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Loved to tell a joke ,  loved his Winston's , a pack always visible in a white dress shirt , cigarette in the corner of his mouth . Right eye quivered left eye open ,. seen him drunk once , alcohol on his breath every day ,  morning and afternoon ,. medals and commendations , not worth a cheeseburger at McDonalds , delivered the living , hauled back the dead , hosed chariot , back again , Purple Hearts and Silver Stars , another day at the office and Saigon bars ..A defeated man , No , a product of the sixties , American warrior with all its ambiguity , loved his comrades but cursed the ' system ' , face would palsy , voice growing deeper then silent , physically residing in Conley , emotionally in battle , at ease Major Jobe !
Copyright September 15 , 2015 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Angela Byrd Jun 2014
Troubles chasing me again,
Breaking down my best defence,
I'm looking, God, I'm looking for you
Weary just won't let me rest and fear is filling up my head.
I'm longing, God I'm longing for you

But I will find you in the place I'm in, find you when I'm at my end,
Find you when there's nothing left of me to offer you except for brokenness.
You lift me up, you'll never leave me thirsty,
When I am weak, when I am lost and searching
I'll find you on my knees.

So what if sorrow shakes my faith,
What if heartache still remains,
I'll trust you, my god I'll trust you.
'Cause You are faithful and

I will find you in the place I'm in, find you when I'm at my end,
Find you when there's nothing left of me to offer you except for brokenness.
You lift me up, you'll never leave me thirsty,
When I am weak, when I am lost and searching
I'll find you on my knees, my knees.

When my hope is gone, when the fear is strong
When the pain is real, when it's hard to heal
When my faith is shaken and my heart is broken and my joy is stolen, God I know that

You lift me up, you'll never leave me searching,

Find you in the place I'm in, find you when I'm at my end,
Find you when there's nothing left of me to offer you except for brokenness.
You lift me up, you'll never leave me thirsty,
When I am weak, when I am lost and searching
I'll find you on my knees.
Lyrics inspire me
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2018
/
zdrowie, na budowie (health, on a construction site, a modern polish proverb) - because? well the army allows it, any woman can be bossy in the army... but on a construction? perhaps the very rare example of a woman working side by side with bricklayers (and that does happen), but construction work is immune to all ideology focusing on the pop. narratives of feminism... women will not infiltrate the construction industry, they can infiltrate the army, but not the construction industry, unless of course, they're dinner ladies, or secretaries, but even then, the construction site canteen is dying, reduced to a kettle and a microwave... all i'm seeing, when my father goes to work is an army... or as the joke goes about the managerial staff, with tight jeans and pink car rims? well... you can take a boy out of essex, but you can't take essex out of a boy.

i can only assume that writing is spawned
from a weakening of a
   cognitive narrative -
             foremostly i have to "apologise"
for making such a compound term,
   but i remember an echo of what once was,
a firm grasp of narration,
                                  in thinking terms,
as such, thought per se, used to be a leisure,
or rather: a pleasure,
               but since then... scrabble...

                                         static dissonance...
a poignant blur: a bit like the impressionist
movement... hardly the fizzy water...
   naturally from impressionism,
to expressionism, and then: a smack into
dada and subsequently a return to geometry
via cubism...

                but there really is a correlation
between writing, and a weakening of
           a cognitive narrative -
                   i know: -ive -ive
                             but one's categorised
as an adjective, the other is a noun -
           even though they share the same
form of a suffix...
                             yes, i know this is merely
"poetry",
                   there is no sludge of fictive
architecture that might encompass a narrator,
props and character studies,
      no embodiment of cohesion that
makes it to the bestseller's list of:
                    same ****, different cover...

yes, it's scattered, yes it's primitive in
composition, but what it isn't, is
   akin to the protagonist of the film
          nothing's funny, or freak's day
   (nic śmiesznego)                (dzień świra),
i.e.: hard to put a thought to paper...
     the escape artist of this conundrum
comes out either: a happy manual labourer
content with rest at the end of his chores...
   of a sir-mouth-a-lot, talking, talking, talking,
much like any other example required
to show a: ditto-head;

see, my grandmother doesn't like poetry,
so i gave her a book my zbigniew herbert
(the whole mr. cogito sequence of poems
and all) and all i said was:
            doesn't poetry feel, breezy? airy?
on what occassion has a poet constrained
himself to the zoology of a paragraph?
                  airy, isn't it, doesn't strain the eyes
so much...

