A LOVE  AFFAIR     by Robert R. Cobb
 

Foot loose and fancy free,
hot-blooded and sportive,
a Spring,
full of towering passion.

A courtship event,
leap frogging,
half-cocked,
laughing stock.

In a hurry to get
a bedroom bump,
then lapse and dwindle,
to submerge.

Green-eyed,
snow-white,
no longer faint-hearted,
full exposure.

Invulnerable
to critical eyes'
baseless accusations
we lie low to 'wait the morrow.

A first born son,
Jeffrey Young.
SIDS  took him
from us
to a
Heavenly
place.

Thirty-four
years ago
he was
our
precious
gift
from  God,

Until
the
"Ides of March"
blew cold. . .
and left us. . .
sad
and lonely. . .

No bitter batter
was stirred into the mixture,
just a blend of circumstance
seasoned to the palette daubs
artistic license.

For every brush,
strokes that cling to linger thick,
or pale to leaner washes
contrasting textured surface
media pleasure.

Until the scene sets
posterity to task,
know the artist by the work
presented now to viewers'
disdain or treasure.

AWAKENINGS      BY ROBERT R. COBB,  4/6/98
 
 

Awaken me whenever snuggles aren't enough
to comfort desires or satisfy burning needs.
I'm here, bedded, willing, ready, with needs of my own
that only you can satiate.  Quench my thirst, feed my soul,
till the night urges are fulfilled, linger close, warm
thoughts of loving to sustain us for the away times.

Always my best friend, lover, wife for my lifetime needs,
partner, sharing dreams, bed spaces, goals we both own.
Loving that grows stronger every day, together, one soul
in two bodies, working to build and kindle flames, warm,
friendly, thoughtful and kind, tender touches for all the times
that overwhelm us with sadness and grief, more than enough.

We need the strength we get from each other to make soul
decisions regarding an un-empty nest, both cold and warm,
inhabited by a son lost in limbo, defeated, angry at times,
contented only by misery and self-destructive habits, enough
to drive us crazy trying to understand his bi-polar needs,
wondering what will the future hold in store, no home of his own.

Claiming to be the great protector of our house, to keep it safe and warm,
ready to defend our material realm from intruders, to company, often times,
he vents his wrath to all who care to listen, even if they have heard enough,
cussing for all that he is worth about his unfairly treated selfish needs..
We, as caring parents, sometimes care too much, enabling, no place to call our own  .
His daughter given up for adoption, we're not allowed to see her soul.

It is good that we have each other to cling to, that ought to be enough,
along with prayers and God's strength, the love of other family needs,
not quite as stressful, nor demanding, they have lives to lead on their own,
and goals that keep them occupied, work to do, schooling too, sole
supporting endeavors, to provide for their lives together, environments that are warm,
children to care for and nurture, stories to write and tell, problem solving times.

Early retirement could be a risky venture, but one that we're both ready to own,
to take pleasure in creative pursuits, write poetry and thrive, relax our weary soul(s),
earn what we need additionally to maintain our health and sanity, our hearth warm,
and the wolf away from our door.  We need to prepare for possible elders' home times
too, along with prodigal son's impossible demands, will there ever be enough,
only time and truth will tell whether or not the Devil pays or God may provide our needs.
 

ENVOY: A rambling attempt to find some closure, peace of mind solutions,discovering, somehow,
the lessons to be learned from a life-time spent in teaching, to provide for the needs of others,
falling short of the mark,wondering if we own enough warm love times ahead to save a soul, or two, or three, or more.

I've been away too long,
I miss the sound of written song.

The poetry that trips 'cross lips and tongue,
from friends I've met on the Internet among.

Nantoo and Craig, Pete and Lacey,
KTDidd and A., who drive men crazy.

BraveMom, and Nantoo'sMom too,
MGBio, Bev, I've missed all of you.

The things we used to say and do,
when, to me. Cyber-talk was, somewhat, new.

My time on-line became addictive,
no less the charges for the fixative.

I've reduced the habit to.almost nil,
but, I confess, I miss the connective thrill.

And so, from time to time, I will return,
to renew and reflect my thoughts in rhyme.

