Falling from Jacobs Ladder,
Becoming mad at matter,
I'm battered and bruised,
I used all my belief,
My relief covered in grief,
A brief moment of freedom,
Came from falling some,
Clinging on to what's to come,
Little crumbs of hope,
Become threads to the rope,
I use to elope,
Sliding down a steep slope,
Coping with the climb,
Priming myself again,
I know I can win,
My resolve growing thin,
Dissolving into my skin,
Evolving as I sink in,
Thinking it's too late,
Debating another try,
I don't see a reason why,
Every time I reach the sky,
I fly off the hinges,
On the fringes of society,
Bingeing on what I can see,
Enjoying it temporarily,
Knowing what is soon to be,
It happens repeatedly,
I get beat every time,
Climbing the ladder inside.
“There’s a world where you’re my wife
And we live in this house on Kent Street
And enjoy a quiet life”
- Anna K Jacobs: Letting You Go
And we go to church on Sundays
Every week begins anew
And the priest says Sunday’s better
Cause his gospel sings the truth
I feel his words inside me calling
Begging to believe without proof
But there’s a feeling now that’s stronger
And it tells me it’s no use
I wish I could believe
I bet I could and still be me
I wish I could have faith
But I can't believe
What I can’t see face to face
I wish I could hear God
I could preach his word to all
He would speak and I’d nod
I’d give my sermons
And the churchgoers would applaud
Every bit of hate I’d block
Cause I’d know I had the thing
Most everyone dreamed of
Joseph's brothers dipped his coat
into the blood of a goat
Jacobs said, My beloved son is surely gone
That was the robe he had on...
Joseph is still alive, the brothers said later
With that, their integrity cratered
Jacob disregarded them, they had lied before
~ The brothers had gotten what they had asked for
A link to my past, going all the way back;
A solid support, one that never would crack.
A driver who loved going out for a ride.
Politically, one who kept feelings inside.
A soft-hearted viewer of Hallmark TV;
As loyal as Team USA fans could be.
A shopper of bargains and two-for-one sales.
A mixer of drinks and provider of ales.
An eater of snack foods, especially cheese.
A lover of laughter and shooting the breeze.
A bowler and one who played bingo and cards,
Who kept up with Facebook to send his regards.
A happy retiree down in the sun,
Enjoying the life leaving work had begun,
A life which was, much too soon, suddenly taken,
Leaving his people despondent and shaken.
Dear Cuz, you’ve been part of my life since your birth
And it’s hard to believe you’re no longer on earth.
Your unforeseen passing’s been tearful and tough,
But to say that I’ll miss you just isn’t enough.
For Bruce Jacobs (Aug. 19, 1950 - Sept. 15, 2024)
Star shoots at the mind
Hangs like earring in teared sky
Fissure on a hook
Shows fighting Spirit
Canvased vapor chandelier
Sighs expanse at hand
Liquid lightning pen
Diamond lined felt able craft
A brook of fable
Metamorphosis
Cocoon of endorphin sighing
Solidifies seal
Compassed Inn stable
Signature signed guiding light
Lines mine of wonder
You house the there there
Anteroom of the Angels
Loom of bright signals
Dragons breath agate
Stares staircase, Jacob's Ladder
Starry eyes agape
Jacob’s ladder has nodes seven,
which our Father who’s in heaven,
assists us here now to ascend,
if our ego to love we bend,
that by using mind of our heart,
our life purpose on earth may start.
Pennine Chain
by Bob Moore © 2021
I’ve camped in the hills of the Pennine Chain
in the cold, and the snow, and the pouring rain
and if I was young I would do it again
but the days of my youth are behind me
Beyond Hayfield, at Kinder Scout
each weekend I would be, out and about
tramping and camping, and seeing the sights
free as the birds all around me.
Follow the road, the Pennine Way
built by the Romans, back in the day
Climb the downfall, and Jacobs Ladder
enjoy all the peace travels with me
Now back home to reality, the week is new
money to earn, and work to do
back to my life, and daily toil
with friends and family around me.
Bob Moore.
I don’t climb that ladder anymore,
the one that goes both up
and down.
The rungs were never helpful,
being made for struggle
not for actual reaching.
Some spend a lifetime
looking for just the right ladder,
most end up in dead-air
as fish out of water
struggling to breathe,
it is then I realize
I only have this broken ladder
to offer.
Ancient, rugged hills worn down by time
I miss the lush green hills of my home
Leaning away from the peaceful valley,
Mountains forged from eons long forgotten
During those prehistoric periods before
Earliest settlers found the Appalachians,
Already old, tired, and wrinkled, awaiting
The laughter of young children discovering,
Holding the secrets of ancestors denied
Their birthright by Jacobs and Jacob-ites
Where old waters flow down into new,
New River old, maybe older, than the Nile.
I miss the lush green hills of my home
Leaning away from the peaceful valley
Where John Deere still breaks the ground
In the springtime after a long, hard winter,
And where flowers bloom into October
Especially if Mother Nature allows them.