      well... if i didn't have the ****** luxury
of pixel paper, i too would be offended by
this waste of paper, but since this isn't paper...
a baboon just escaped its confinement and
it rummaging in the zoo's cafe, looking for
a caffeine fix; later he'll be found
      in the pharmacy, looking for some
cream to ease the bulging hemorrhoids

  (nice fact: algorithms are...
    apart from search engines...
               spell...               chequers...
  tongue says one thing, eyes see another).                  
no, if i wanted cohesion, i'd have invented glue,
huh? ah... adhesive... but there really isn't
a worthwhile mention of adhesion,
      unless of course:

                  you put a bumper sticker on
your tongue and say: speaking english is
the only form of patriotism i know:
  allegiance to the tongue, but not the crown;
why? i have my crown on a ten pound
note...                but it's not that i want
her dead, it would grand to see this english
monetary overhaul, seeing ol' charlie on
the notes...

                               you know, fun.
yet i do remember times when i could grasp
a strong cognitive narrative,
              and there was no point in writing,
anything...
                      esp. not something like this,
jeez...
   now, in painting a mess can be excused,
or rather: conceptualized, but in writing?
   ooh... caesar salad...
    you can't even conceptualize a reader's
short-attention span, or at least:
           how long does this straight line go?
                                                  no darting eyes?


where?
                                                  ­                    here!

for all the mumbo-jumbo of heidegger's
strict writing, he at least taught me spatial coordination.
as well as how nerves shatter, and then mend.
yes, there is no narrative cage,
  yes there is no caged animal,
instead of a:
             --
           |   |     there's an:       \  /
             --                                /    \
                                                           ­  an opening.

i can understand critique, but only if the critique
allows dialectics,
                       Kant imploded on this
realisation when he dedicated a section
of his work to a thesis and an antithesis...
why? because he doubted the already
embarked on synthesis...
                           every manner of critique is welcome,
as long as the critique can entertain
                                    a dialectical safety
mechanism... overwise: sure, be on your way.

of course it's going to be messy,
     why can painter get away with mess,
while writing has to be adhesive in nature,
           spare me the concentration that later involves
taking a book to bed, and falling asleep with it;
as i admire those people who fall asleep
easily during transit (bus, plane, train, whatever),
i have the same admiration for people
         who fall asleep reading a book...
and because of william burroughs...
                  far from taking hallucinogenics,
there's the sour bourbon (just some lemon juice
added) and there's the: ******* blank page
staring me in the face -
             or in gujarat english:
                         s'te'rrrrr'ing (gotta trill that R
like a rattle snake):
                     alternatively eton english:
starring                             bogus the penguin;
hit cue:                  as with the old movies -
came the credits first,
                      now?      just ask for a supermarket
cashier to read you the list...
  as if no one these days is bound to be
forgotten.

  to stare, or to be cast: that is not a question;
whoopsee.

  the subtle "orthography" in english -
        and **** me what a custard worth spaghetti
that it does to the memory bank:
                         i see we sailed the sea.
now, if that doesn't erode your memory,
notably when you take to writing
away from speaking and a manual job?
  i don't know, what will.

of man and the universe:
        like a cat endowed (armed) with only
a meow, exploring human speech,
varying it by many degrees,
            with grunts and purrs of labour,
while sometimes shrieking noises
             or, crafting a mimic of a hunchback
upright, ready to express grievances.

bore: the domino effect of narration,
or rather: when the art of narration becomes
predictable,
                   whoever strikes at a guess,
because the narrative is lost to the fact that
cinema exhausted it,
           in that modern narration is almost
always predictable;
    whoever thought that gambling on
a story was not unheard of, can hear this.

- when motherhood, or parenting in general
is equated with a "profession",
or rather the hyper-industrialisation,
reaching into the bowels (*****, borrows,
bowls?) - of a family unit...
     two things are happening:
on one side the shrapnel argument,
on the other side: the hyper-industrialisation
of the family unit:
             there really isn't much to
navigate with, no compass, no map,
merely chance, luck, happenstance...
     because when did motherhood become
a job?
              parenting became a job?