Thinking of life's struggles and singing the blues,
the mundane routines that we all must follow daily
just to stay even, never to get ahead, not to fall behind,
is a mind-numbing, boggling-boredom existence.
Caught up in the morass, down in the dumps, depressed,
going bonkers, distressed emotionally, out to lunch.

Got to get a handle on things, a perspective through the daily
gloom, a focus to see the light beyond, leave the darkened tunnel behind.
Take small steps, seek directions, above all find a purpose for existence,
believe in a power greater than yourself, Christ too, was depressed.
Shake yourself, wake up, say a prayer or two, take a friend to lunch,
discuss your problems, bend an ear, listen to words out-of-the-blues.

Feeling sorry for yourself, the lack of progress, the eight ball you're behind,
is only got to be a self-fulfilling prophecy, the bane of your existence.
Lag  for a new break, chalk up all the cues, don't be depressed,
don't cry in your beer, spot up all miscued shots,  grab a bite of lunch.
Stripes or solids, makes no never mind which, all have red, green, blues,
orange, yellows, save for the cue ball, white, and the proverbial, black ball daily.

Whatever game you play, sportive, or sedate, risk-taking-all existence,
count all the pieces won or lost, avoid the checks, the stale mates' depressed.
Also count your blessings, not the ones you've missed, eat a late lunch,
watch your health, get plenty of rest, take meds prescribed to control the blues,
don't be content to sit and smoke, to shout, to curse your fate daily,
take on some other cause to find some worthwhile things to get behind.

Getting down, or getting up, getting buzzed, feeling depressed,
trying to forget what only you remember of past events, missing lunch,
sleeping in to compensate for late nights' commiserating blues,
drinking, chain-smoking, coughing up phlegm-filled lungs daily,
I suppose pots of coffee consumed, there's no surprise behind,
occasionally, you may leave a-half-a-cuppa black existence.

What's in your future is what's in your past, throwing up your lunch,
tossing your cookies, adding misery to company, who have heard your
blues, ad infinitum nausea, cussing up a storm, a bearded wonder where you came
from daily, questioning your parentage and up-bringing, regretting the day you were
born, spanked behind. Believe me, I was there, the day your Mom delivered you to your screaming existence.
You were loved then, always, forever, no matter how abused we are, or when you're happy or depressed.
 

ENVOY: Dedicated to David, our beloved son, who sings loudly and often,who feels the blues, daily,
wonders why and how he got to be so far behind, cannot seem to understand his existence, where he came from,
where he will end up.  Will he always be depressed? behind the eight ball?  out to lunch?

BEYOND THE BARN

The Church Community born in a barn
     with its hayloft and hay.

Hide-bound to this tradition needs
     to become "born again" today.

It is fine to keep in mind the barn and history,
     Men and Women of the Yoke, mortgage, sweat equity.

Its members of the yesteryears, members since, or gone away,
     along with current members, families here to stay.

Those who stay to pledge support, those who work for pay,
     as well as those on fixed incomes, make up the church today.

Those who volunteer to lend a hand, whenever tasks need be done,
     from Corn Fests to sales of Christmas trees.

Or to become members of the choirs, both bell and vocal,
     to help provide the musical side that is topical and focal.

It seems that there is always work that must get done,
     on a daily basis, from dawn to setting sun.

Meetings and rehearsals, many hours are spent,
     in doing service for our church, we wonder where time went.

Greeters and ushers, scripture readers too, committee chairs,
     delegates-at-large, the treasurer, and the moderator too.

Volunteers for boards, to teach, and work with youth,
     to sing, play bells, or other instruments, to help us see God's truth.

Sometimes volunteers cannot be found for all the necessary chores,
     which imposes greater burdens on conscientious souls.

It has been said, by a wiser man, "that God never expects
     you to do more than you are able."

Yet, there are those whose talents are, unexpressed,
     who will only attend if they can make themselves comfortable.

We would like to see attendance rise, the truth is, we need many,
     to take on work that few wish to commit to do, if any.

There are the dedicated ones who arise upon most occasions,
     to do the work that they are called upon to do, without any reservations.

Others, tired, and over-wrought, from doing jobs, un-thankless,
    are wishing to pass on their jobs to trained apprentices.