And she does, for that is her mountain way,
Creating an everlasting yearning for reunion
Back home in those West Virginia hills.
POEM OF THE DAY, December 2, 2021
Poetry Soup
written November 30, 2021
#49 on the Best New Poems List on Poetry Soup
December 8, 2021
Pennine Ramble
by Bob Moore © 2019
I have rambled through the Pennines, on a lovely summer’s day
to Kinder Scout and Bleaklow , and Scafell not far away
We’d start our hike at Hayfied and head for the Kinder Road
past the Kinder Reservoir, into the Pennine Hills we strode
With Jacobs Ladder and the downfall, and other sights between
with views into the distance, where Manchester could be seen
At the Snake Inn we would stop for lunch, a glass or two felt right
then back out on the Snake Pass Road to find a field to camp the night
We’d ask the farmer was it OK, to stay in the field out there
he said “it’s alright wit’ me,, if the cows don’t care”
A few more hills to climb next day, then time to head for home
down in to Glossop, and catch a train, until next time we roam
I tiptoed through the house, careful to make no sound.
The dog’s tip-tapping behind me was of no concern.
We revved up the ForzMyeter783-G and spun it around.
Shortly off to a newly discovered planet called McBurn.
Apparently a throw-back dinosaur there got trapped in some lava.
We'd save her and sneak back without being caught; knew it was fine.
Had my backpack, my chrome book and warm chocolate java.
We could be back at Jacobs Middle School by a quarter to nine.
The mission took a few minutes, because frankly yes, I am that good.
Never estimate a girl who grew up in the most open-minded hood.
Infused with newness, available script ushers me in
Eyes peeled with anticipation for next discoverings
Last easy bend of cane growing country road owns
Entry to rewound time, fibro cement rows of homes
Palm sprinkled, speed decelerates in sleepy streets
Alluring new place charisma, adventure incomplete
Faintly reminiscent of brisk Christmas road trip visit
First time river glimpse brings excitement exquisite
Quaint little town, family pub, caravan park opposite
Mere steps reveal mangrove muddy boat ramp slip
Tinny two horse standard, - biminis seen as high brow
Fishing rods' supple hope supports mates' bonding, tribal
Murk of shallows turn sparkle, close island destinations
Brown armed boaties lower crates to catch crustaceans
Wander past real estate branch (sole agent for miles)
Owner opens door, pulls me in, I admit I'm beguiled
Offers me a place to rent, sixteen steps away, got key
Forty minutes later, I'm signing papers, - it had to be!!
Two years in paradise passed, an idyllic place to dwell
Worked in the big smoke, drove home to Jacobs Well
15th August
' Sanctuary' Contest
Sponsor, Silent One
A gray splintering of light,
mottled wings spear the air.
Their heads sharply applied
as if the wind itself tore through
openings in the sky.
The birds circle and swoop,
circle and swoop.
They are not hunting,
a flickering gravity
is their playground,
the rockface their Jacobs ladder.
They spiral high
then a rollercoaster of ecstasy
tips them back toward the earth
as arrows thrown from a bow.
We onlookers
are left hanging from a ledge of vision.
Whomever lets go first
they alone get to take a photograph
of their passing blur.
The April morning's quiet
and so is the November.
Wherever people outnumber trees
or the dominant cover type
is unquiet. Nothing wrong with that.
Walt got it right, and Jane Jacobs:
the city is an experienced,
used beauty. Her toes are long,
nails thick and hair thin. Yet
her kisses can be sweet; or
smell of ****. All my life I've tried to point my window toward
some narrow wedge of nature.
On Seaman Ave., over the roof
beyond the chimneys to the park
where every dog was walked.
Could I survive soot and an air shaft now, pigeons and cats,
or even a desk in the legislature for my lot in life. How about
prison like Etheridge Knight,
Nazim Hikmet?
I've gotten soft.
When he builds that house in the pocket
wetland my window now looks out on,
the developer will have given me what I need.
Amphibian mortality,
gravel, fill,
oak, ash and maples felled. Good
to the last drop is our bitterness, our love.
Dinner with old friends:
salmon with red cabbage, asparagus, Caesar's salad, penne with
broccoli, two white wines.
Jane Jacobs could analyze how it all got to our table
or even how their daughter came to us from Cambodia.
The economy or market bringing a thing of beauty, the farms, the trucks,
such comfort. The ancients knew this too
yet we are anxious about famine, genocide and nuclear war.
How can we organize (govern) ourselves to end self-imposed suffering?
That Quebec and Puerto Rico may secede peacefully at any time a
majority chooses is a source of pride. Why not Kurds, Chechyns,
Tibetans and Armenians?
Difficult to write a poem about it. At table, candlelight, we debate
or whine about the other side winning and making a mess
of our lives. The election could be stolen, tampering with voting
machines,
what policy question does that possibility raise? War in Iraq,
school testing, prison population. Religion, the abyss surrounding the
little promontory life.
It'll all work out in the end. Go to your daily practice, be a good citizen.
Another failed effort to write what I mean. Such confusion, yet
two white wines.
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