2nd. phase iconoclasm.

     (in a mock impression):
oh gee, when did barnie become barney,
he he (as in a mock of laughter):
      joe'bb, joe'b... job, yob,
                      lobby, jolly, jobe...
          ****, paraglider, spike...
      
         you can tell i'm **** as crosswords;
i hear too much,
          and my oyster is rummaging in
number puzzles, that translate into
   a strict rubric of adhering to spellin;
you can pacify the rest on me,
but this corner of interest has to stay:
firm.

- i could have respected darwinism,
  if only it remained in its, original biology
nieche,
        but since then, darwinism has become
a quasi-marxism,
   not that i'm slowing you down or anything,
but darwinism translated into
  a historical narrative is like a brick wall...
a cul de sac of any future events,
****... back to petting a monkey...
             if there is such a thing as common
sense...

               how did darwinism escape
    the zoo and enter into a study of history?
     and as such: become the testing ground
for all things to come?
        believe me when i say:
darwin only matters in the anglophone
sphere of talk, think, do...
                darwin is crass in terms of
currency of affairs designated to the times
of occupying a shell of limbs...
                    
not to mention that communism was first
tested on Mongolia...
                  yep, Mongolia was the host
of communism...
                          they tested it there for, i guess,
the same arguments that post-colonial
children who have inherited a past
     might be deemed easy target...
       or rather: because from Mongolia came
a certain khan...
                                 (surd H)
       as is the case with several familial ties
in pakitan, sharing that surname...
                  kan (otherwise crackle
and trying to await audience with phlegm
to spit with).

if it were not a Latin man answering for
the Greek for the short-hand version of
the old testament,
        it wouldn't be a study of the tetragrammaton,
first H is for laughter (vowel magnet),
the second H is for the allowance of surds
   (e.g. khan):
                          the greek tetragrammaton
consists of the following letters,
   based on an a "god", or rather the hidden
iota:
                                   ΨΘΞΦ
well... if we're all going to be literate monkeys...
might as well complicate things further,
based on the meritocracy of:
      you do your ****, i do mine,
                   i don't dig up your grave,
you don't dig up mine...
                  we meet in the middle,
   and stalk a fascination with 3 dimensional
space, akin to it being compressed
  into a: jesus mary and joseph,
              or a trímūrtí the hindus believe in).

- yet this constant reiteration,
this constant banging against the wall...
             in the anglophone world a seemingly
dead end, fudge-packaging of events,
mingling with a journalistic insomnia...
        journalism is in a state of
insomnia...
                    i can actually go through
the day not even bothering to remember
what day of the week it is,
        but i can tell you what day of
the week it is, watching the volume of
traffic...
                like some idaho monk smoking
a spliff...
                   it's not that it's wrong,
but akin to marx, darwin's ideology has
infiltrated areas that should have been left
to their own demands...

  for all i know, anglophone "orthography"
is so subtle, that all it takes is a spelling
mistake to reveal it...
        
                  which is why i don't
                               bother with metaphysics;
and what a grace bestowed upon me
by england, to be born a monster of
these lands, based simply, on minor clues
of usage.
Traci Sims May 2017
We were scaling Mount Si
when a cloud rolled in so thick
we had to wipe the mist from our faces.
Our shadows, already growing longer,
disappeared entirely
and the time we measured
by the burning in our legs
and the shortness of our breath
seemed to go with them.
Light no longer came just from above,
it was all around us, equally,
and it was then that I thought part of us
would never return and that moment
would never end, when you gasped
and whispered, LOOK,
your arm outstretched,
and there floating out of the fog
was a ghost, and then a shadow,
and finally stepping onto the rocks
as new as creation itself,
a beautiful, white ram.

From "Bird's Nest In Your Hair" by Brian Jobe
Hannah Turner Nov 2014
I was haunted. I'm not haunted anymore, rather, the ghost of you likes to knock on the door of my heart every now and then to remind me you still exist. Tonight, I let that ghost in for the first time in months. And I wonder what your life is like now.

Are you just itching with excitement that graduation is less than a month away? Are you finally getting out of Lubbock and moving to San Diego like you always wanted? What were your thoughts on the world cup? I know how much you love soccer and it's starting to get cold again...do you ever wear that Liverpool beanie I gave to you for your birthday? Probably not. I wouldn't be surprised if you threw that in the trash long ago.