They worry so about the past, about our building's woes,
     about our "restricted funds", if they will disappear  instead of grow.

"Restricted funds",  they say, "are only meant to be spent,
     for a rainy day, when a roof might leak, or a furnace quit".

The minister's salary bust be brought down, diminished,
     for lack of any new attendance.

When helpful solutions are suggested,
     for ways that we may raise our membership attendance.

They seem to fall on ears that are deaf and minds that are set,
     for the minister, it appears, they feel no regret.

Not only that, there must be a substantial loss,
     "We must hold down our churchly costs!"

"We cannot afford to pay a living income that is fair",
     they say, "go get a second job, we just don't care".

To be vindictive and verbally abuse, clearly is their intent,
     their Christian spirit is gone, lost in all their rhetoric.

We truly are at "cross purposes", they say, "Don't you all see,
     the need to keep restricted funds where they are meant to be?"

Cross purposes with little thought to the Cross we ought to follow,
     will, maybe, save a building and maintain it through tomorrow.

The spirit of peace and love born in a barn so long ago, seems lost,
     and, when  such spirit goes away, there's no peace, no love, what'ere the cost.

If we do not know Christ is in our lives, we too, are lost,
     with no identity, the Devil we will pay, that's plain as plain can be.

A Community Church where God resides is where we all need to be,
     the building will be cared for, I have doubts about humanity.
 
 

The coffee is great!  Keep the mugs hot and full,
                          and the conversations will, naturally, flow.

Be it at Starbuck's, Buck's County, or A Bang-for-Your-Buck,
                          the coffee at home, or wherever you truck.

Good to the last drop, or mountain grown, eight-o-clock,
                          or anytime you pen a poem.

Café.Blue Moon keep on shining on me,
                          I'd rather have your coffee than anybody's tea.
 
 

Dad's first car, as I recall,
was a 1941 Chevy sedan,
already ten years old,
both the car and I,
brother, Dick, was five.

Dad used to ride a bike to work,
or hitch a ride in foul weather,
before the acquisition of the Chevy,
all he could afford at the time,
he was a careful driver then.

The stories Dad used to tell,
of growing up, the next to youngest son,
first Ray, then Frank, Betty, May, my Dad,
Jack, (real name, John), and Chuck, (real name,
Charles), I remember pretty well.

He and his brothers used to swim
in the horse trough, against Grandpa's
orders, leaving their clothes in the crib,
skinny dipping in the summer sun.
Grandpa always seemed to know.

One day Grandpa hid behind the crib,
with a switch in hand he swatted bottoms,
each son thinking to blame one or the other,
all butts were targets as they dove in the trough.
The horses, Grandpa knew, would not drink after a swim.

The boys used to ride bare-back on the mare,
also forbidden by Grandpa, who always seemed,
in the know here too.  The stallion would set to
whinnying, which alerted Grandpa Jesse's ear.
The boys took to leading the stallion with them on their rides.

The boys were thick as thieves stealing watermelons,
one day the farmer, not Grandpa, hid behind a tree,
shot gun at the ready, bird-shot in the shells.  The older boys
had a melon a piece, Dad, one under each arm, as the farmer
let fly with the bird-shot, hitting Dad in the lower legs.

Dad cleared a fence, passing both his brothers as they
high-tailed it to safety.  Dad's melons were the ripe ones.
He still carried the bird-shot, which he let me feel, one day.
That farmer became their object for future pranks, like the time
they took his wagon apart and reassembled it atop his barn.

Observing this, shot gun in hand, behind some bushes,
the farmer, announces to the roof top, "Do you boys think it
would be just as much fun to take the wagon down as it was
putting it up there in the first place".  It was not as much fun!
That Halloween they moved his out-house three feet further back.

Dad told another story about a time coming home late from a party.
His brothers were asleep, leaving Dad to drive Grandpa's Model T.
On a gravel road, at the bottom of a steep hill, a train was crossing
at the same time Dad reached the bottom, brakes failing.  He turned
quickly up another farmer's lane, drove completely around his house
and barn, then back onto the road as the train cleared the tracks.

