Author Archives: boballoo3

About boballoo3

Hi, my name is Bob. I took early retirement from the steel industry four years ago and one of the things I promised myself was to learn to paint. I have always loved art and took up drawing at the age of fifty for the first time since leaving school. Hmmm did they have schools that long ago? Seemingly they did because I have some vague recollections of it, in particular of getting the cane for doodling in maths. I enjoyed drawing but always felt it lacked something, so I was determined to try my hand at painting. I enrolled on a watercolour class, but quickly decided that perhaps watercolour and I did not really gel. (In other words I couldn't do it.) Then I tried acrylic and found that I enjoyed using them and so here I am, a retired steel worker, splodging acrylic paint onto boards and paper and quite enjoying doing so. I realise that I have a great deal to learn and that I am a mere beginner in the art of painting, but enjoying doing something is half the battle. I love real art and will happily while away my free time in galleries wherever I come across them. I have been lucky enough to visit the Met in New York, the Louvre in Paris and of course Tate Britain. I also love sculpture and have a great fondness for the V&A, where I can wander for days. Well rather than bore anyone daft enough to read this into tears, I will leave it at that. With my thanks for visiting and my very best wishes.

No regrets.

Never leave a wish to chance

Another day, just one more dance.




Another image I came across somewhere and found the original photograph quite striking. Painted in oils, somewhat playing with different techniques whilst exploring the medium.

Will o’ the wisp.

Oh the will o’ the wisp and the wisp o’ the will

I would catch your tail, if you’d just stand still

 I would read your mind and all of your thoughts

And try to make sense of what I have caught

Oh the will o’ the wisp and the wisp o’ the will

I bear you no malice, I wish you no ill

But will o’ the wisp and wisp o’ the will

If not for you, I might be there still.



Half a chance.

Of tingles and tangles

And whispers of dreams

Of wishings and hopings

And unfulfilled schemes

Adventures and journeys

Still to unfold

The warmth of a hand

Still reaching to hold

Come tingles and tangles

And your whispering schemes

Take hold of my hand

And I’ll fulfil your dreams.


The Hangman.

The Hangman


There were screamers who were dreaming

There were watchers standing by

While a woman lay heartbroken

With a teardrop in her eye

There were children with no shoes on

They were waifs and they were strays

And young men watched the years go by

While old men counted days.

There were clowns and there were vagabonds

A hangman dressed in black

There were many going forward

But none did they come back

There was one stood in the midst of things

Who held within his hand

A trickle of the finest grains

Of gently woven sand

And as the trickle left his palm

And fell in silent flow

Each grain of sand became a dream

Into the book to go

In ornate script from flowing pen

From nib to book they flew

To wait upon the golden glow

That comes from love so true


The hangman looked around him

Red eyes ‘neath hooded frown

In long black cloak and high black hat

His glance was always down

With meticulous attention

He guessed at weight and height

Assessed them for their neck size

Then sat back down to wait

He knew all men to be guilty

And thirteen women too

It was just a question of degree

Hanging me or hanging you


The vagabond was homeless

Dressed in tattered rags

His world was carried with him

In worn out shopping bags

He slithered through the milling crowd

Looked for half a chance

His fingers sliding everywhere

In a thieving mystic dance

In and out of pockets

For silk or coin of gold

For silver pin or pocket watch

Aught that it could be sold

The only one to notice

Was the hangman with a grin

Who marked his soul with a cross of red

And wrote his name therein


The waifs and strays were orphans

Abandoned and forlorn

They would sell their soul for thirty pence

Or rags that folk have worn

Standing there with hands out cupped

They were rudely pushed aside

No-one knew the pain they’d felt

Or the rivers of tears they’d cried

The pretty ones were wanted

The rest? Well who would know

The hangman grinned, with toothless smile

Into his book they’d go

In grubby rags and skinny limbs

With hope gone from their life

Their so young eyes had seen too much

Of sadness, tears and strife

In huddled groups they waited

Not knowing from where they stand

That the only thing that awaited them

Was the hangman’s outstretched hand



The clowns they did their juggling

In this carnival of grief

And watched the fall of mankind

Like the falling autumn leaf

The hangman looked around him

Well satisfied it seems

To put an end to life itself

And to kill all hopes and dreams

And when the day it ended

And I sadly look around

The only thing I see that’s left

Is the book laid on the ground.