I also wonder if you already met someone new. The girl of your dreams who will listen to Kari Jobe and eat taco bell with you (I never really liked taco bell anyway). I hope not--but that's just because I'm selfish.

I wonder how much you know about my life. Did you hear I got a dog? Did you see my halloween costume this year? You would have loved it. Did you know my new dream is to be a street photographer in New York City?

I wonder if God is changing you--more so if you're letting him change you. Or if you're just as stubborn thinking that leaving this town full of memories will solve everything.

I know you burned our bridge long ago. And I am way over trying to rebuild it, but...I'll always care about you no matter how many other bridges are built with new people.

11:05PM and I'm done wondering about you. I let you're ghost in and it's time to let him out. Because I need to sleep, and I can't sleep with you here....goodnight.
Marshal Gebbie Oct 2014
Whence did thee depart the orb
To seek the pearls of Jobe ?
Whence did thou retire to rob
And don the elder's robe ?
Whence did thee run far from home
To flee assassin's work ?
Whence was good sense realised
That thee had gone beserk ?
Whence did good become the bad
And rampantcy run wild ?
For whom friend, doth the bell toll
In the slaughter of this child ?
What will the fate's bequeath us
With this legacy of wrong ?
From whence will come the melody
When wrong consumes the song ?*


Marshalg
@theCoalface
3 November 2009
Oldie... but a goodie
M.
Traci Sims May 2017
Green grass, silver chain,
a low, slate sky waiting to rain.
My Golden Retriever finishes her yawn,
sits up, and takes off like a shot
towards the far end of the lawn.
In one, long wave the fine mesh links
are played out until the line yanks taut.
The dog never learns. My heart sinks.

From "Bird's Nest In Your Hair" by Brian Jobe
A wonderful writer and good friend of mine. Hope you like it!
Traci Sims May 2017
Tantum tempus temporis
quoniam aliena femina in meo cubiculo dormivit;
ecce illi quantum dulce somnus est.
Quanta etiam libera somnia sunt.
In alia aetate mundum certe rexit
vel optimo regi in matrimonio fideliter ducta est
qui iuxtus flumen psalmos luce lunae scripsit.

**** me iri foras egressum et spatiatum
Nihil occurit hic, nihil umquam fit.
Praeterea si incedat iam volat me narrare;
habeo nihil, praecipue erga quicquid erat.

Viam cepi aviam
qua celeres non superant;
dignis praemia sunt
qui verbum veritatis distinguere possunt.
Hospes solus me docere potuit
praeclaram orem iustitiae contemplari
et videre oculum pro oculo, et dentem pro dente.

Nisi duo homines in mansionem,
Est nullus in viso; verem exspectant,
proinde quasi ver plaustro accederet.
Mundus deleretur ea nocte
sed meae amicae aequum esset;
illa meo cubiculo dormiret *** revenirem.

Meridiano me promoveo
adhuc in obscura parte viae;
in angustos corruere
et constans manere non possum.
Alius mea ore dicit
sed solum meo animo audit,
calcas omnibus etiam tibi feci
quibus tamen careo.

Ego et ego
In creatione quo ingenium alicuius
nec alicui ignoscit nec excolit.
Ego et ego
unus alteri dicit nullus et videre
imaginem meum et vivere possit.

From "Bird's Nest In Your Hair" by Brian Jobe
For Lovers of the Latin language...
Haddy T Jobe Mar 2016
Nails on a chalkboard....cops to a drug lord
straitjacket to a madman....to a hoarder,the trash can
Rain to a bird...going against your word
Bleach to a stain...morphine to pain
Fear to creatures feared....and to the orcs,treebeard

By: Haddy T. Jobe
Madeysin Aug 2015
Snaching up Galaxies, I can't remember if it was Jobe who declared "HOPE AGAINST HOPE" but it spoke to me. Flames sparked, the waiter looked at me like universes would be overturned if he would've looked away. Hope, against hope.
Traci Sims May 2017
Fifty feet above, the steady whir
of traffic and the slur of rubber
on asphalt sounds like a river.

On calm nights I can look down
at Lake Union and see the lights
of the city reflected in dark water.

