Uncle Bob's Words

Words, poetry, stuff like that

Archive for the category “Bob Lawrence words”


I’m thinking about photography and about art.

A friend once told me that photography was art.

This was when film required a certain expertise.

Still, I quietly kept from laughing in his face.

The art of an artist is the result of work –

A lot of work for a really good artist. True.

Eye to brain and brain to fingers holding

A pencil or a brush with intent to create.

Intent to create, not content to fail, but often do.

There is no lipstick that can make a photograph

A work of art.  Like, dude, there’s no work there.


(this webpage gives lie to some of the things I wrote above, but it’s a good article.)


The wife of Epimetheus, the fair and curious Pandora,

Unlocked and opened Zeus’s vengeful wedding gift

And released Sadness, Illness, Poverty, Lechery,

And their horrid cohorts onto mankind.  Alas.

Yet, the last one out of that evil box, the last one out

Was Hope.  Someone, I know not who, considered

That something good.

I hope it is.

My Friend Heterodoxy

You will notice, if you look carefully, that none

Of the resplendent, swaggering suits in the news lately

Had a more plainly dressed person trailing close behind

Whispering, “Respice post te. Hominem te memento”.

Roughly translated

“Look ahead, you doof (not in the original Latin), bear in mind

You will die.”

As I grow closer to my expiration date, whatever that is,

The lie grows more apparent, the scrim thinner, the light brighter.

There’s just not a whole lot of anything there.

I will not let the media feed me.

I will not let the myths beguile me.

I’ve seen what they’re all getting up to:

Make lots of money.  Get on TV.  Be “real”.

Meet my good friend Heterodoxy.

He’s foxy.

And he’s got good eyes.

You and Me

You and me.  yeah.

That was a song that played

A long time ago.

The words have faded in my mind

And the melody is just a ghost.

I still have the pictures, though.

Could I recall the lyrics

Bring forth the melody

I could make a music video.


It was a fast run to Gate City in a new tbird

  1. The top down, Kay and Mom and me.

I’m in the back seat.  I’m only 10.

Even in Morristown, Gate City was the place

Where you went to get liquor.

I was along for the ride.  Dad died that year.

I don’t know if this was before or after,

But the memory does not feel sorrowful.

It’s like a five second video clip. I wish

I could save it and open it in Elements

To hear the audio, to slow the video down.

I don’t know the file extension for ghosts, though.

Not Lonely. Solitary.

First, I wanted sex, then a relationship. I had both.

After that, I lost interest.

To paraphrase George Thorogood –  when I’m alone,

I prefer to be by myself.

The Spook

Father and son, holy ghostly, the spook’s

Gone down the road to seek the ailing king.

Never mind the media, they’re a bunch of kooks

And from their words no truth is gonna ring.


Just watch them now, dad and the kid, spot lit,

Smiling bravely as microphones edge nearer, nearer.

Their spirit’s gonna get etched away every little bit

By the acid rain of questions, the judge, the juror.


A hint of fear, a whiff of truth fills the freighted air

Blood recedes from clammy faces, n-nothing to say.

But then, like bells, the spook comes passing fair

He stops to kiss them both and doubt just flies away.

Heavy, heavy clouds

Clouds are heavy.  They really are.

I mean, they’re water, that’s all –

8.34 pounds per gallon, that’s all.

According to scientists –  thus spake Googlethustra –

Your standard cumulus cloud weighs in at 1.1 million pounds.

120,000 gallons of water, give or take a quart or two.

Looming overhead.  If it all came crashing

(Hahaha!  “Cloud crashing”…a concept)

Down, it’d do more than just mist your glasses.

And then some.

Keep a wary eye on that cloud…

A Little Lament

Oh, lord.

Past few days, I’ve had the septuagenarian sweats.

I passed 71 a little while ago.

No wonder.


But, like that town in Kentucky, Pippa Passes,

It passes. Life creaks on.

One wonder.

Time Wall

It’s a time wall going forever from your onceness.

Just a distance, unknowable distance, behind you.

This is the once was, the back-in-the-day, that

Memory that funny feeling, that frisson that both

Is achingly real and breathlessly ephemeral.

All that has passed: the seeing, the hearing,

The tasting, the smelling…

Ah, it’s been a good life and fun.

Where You Are

“Y’aren’t from around here, are ya?”

I explain that I was born in a town just miles away,

But that my parents are from Iowa.

He nods and loses interest. Good on me.

When I joined the Air Force, it was,

“Where’re you from, buddy? Alabama?”

No, I say. I’m from Tennessee.

“Hmm. You people wear shoes down there?”

I laugh. It’s a tired, tired line by now.

Later, when I got into radio, it was,

“Good voice! You’ll do well here.”

Well, not really, but the point to me

Is what you sound like is where you are.

Everything Is Killing Me

Everything is killing me. (Surprise!) Scientists agree.

Survey says: Everything is killing me.

Bacon’s bad. Artificial sweeteners are bad. Bread’s bad.

Lalalalala. I’m not listening anymore.

I’ve pulled through a lot of things in my day.

But I’ll not pull through life. Win the battles,

Lose the war.

<loud raspberry sound> So, stick it!

I’m having a great life. I’m charmed. I’m acing this.

I’ve got some money. I’ve got a job. I’m reasonably healthy.

I can’t see out of my right eye very well (herpes, you know),

But the left one doesn’t miss much.

And the world behind the eye, the brain that actually does the work,

Is clipping right along (but how can I tell?). Zoom, zoom.

I’m never bored

Never lonely

Often tired, though. Nap time.

Time/History Stuff

It took, for me, John Lewis Gaddis to put the bow

On the definition of quantum time with his quote on history.

The quote is here. (it’s the 6th paragraph down)

A contingency, btw, is that suddenly unexpected

Turd in the punchbowl.

Sort of breaks up the party, doesn’t it?

And the memory lingers on. And on. And on.

The King and the Cook

Those battles that raged in the mists of time,

No scribes to record them

Or winners to spin them,

They thinned out the warrior class

Until only the Mighty (or, as in the case

Of the cook back at the camp, mighty lucky)

Was the sole general left standing.

A King to lead the country in peace.

The cook, ever humble, suggested,

“Take my daughter, please!”

The King, liking chestnuts, agreed.

The cook thought, “I’m set for life.

Now, if I can just figure out

Where to find a daughter.”

I have a problem…

I have a problem with

“Smart as a whip” and

“Works like a charm”.


Whips can’t tell you the sum

Of two plus two.



Charms are just a type of candy.

Here take this “charm” and

Go frolic in the traffic.

<slight pause>

How’d that work…


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