His brothers were still, sound asleep.  The next morning,
Dad reported to them just how narrow their escape had been.
Ray said, "That was smart thinking, Jack."  Frank added, "Yeah,
but what would you have done if the train was longer?"  Dad, ready
for this question replied, "Well, I guess I would have gone around the
house and barn again."

Getting back to the first car Dad ever owned, he decided that we should take
our first vacation together in it to the Ozarks.  Mom and Dad, of course, we in
the front seat, while brother, Dick, and I, settled into the back seat with a stack
of comic books.  It was Memorial Day weekend.  Dad, careful as usual, never
driving over fifty miles per hour, did not want to brave the major highways
where the "crazies would be for sure!"  And so, with the aid of Mom, our intrepid
path finder, they mapped a route to the Ozarks that would take all back roads, gravel,
by nature, always tough on tires, especially re-treads.  We had six flat
tires before getting anywhere close to the Ozarks.  The last one, at the
top of a hill, in a farmer's field, where no jack of any kind would work.
Fortunately, the farmer was at home, and kindly offered to use his
tractor to pull us from the mire, for ten dollars, and into town where
Dad bought another re-tread.  We arrived at the Ozarks, finally.  Dad said,
"Here we are, boys, the foot-hills of the Ozarks.  Look fast, we have to
be headed home in a half-hour!"

On the way home, comic books all read, I was looking out the back window
at the place that we had been,
just a short time before.  Dad was now on a "good road", driving his
usual forty-five to fifty miles per hour, when I noticed a brand new
Ford convertible, top down barreling toward us.  I yelled, "Dad, he is
going to hit us!"  "No he won't, Bobby," just as he did.  We all got out
to survey the damage.  There was not a scratch to be found anywhere on
Dad's Chevy Tank, but the driver of the Ford stood holding his front
bumper in his hand, looking at the steam rising from a hole in his
radiator.  After we determined that no one was injured, and that there
would be no need for a police report, we left the Ford, stranded.
Dad muttered something about "crazy drivers", as we were passed by many,
"Another accident looking for
a place to happen!"  We did get home safely, with no more flat tires or accidents.

DELUSIONS           by Robert R. Cobb
 

        lookers-on, making
spectacles of each other,
        rose-colored lenses
suggest simultaneous
illusions of perfection.

        hallways of mirrors
reflecting cracked images
        ricocheting  hints
of light and brief dark shadows
lurking in the spaces between.

        looking-glasses framed
instantaneous faces,
        blurred silver backing
denies full measured basking
and halts vain resolutions.

        lost identities
searching for familiar life
        among the ruins.
alzheimer lovers lost truths,
betrayed by tarnished glimpses.

        gone berserk, insane
wanderings un-remembered
        blank tablets, erased slate boards,
chalky, dusted visions hide
what once was taught, years ago.

        the end is far worse
than the beginning stanza
        when life and breath came
easy, struggling for positions,
recognition, growth, unions.

        the mirrors are twice,
sided, reflections, washed clean,
        cut glass silvered,
grayed,  unresponsive, clouded,
the scratched maze with no way out.

DEPRAVITY      by Robert R. Cobb
 

Babies are abused without regard for fragile lives,
Quite often maimed or killed by men or wives.

Teens are lured to perform deviant acts with clever pedophiles.
Promiscuity prevails throughout the Internet, where pornographers
promote "free sex sales".

States' lotteries, games of chance, a way to educate our young,,
Deny the very quality of human life they richly pretend to prolong.

The many vices we allow to surround and take us in,
Drugs, alcohol, and gang drive-by shootings, no win!

Is there any place on earth to go to escape a world of sin and crime?
Could cloning of our DNA bring the answers to await a better day?

Knowing miles distance
Are between the two of us,
Desperation.

Not to hear from you,
Annie of Alabama life,
Anticipation.

Annie, missing you
Waiting, impatiently for our
Collaboration.

Thanks for the chapter and verse,
You certainly said it all from the
Best to the worst!

Material, you've got a-plenty.
Enough to write four score and twenty,
More, if haikus ain't too perverse.

Limitations on lamentations,
Brevity to your wit,
Find a stopping place and, quit!

For a one handed typist,
You type pretty fast,
Disk files make computers last.