No stars. Heaven here is I-5,
north to Canada, south to Mexico,
but below, as in an empty cathedral

filled with broken bottles,
random car parts, and old newspapers,
I lie here and breathe gas.

Some day these pillars will fall,
but listening to a river tonight
I'll sleep well under the overpass.

From "Bird's Nest In Your Hair" by Brian Jobe
Ken Pepiton Mar 6
{strange to feel so understood
strange that I am not alone}
{{https://hellopoetry.com/cielnoir/}}

Walking out of sleep, into
-- noonday sun
-- post atmospheric river
-- deep gray-purple days past
editreadyreaderprepresent-tensing

noise directed traffic, trending
psy-sci-psilliness dissing

ontological first thoughts, first
stretch, and last yawn,

seeing some connection from
former time to formations now
serving purposes proposed as ifs.

If duty calls us, and we have ears
discerning us as those called, hearers,

saying nothing, listening -
acknowledging life, itself, is not ours,
not experienced alone, ever, after we

agree to merge ourselves into me,
the leader, left-foot first, marching
ants selecting territory to sift for worth,
ax-el-
what good can I find to do, in response
to differentiation, feel the touch of other,
bump spring gentle
level speed to fills and tunnels

others, advisors, certified professional
advisors of the unfinished, unpolished

ones, you and me, creatures of literal

evanescence, perhaps never appearing,
glimpsed as in a zen riddle, popped
when a country kid asks who
tamed the bull… the ox

yes, I see, says the country kid,
I understand, you think oxen are
natural, that limits your wisdom.
-----------------
But of the tree of the knowledge
of good and evil,
thou shalt not eat of it:
for in the day that thou eatest thereof
thou shalt surely die.

Now, hear this, as a stranger in that garden.

Make up a mind that may as well imagine
having access to this single window lens,
in a fly's eye/

see me see you, sit tight. Bee, alright,
flea'ld be okeh by me, ye'll see,

what ever two or more of my kind agree, we be.
'pon acknowledging

the reality of energy, and us being, small,
upto a point.

We break the wave function and drift, pointless

reasons for the faith we take as granted, we think

we have a full portion, rationally, fair share, we think.

But few are free to find time to take words as power.

We agree we means primary person acting as one,
in the spirit form we form as we read, and write,

and hope to hold
the gentlest wind in our fists, as we expand
as breaths, and breathers, nameless alienated minds,

cohere, at once, each point possible,
once…

------------------


Old Jobe, and me,
we considered the works of God,
we saw all the noise and storming

contenders for worth of your loyal
adherence to a plan from a committee,

a party platform, from which leaders,
may stand and look into tomorrow's

victory over all wrong thinkers, leading
away from the best way for all of us,
we, the part-takers in policies of common
wealth taken from the losers to use

for the betterment of all mankind,
losers included, of course, abort no

unwanted child, let society eat them alive.

------------------

Rush to publish, shush nidicolous muse,
Peace awaits inpatient perfecting grace

- long form war, for goodness sake,
- so simple a child can participate,
- the game of life under standing
- constituted authorities established,
Under God, by God, and you
you,
good citizen had better believe we've
GOT GOD, and the entire dairy industry
on our right side, and our enemies,
on our left side, we are destined
to rule over, as gold over silver,

and plutonium ove' all.
Y'all'd know if I lied.
Some ideas are poison,
some are radioactively poisoning,

as life imitates art, foul miasmatics, sniff.

Uric acid industries, good side hustle,
set pots to **** in behind the pub,
public minds congregate to process,
fermented bread purified water,
into precursors for alchemists.

It was a profitable enterprize.
Vertical integration, however…

even then, there were regulators.

Identity, registered voter,
have you read your party's rules for us.

What must we hold true to trust
the committee of good for us reasoners?

Whereas, conjunctive fact fixer, that said,

It being the fact that; inasmuch as.
While at the same time.
While on the contrary…
------------------
Rushing to  betterment, settling
for plenty good enough, betting

on welfare shared by knowing users
of the tools we used
to build the channels of commerce
and learning used to make living easier

inventing means of exchange, symbolic
worth determinants, worth of cows
after…

blah… no mas.

---------------
measure for measure, reassure me,
nidicolous commiseration,
promi-sorry noted aliegiance
conserved determined formal
arrangement of shared woe and weal
- we authorize these changes, we think.
let us imagine, set an image of our wedom,
we… the ready readers granted all meaningful
words ever read by our massively parallel process

of gaining means to branch out and make shade.

