As well as JOBO's visual output he also writes poems. Here are just a few


All happy deaths are the same,
but to die unhappily,
is dying in its own special way.
Greatly fear the act of dying : readily embrace death.
Death and dying are diverse concepts
like music in minor and major keys.
So passively embrace your enemy as your friend.
Recovering a silent harmony after the cadence has diminished,
however perfect or imperfect it was played.
Is death then the silent eco after the endless music has resolved.
May flights of spent quavers sing the to thy rest.


Haunting mirages of metaphors held
hostage by heated religions, blinded by
a catastrophic self-righteousness, charged with pitiful
indignant ignorance.

" may I have some more wine "
The actress said to the defrocked bishop
while breaking his bed with ecstasy.

Is god so selfish in demanding our souls for now
and ever more?
Negating our freedoms like a mother denying her curious child
For health and safety reasons of course !

(a landscape of possibilities)

He must be
I can't see.

In the loftiness of the expansive landscape of cluttered notes.
The lonely composer plucks and bunch,
arranges them and tells you the time.
Yet so often in the familiarity of yesterday
intellectually trapped amongst the
undegradeable litter of time.
Timidly trying to take time now to tomorrow.

Too soon, twilight Tulips in the kitsch glass vase,
then die.
While colourful Andean Pan Pipers play there rhythmic tunes.
One by one
Pink dumb petals drop with ease,
resembling the silent passacaglia
on the limp Lama Drum, while
quavers quiver quietly in the ageless Andean breeze.

There in the Altplaino you feel free.
That's where one day we will all be.
Not singing a silly. soppy sentimental Sondheim sond.
Life's decoying soliloquy.


As the fluidity of the evening moves tight to night as
the Sun leaves the dial.
Time and again the tide ebbs at the decline of a high
beaching cloud-like foam on strange changing sandy strands:
life being fragilely short lived.
While the lost magical light experienced by distant lovers
dissolves into disappearance.
Carefully observed and admired by hungry poets and artists
enjoying the musics magic moments
Some cowardly resisting walking almost to close to redefining shoreline.
Yesterday it was up higher,
it was spring, more intense, potent and thrilling in those youthful
dream like days of wonderment.
All now though has receded to a lower level,
an alternative place, a different space,
controlled and maintained in deliberately forgotten dreams.
Anaesthetised and cradled within darkness by the drowsing
drug of fluctuating sleep.
Subconsciously anticipating the resuscitation
of a dashing dawn.
A kiss of life's new day or yet again in another comforting repeat of yesterday.
Hopefully a revealing one for painters, makers and creators.
Lets wait and see.