendar fate,
   to me are mostly quaint and curious.
   Taking risks to ingest food from my plate,
   perhaps, may prove to be health injurious.
   Condoms used of questionable strength rates
   while engaged in sex, dark and mysterious, 
   between unsuspectant bed-time sleep-mates,
   whose parent thoughts, at best, are spurious,
   once, just to feel alive, they procreate...
   conception...one sperm, one egg, furious!
© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb

Skyclad Flutterbyes

Aflit and ravishing
amidst the succulent flowers
the skyclad flutterbyes
entertain my eyes for hours.

© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb

"Afternoon Delight" 

This poet girl's bedroom scenery, 
details, painted meticulously 
inspired designer foppery 

in blues and rose hues 
sunlit percaled hearts and flowers 
gathered flounces, decorator's muse. 

Darcy's straw hat casually reposed 
adorns a pillow heaped cascade flotage, 
her head held this early afternoon, dreamscape. 
© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb

"Darcy's Bath" 

Clothing strewn about 
before an opened door, 
reveals Darcy's foot 
and little more. 

A relaxing private moment 
tub bubble-filled and water hot. 
Does she intend it to share? 
I think not! 

© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb

"Snowdrift Trail" 

Hushed and quiet now, 
the feet that passed here today 
left their crunched prints in the snow 
soon to be windswept away. 

© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb

"Twilight Delight" 

From the deck porch posts 
over-looking calm sea waters 
a hammock gently swings 
where a moonlit figure slumbers. 

© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb

"Ancient Earth Watchers" 

What watchers knew this ancient place 
and wandered through its open portals 
to seek the mystery beyond black holes 
the magic in the moon and stars in space? 

Who built the stone-henge structure's walls, 
perfectly niched windows lined to the sky? 
What knowledge was discovered then? and why 
are we left Earth-bound, aliens' progeny? 

© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb

Ode to Odin

They went forth, these bearded hulks,
horns on their helmets, belts on their bulks,
Off to rape, pillage, and plunder, 
leaving their victims torn asunder.
They fought to honor Odin, wore daggers on their hips,
sailed beyond the Norse' seas with dragons on their ships, 
writing prose and poetry, songs of Valkyrie,
Odin's hall of fallen heroes, Valhalla's mystery.

               Bob Cobb  (Sonnet for July)[New Poetry]7/12/01
© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb


Date:  Fri, 20 Jul 2001 06:33:27 -0700 (PDT)                                                                                            Re: Poems by others: "Hypochondriac Weather" by Philip Lamantia  
There is an old love song I am also reminded of. The lyrics that I can re   member go: "Whether you're right, whether you're wrong, whether you're weak, whether yeou're strong, nver-the-less,  I'm in love with you."


               --- James Cervantes <jvcervantes@earthlink.net>
               > wrote:
               >Reminds me of a song.
               >- Jim
               >"Robert R.Cobb" wrote:
               >> Jim,
               >> Me too.

Whether I'm right,
whether I'm wrong,
whether I'm weak,
whether I'm strong,
whether I'm older,
whether I'm young,
whether I'm smart,
whether I'm dumb,
whether I'm loved,
whether I'm not,
whether I'm living,
whether I'm dead,
whether I'm crazy,
whether I'm read,
whether I'm lazy,
whether I'm bought,
whether I'm sold,
whether I'm warm,
whether I'm cold,
whether I'm together,
whether I'm apart,
whether I'm worried,
whether I'm rich,
whether I'm hurried,
whether I'm sick,
whether I'm changed,
whether I'm wet,
whether I'm dry,
whether I'm deranged,
whether I'm content,
whether I'm tired,
whether I'm awake,
whether I'm mired,
whether I'm early,
whether I'm late,
whether I'm hungry,
whether I'm mean,
whether I'm developed,
whether I'm lean,
whether I'm over the hill,
whether I'm still in-between,
whether I'm wandering,
whether I'm seen,
whether I'm arrived, or,
whether I'm still on the run,
whether I'm whether,
whether I'm done!

© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb

--- James Cervantes wrote:

              I'm for developing whether.

               - Jim

               "Robert R.Cobb" wrote:

                Jim and Hal,

               What a bad spell of whether we are having!  Somewhere between
               hypochondria and paranoia there must be the calm before the storm.  What's
               the forecast like in your neck of the woods?