Trees, Bees, Toads, Children

Who do I think we are,
who do you think I am,

what do we agree is true,
what do we do to prove it so?

If it is true, any it, we use it.
If it is not true, we see it so, because

we do not trust those ordained to lead.

-----------
Bring measure, come fair trade with me,
take my offering, think it linked to God,
the spirit entity historical Jesus called Father,

when he asked
forgiveness, as with all our debtors
debts, dissolved as gnosis knots
snot-nose brats can have
for a thank you, missed, to whoever
made truth the way life makes us take

at certain instances where signals merge

at a certain round-about in Montana,
we forget forgiveness generally given,
we take if as granted, as we should.

So… with no evil intended, good happens

for all who know not what
we are doing as we survive our helplessness,

and discern the order of effort and participation,

ruled by lines drawn long ago, proper and right,

my peace, my home place, my self assurance,

good by my own estimation, nothing missing,
nothing broken, all things, at scale working
together to gather the harvest, year after year.

-------------------------

Let us project an image we agree to see, knowing
we are showing what we hope to make you see,

a reason for your efforts to be joined to ours,
for your right to influence the rules we use

to keep enemies enemies and workers working…

---- Republican Evangelical shot across my bow

Quantifiable worth of one
person, weight of one person's wish
to willingly partake in persistent life,

life after all is said and done to come this far,

to have taken communication
from the Babel excuse for our misunderstanding,

to these days of Google Translate,
and Assisting Intelligence Coherency, here we be,

now, or never, as we must be to breathe
and have our being orbiting our normal ordinary star.

On the ball we all live on

some rule, some obey, say they who rule.

Those who rule themselves,
obey or stay beyond the reach
of proper societies, as such,

far from the maddened crowds,

herds of humanity harnessed
for war, for defense of local
wealth in terms of valued
conditions to which we become
accustomed, ordinarily following

the leader, as in the children's
games of emulation, marching
as to war

"With the cross of Jesus
going on before… glory, glory…"

Pied, perhaps, are we, on power.

We publically profess to all the world,
say those voting for Donald J. Trump:

We believe in American exceptionalism.

{eh, except ye believe, and say, I see, and
I agree, to this entity inviting all, except those
who are forbidden by religious ties, from knots

to hold yoke to cart or plow. Free souls,
lost in old bet you regret that nows

sould in spirit to a conception, love your enemy.

Refuse to partake in war, deserve no part
in the victor's loot.

Die in dispair, or let go, lose it all…

See the hand hold
a finger, or a toe.

Watch a babe locate a nose,
or an ear, or recognosticate

a familiar face, smiling.

We think, as common, completed
successful sprouts from random
spurts of natural gumption, urging us

reproduce, take pleasure, participate,

in using up our sources of sustained
existence atop the only gravitating thing
equipped to host us.

Chance, and timing, chaos in orderly

coordination with wind and water,
rare fair weather in early March,

beware the Ides, nay, not this year,

March, she came in like a lion,
dumping a whole winter's withheld snow,

at once, reminding many, we are very small.

Reminding few to thank foresighted good luck,

we chose to build upon actual rocks, solid
state soil free to consist as structure base,

for anything two or more of my kind, agree
to see as possible, seeing as believers do,

we must mean the rooting through the fruit

falling to become soil substance for next year.
be seed settled

Be not deceived, as a command, presupposes
reception, once,

be not deceived, many voices in the wilderness

cry this is the way to become lorded over, follow me.

Waveforms collapse, sometimes.

The principle of superposition
of waves states that
when two or more propagating waves
of the same type are incident
on the same point, the resultant amplitude
at that point is equal
to the vector sum
of the amplitudes
of the individual waves…

Slowslooo slide into home. Tune

to zero beat, co hear silence
unbelievable yet evident to any hearing it

as we exhale, in recognosis, this is that

state of mind,
combined,

we free spirit informants,

conforming ourselves to norms, imagined

before the concept of wave coherence formed
in the mind of man kind,
common access
general available knowing,

when, on earth,
as it must be in heaven, if we imagine happiness
constantly overriding common knowledge,
-stretching our hold on the joy of living
chirality insisting we not let our right hand know,
what our left is imagining in this outreaching way,

Beggar's banquets, ***'s rush, breathe

with first reason sought, breathe out,
breathe in, no idea

not a clue, nothing random, but this bubble
we have our being in,
as a liposome time bubble,
when we pause, to think about it….