I could go on, but I'd be redundant.
I too, littered CCA with five poems once,
To a kindly, but critical audience.

Since then, not known to be a quitter,
I've submitted over forty poems,
To various E-zines, I've sent my litter.

Dream Sequence

She awoke from a dream unfulfilled,
     the darkness still surrounded and took her in.

Recurring dream thoughts echoed through her mind,
     made fuzzy by a headache that would not quit,

Arising from her bed, she stubbed her toe,
     another pain to be dealt with.

Safer to crawl, she felt her way to the bedroom door,
     night light fogged the hallway to the bathroom.

Relieving her bladder's urgency took priority over all else,
     then, vertigo, from bending low to access the damaged digit.

Whirling migraine, brain on hold, losing her grip on the vanity,
     grasping for the door knob and equilibrium upon the cold tiled floor.

The medicine cabinet seemed so far away from her sprawl,
     but, the aspirin and first aid kit were there, on the highest shelf.

Slowly, gingerly, testing her threshold of pain and scrutability,
     elevating herself  onto the vanity became an act courageous.

Conquering the sliding door of the cabinet at last, with its assortment,
     above the reach of child-like hands, in child-proof containers.

There, at last, her trembling fingers felt the ointment tube,
     a Band-Aid ripped open, teeth required, same for the aspirin tin.

She popped two white pills, bent low to gulp them down with tap water,
     sitting on the floor again, she bandaged the offending smallest digit.

Navigating on all fours through the shrouded hallway to the bed,
     her husband, roused from a deep sleep, yawning, "Are you okay, Hon?"

In the course of human events,
no matter how many holes are played
over any number of days below par,
executing the perfect shot, the "ace,"
the "hole-in-one," is still a rarity.
Many pros have never achieved
the most perfect shot, but even some
amateurs have incredible rounds.
A fellow golfer in one of our annual
church outings, put together a string
of four straight holes, a birdie, par 3,
an eagle, par 4, a double eagle, par 5,
and, a hole-in-one, par 4!  He set a new
course record for a single round of golf,
of 18 holes, during tournament play,
16 strokes below the par of 72!
I was in the foursome which followed,
witness only to the sound of the cheers.
My only claim to fame, which was disputed
later by our minister, no less, occurred on
the par 5, fourteenth hole designated as
the contest hole for the longest drive of the day.
Three players out of  our foursome, including myself,
drove balls that landed in the middle of the fairway,
less than one foot apart, exactly, in a string straight line,
tying  for the longest drive of the day, well over 300 yards!

The sky above, the sea below, and all the earth between,
   as varied and wonderful as God would have it seen.

I paint with brush in media, the mind's scenes' imaginations,
   my palette holds to nature's own, according to each season.

Techniques range from thin to thick impasto, rich in pigment,
   upon gessoed canvases, abstracted into formed figments.

Illusory images that seem familiar, yet, not quite really there,
   non-objective plains or mountains' range permeate plein aire`.

Sometimes recognizable, to all who care to see, the sea and sky,
   or caves, ancient strata, cross-sections, drawn from memory.

Fields, prairies, buttes, and cliffs, seed pods, roots, and other things that grow,
   subjects painted, not planted, though flowers my wife and I do grow.

Hope is a thing that springs eternal with my every artistic endeavor
   that the work may be seen by audiences, not too mean.and buyers!

ENGENDERED GENDERS         by Robert R. Cobb        7/29/98
 

If you engender me
And I engender you,
The outcome and go
Of DNA could produce a kid or two.

Would it be incestuous
If I engendered me, or
If you engendered you?
The outcome and go of DNA
Could produce a clone or two.

Then genders, exactly replicated,
Alike as you and me,
Could also get together, or,
Singularly, alone
Extend our family tree.

GOOD FORTUNE      by Robert R. Cobb     8/8/98
 

I am not into Tarot cards,
nor mystic incantations.
I seldom wish upon shooting stars
or sweepstakes invitations.

I am not into the Gypsy stuff,
no crystal ball have I.  Most
likely I'd call a Gypsy's bluff,
if one ever read my fortune high.

I don't read fortunes myself,
don't wish for what's not mine,
but, if good fortune ever fell my way,
I would never it decline.