               --- James Cervantes <jvcervantes@earthlink.net>


               Halvard Johnson wrote:

               Hypochondriac Weather

               The cavernous overhead opens millipedes of submarine

               postcards I cannot count to nail where the rhombus

               lamb fondles the brain of roseate grails. The sleight-of-

               hand wisdom v-necks the humming hair which grips

               the mastodon of oil that scrutinizes with the glass of

               Bedlam the beds flying in half across the blindfolded


               --Philip Lamantia

               Paranoic Weather

               The stolen clouds leave latent prints of aluminum workers

               who cannot count my ruler's missing fingernails or even

               camel spittle reminescent of rosewater.  The fight-of-

               your-life t-shirt wraps gelled fitness hair which is

               an aircraft carrier's empty deck proselytizing

               Heaven as a motel bed bouncing in half-made


               - Fillup Highoctane

Fairway Weather

David G.,

Just to keep things orderly and caret free,
no loosey-goosey skys falling down on me.
Prognostication fair-to-middlin' on first tee.
Gray clouds clapping, nineth tee to green,
clothing drenched from head to knee,
it's not the heat, it's the humidity,
three-putted to end the round miserably.


               Perhaps for reasons
               not the same,
               surely never would I blame
               you for committing 
               similar sins, 
               in past seasons,
               partaking "Forbidden Fruit."
               I have given both Gates and Case
               the proverbial boot!

© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb
 Subject: [New-Poetry] Your Next Poetry Assignment 

               "Hi"-I'm reasonable to ask, "What do you see as recurring trends in dreams? 
               My, my, are you ready?"
               Under Mom's supervision, I'll hear why my following future potential must 
               be lodged in past movies seen, of 
               beatnick hair styles.  Yes, all around 
               mean weirdo poets swinging, "Cra-zy man! Dig this girl under glass
               in her fashionable little red dress!" Terrific possibilities, if you have 
               an offer.  Because, talking about birthdays is like talking of brass grenades! 
               Sold in Vietnamese stores, next to the candy department, close to heavenly 
               chocolates, champagne, ridiculous cosmetics. Where the elevators ascend, 
               big dark modern landscapes, seen under glass.  Elaine ages happily like 
               a kept Equi girl.

               Bob Cobb

               --- "Halvard Johnson" <halvard@earthlink.net>
               > wrote:
               >Here's your next assignment:
               >At the bottom of this message is a prose poem by Elaine Equi.
               >Your assignment is to write one or more poems using nothing
               >but words and punctuation marks found in her text. 
               >The rules:
               >1.  Use only words and punctuation marks found in Equi's text.
               >2.  If a word is used five times in Equi's text, you may use it an
               >     equal number of times, but no more. Same goes for marks
               >     of punctuation.
               >3.  You may use word variants: e.g. "talked" for "talking."
               >4.  You may use word parts: e.g. the "king" from "talking."
               >5.  You may not use groups of words in sequence from Equi:
               >     (i.e. not even "of the").
               >6.  You must follow the rules. All the rules.
               >7.  If or when you break any of the first five rules, you must
               >     append a "confession" to the poem you've submitted. In
               >     the confession, you must explain your reason(s) for breaking
               >     the rule(s) and plead for mercy.
               >The text:
               >Hi-Fashion Girl
               >       I'm swinging through a department store of the future
               >because by then it will be possible to do that. I mean hear
               >red. Dig the brass section of this cra-zy shirt.
               >       Wait a minute. If this is the future, why am I talking
               >like a ridiculous beatnick poet? The past must be following
               >too close behind. Lodged by the cosmetics like a little
               >Vietnamese girl with a grenade under her dress.
               >       I'd offer chocolate but in the department store of the
               >future all they sell is the potential for candy. The potential
               >                       to make Mom happy on her birthday
               >                       the potential to look terrific.
               >What is all this potential I keep seeing like landscape in
               >a recurring weirdo dream? It must be the reason I ask you to
               >style my hair, order my meals and supervise the movies I see.
               >       Yes,
               >so I'll be ready for the next big trend after death.
               >       Glass elevators where you really do ascend into heaven
               >but are kept around to serve champagne. Man,
               >that is not modern. That was done in the Dark Ages.
               >--Elaine Equi  Copyright © TalentX.com All Rights Reserved.

--- "Robert R.Cobb"  wrote:

Mimists may 
but they 


A  Baniac

A baniac,
I once knew,

was crazy for
banana stew.

If he had his wish,
h'ed eat this dish
like ruminated tripe
decidedly, over-ripe.

as a group
may be, often
are ignored for 
their banality.
© 2001, by Robert R. Cobb
Poetry Page 6 by Robert R. Cobb
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