--------------
In my seeding mind,
reseeding reason to rationalize,

worth and weight, in ancient terms,
57 something tons of silver's worth,

a single talent of silver, once mentioned,
for scale,

to make a warring spirit acknowledge truth,
bow and pay obeisance, kow-tow,
or bolt
upright, how now

may we intercede,
in the spirit of mere words,
redeemed to base value in moral terms deemed

ethical, under these circumstances,
we are free to think this line of thought bought
dearly with the patience taken

to make it all possible at all, what? me worry?
- you may laugh, but take no anxious thought.

We are most alien of all minds, sacred places,

signaling knowers to know, now, time is as a dream,
only if you maintain consciousness of that fact, as art.

Now, consider life a game.

Your move. My move. We agree, we become

one of these things in the form of Paul's God,
all's supreme being spirit form of Truth's Way

taken, as granted any willing to think, why not
me, the stranger in paradaise, asking whom

do we imagine wise,
as the serpent, while remaining harmless,
of no effect, ill or good, either real, or not.

At our we level, we laugh at me.
I become the first beggar in paradaise.
I think we think we know, we meet
at the mean

and we play the balancing Sisyphean
paen to Science of Light Amplification

you push my buttons, I pull your thread,

we make up a mind, to get past this.

This is Ken Pepiton, as he sat in the sun,
thinking of Van Gogh's ghucking sunhat
self portrait,

and laughing at having dropped my name,
where he left his hat.
To all the poets in bemusement.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
could
                      killing hasselhoff
be the next
   big lebowski?

well, to me it already
is...

         i'd prefer the whole:
killing off monty python
sense of comic...

       to stress the concept of
individualism,
       but be "offended"
                 by subjectivity?

what's this?
            a lesson in how
a pendulum works?

            ball hits ball,
   ball hits another ball
             puritanical objectivism...

actually: talking to an old
man in a park about his
bike makes: pretty much all
the sense there is...

after all, the movie is an
archetypal study of
   the book of yob / hiob / jobe -
have i suddenly plaid
a false note on a flute?

          o.k.: joe'b:
                             i.e. 'b = blib.
******* really gagged
   to get technical with
language...
           it's called:
                an oyster eating
a herring that churns it into
a pearl...
       and how many human tongues
are actually
              enslaved by Poseidon
              in these shell creatures?

but to discount subjectivity per se,
and only allow an en masse
objectivism...
                 too, much, grounding
in physics...
                     physics with a ******
nose, i.e. having to discuss
biological (subjective) realism...
realism, i.e. ****,
back into physical reality;
or rather:
    subjectivism, yes, in the focus
on intra-space,
   and yes, objectively speaking
      in the focus of inter-space...

which:
                  
        hardly a case for the "offended",
as if getting ******* needs
a thesaurus cipher-cloak...
          
               now, in the vicinity,
in the immediate sense,
      an anti-thesis
                of dasein: or rather,
in english translation:
     there's being...
                          
                    which implies
an inclination toward: in situ.

    i still think
killing hasselhoff
is the next cult movie on
the lines of
   the big lebowski...
   4.3/10 - ‎1,319 votes...
       (out of) /
                    (based on) -
                 my ***.

my my, haven't we become
very, subtle, creatures?

  sure, others prefer the tailoring
of a tux, as opposed
to, being pedantic.
Marshal Gebbie Jul 2021
Humiliation touched me so
The feather touch of shame,
In having dwelt the weathered blow
Of embarrassment in my name.
From dynasties of ages past
My forebears strove to be,
Procurers of the portals in
The family names’ integrity.

Dank there, in the background,
Lurked a mystery of Jobe,
The riddle of impeachment
In the silken theft of robe.
A murkiness in origin,
The doubtfulness of frame
And the odour of a lie
Within veracity's dark stain.

Seeking through the archives,
Questioning those few
Old survivors of the family
Has left me here, adieu?
The recollections misty,
Most anecdotes, demure
And records from the Parish Church
Irritatingly, obscure.

Just can’t put my finger on it,
Or actually part the mists of time,
Or establish the candidacy
In this querulousness of mine.
But due to some portentous queries,
Innocuously made,
And some snide, salacious whispers,
Maliciously laid?

Thus, despite the searing,  livid flush
Of humiliations hue….
I’ll resume my quiet quest
To energetically, seek, anew….
The very confirmation sought,
Without a trace of blame,
In the voracity and honour
Of my good family name.

M.
Foxglove, Taranaki NZ
6 July 2021
You can't imagine the convolutions involved within this matter, nor shall you be privy to the secrets, withheld.....Ponder thus, as shall I.
Ken Pepiton Aug 2022
This is life, after all.
After all the scripture used,
like and as, said stories say,

the oldest common thought,
formed from the first story told
every where,
by traveling traders, wandering jews,
left lost johnnyrebs, nations of imaginations.

Say Jobe needs an e, and I leave it go, just Job.

Is there context, where I assume you know,
at least, the phrase: patience of Job?

Old boys from DeMolay days, recall Job's Daughters.

The end of an era of grand errors as to the worth
of great gobs of money and fame, brokered
by the jewler and the trickled down clowns…
warriors of the place of inquiry-
Come gather, ye with ears that hear, who made those?
Curio,
Listen, all ye with ears that hear, this here,
is my stand, where I stood, the day I shot

liberty free from justice blind and deaf, chemical
disvalent, efforting
to shove shovel it shoove it- alchemistry junchcrunch
magic or mental wizard dry'
spell
think away, we all die. And just before, quite some time
in fact, we all read this and said,
too rich for my taste.

All cream, no coffee/wireless. drrift.
And there was silence about the space of half an hour.
How do poets pay scales vary over time....
Marshal Gebbie Nov 2009
Whence did thee depart the orb

To seek the pearls of Jobe ?

Whence did thou retire to rob

And don the elder's robe ?

Whence did thee run far from home

To flee assassin's work ?

Whence was good sense realised

That thee had gone beserk ?

Whence did good become the bad

And rampantcy run wild ?

For whom friend, doth the bell toll

In the slaughter of this child ?

What will the fate's bequeath us

With this legacy of wrong ?

From whence will come the melody

When wrong consumes the song ?



Marshalg

@theCoalface

3November 2009
- From Watching the Ripples Radiate
Marshal Gebbie May 2020
Dedicated to Victoria Cutelli Caulfield, a true, lover of life.

In fields of weaving wheat, I sense,
The morning strikes a note
Where Capricorn ascends on high
And buzzing honey bees do float.
There’s a gentle spirit in the air
Of quiet, intriguing light
And the rustle of the golden heads
In rows, pervades as right.

Within the clods, bronze beetles creep,
Small spiders spin their web,
Earthworms writhing deep in soil
Aerating their dank bed.
Grey hares from the stubble rise
To graze on patches, green
Whilst, overhead the goshawk glides
Silently, unseen.

Distant hills of rolling green
In patterned fields of grass
Where cattle graze in unison
And time is slow to pass.
In the dale, the tractor
Murmurs quietly at its job
As the mulboard turns the cleated earth
In even rows of sod.

Above the warming, summer sun
Bathes it all in gold
And the farmer wipes his sweating brow
And smiles, as joy enfolds….
For magnificence in any form
Is hard to quantify,
But the luck of Jobe and good hard work
Calls home, beneath this sky.

M.
Taranaki N.Z.
7 May 2020
This poem is a celebration of life, the realization that wonderment and beauty and true satisfaction can be found at your fingertips, at your workplace, at the warm hearth of your home, in the arms of your woman, at the the tiny, seemingly insignificant things of beauty which arise in the course of your every day.
Be it an allotment tilled,  a backyard lawn, freshly mown or a field of wheat, ripening in the sun, the sudden realisation that herein lies wonder...and the joy of life it engenders in your heart, found right here, right at this moment... Beneath this very sky.
M.
Traci Sims Aug 2020
Half an egg, a chicken thigh,
And a tower of noodles
soaring high to a pair of chopsticks
floating in the air,
The entire mix graced with a green garnish,
All if it fake and covered in varnish.

---by Brian Jobe, author of "Bird's Nest In Your Hair"

— The End —