Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Many Times by Bob Atkinson

"Many Times”
(c)2011 Bob Atkinson

many times along the way
some were fooled and made to pay
with their blood and family's lives
for some silly, arcane reason 

urgent needs to impart collusion
to those opposed to their own solution
seeing others as irrational beasts
not human in their visionary feats

manifesting distortion of real situations
easily becomes the chosen reality
never seeing through greyed milked glass
their own views as less than absolute

enough so to forget that struggle
requires effort, not anarchy's bundle
wrapped with lies, distorted truths
meant to pamper one side's use

here we only see the picture 
of what to us resembles freedom
but misfortune comes to us who use
 this path to wander into harm's way

those who move in this direction
pushing peace away with abandon
offer a high price that must
be paid with blood, from within one's guts

always has this world of ours
contained the bitter with the grand
the use of a dishonest tool
has always proven its user a fool

Friday, August 19, 2011

Old Warrior Eyes by Bob Atkinson

"Old Warrior Eyes”

(c)2011 Bob Atkinson

he had seen the end of days
of strength and much older ways
now was a time so different
his heart begged him to return

return to shouts of glory
to those old camp fires, telling stories
of strength and honor dissipated
and a culture given up for lost

the dance, the song the banging drums
the nights of being such wild men
upon the land of living things
where only the strong survived

but, now his bones ached
from injury and old age
his power no longer at its peak
sadness his only song

steam power drew them east
a wild, fire snorting beast
clanking of metal against itself
held together with steel rails

the woman who had saved
him from death for his old age
sat behind him in her stoic pose
still protecting his life as always

she knew not where they went
for her brother she did lament
her heart was saddened now
yet, she still had all her powers

the scout who signed up for duty
giving loyalty to the new ones
sat hard upon his bench
was also toward the prison headed

Florida had been the call
all knew nothing of how they'd fallen
into the trap of vicious men
with strength but not grand intelligence

fate had bit them hard
on them and all their charges
women with their frowns of doubt
the men saddened without their guns

at least the killing stopped for now
food was given at even, not odd hours
seemed so strange a life to live
not to struggle and to fight well

fight for ways that had been given
by Ussen, the one who looked upon
the people of the dry parched lands
where hardship laid its bitter hand

while ending all those warriors' lives
the women and children too had died
as they tried to continue life
as it had always been

remembering stories that had been told
by men very wise but extremely old
who were born in glory days
and had been lucky not to die

a death as was here so common
by the hand of men with guns
the normal way to leave the land
always violent, always sudden

those who struggled so very hard
to continue the old ways of life
carried with them the burden
of being the last warriors to fight

or were they the last?
I don't think so
was years before
the stillness took hold

others fought, killed and died
to continue with their native pride
and move in the mountains as did the winds
while giving to it their last good breath

Contact Bob Atkinson

Monday, August 15, 2011

Hoop and Pole by Bob Atkinson

"Hoop and Pole"
(c)2011 Bob Atkinson

the woman knew her man could win
she knew his plight alright
she knew his skills were of the best
and told the others he'd pass the test

she cackled on and on so much
it left the others guessing
why much of her wisdom had left her
flying with the birds above them

the noise she made was a gamble
to let the others know
her man wasn't easily beaten
in a fight or in a show

he thrust the pole along its path
it should have been a win
but his opponent's luck was there again
good or bad, it sort of depends

depends on how you see it
the warrior that had won
drew luck to win the game that day
but the other had a gun

the loser, upset he had lost
so mad that he had drawn
his gun from its holster fast
aiming at the winner's grin

it smoked as lead flew out
and pushed hard against the hand
that had pulled the trigger
firing fatal shot at the other man

no protection from the force
not quick enough to dodge
the bullet coming from the pipe
ending the winner's good cause

with smash of lead making good
the loser's pride again
the man smiled broadly
before understanding what he'd done

when the thought came to him
that he'd ended a good warrior's life
and killed a good companion
at the urging of his wife

the loser looked around
his wife at last was quiet
then as she opened her mouth
he proceeded to put her on a diet

more smoke ,more fire, more zipping lead
more said than ever with words
how he wanted her to remain quiet
as she fell into the dirt

so let this be a lesson
don't let a woman sit and yell
whenever hoop and pole is played
keep her and your gun way away, 
or else

else the game can end badly
for the winner and the other
as it did in this instance
when three became sad losers

one lost his life because
his luck was so very good
the woman also lost her life
as was her own doing

the loser lost something too
something hard to replace
something always needed in his camp
a woman pulling her weight 

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Mountain Over Valley by Bob Atkinson

Mountain Over Valley
(c)2011 Bob Atkinson

rising through the clouds
above what's green below
teeming with wild game
mountain's over soul

wonder in my heart
if that's where I might go
peace, harmony and thunder
lightning sparking into soil

flying into space
above, around with grace
mind needs no firm hold
on the ground below

love and all those things so dear
begin etching 'tween my ears
the songs of forests wet
with rain and melting snow

hills to define my soul as
winds carry their hold
on my meager life below
giving meanings to me unknown

valleys under mountains
rivers flowing without stop
feeding farms, flora, fauna
and people
thirsting from the heart

then up into the sky
beyond our small bubble
goes a part of our world
our savior and our trouble

that which sustains our life
what we breathe, eat and like
melds into the universe
offering our world to the stars

at such a moment we
are awestruck with what eyes see
no heart can hold for long
a world without Mountain Gods

Sunday, August 7, 2011

The Second Moon by Bob Atkinson

"The Second Moon”
(c)2011 Bob Atkinson

swirling around the bigger ball
rocks that tumbled failed to fall
into the large and open world
upon which we would someday stand

those blobs of rock way up there
crashed into each other four billion years
before my mammy met my pappy
before the doctor slapped my fanny

up to the sky we see a round
white disc that smiles on our dry ground
brightly it shines upon those of us who see
the brilliance of a lone natural thing

now they tell us it was two
those globes of wonder we look to
seeing more than one 
go around our world 
would have been oh so profound

two orbs where there now are one
twice the stories to be told for fun
Jules Vern would have had to rewrite
the tale of a rocket in far out flight

romance of course would be quite different
one eye looking this way, then the other that way
how could one see both lights in the sky
and still look into a true lover's eyes?

Yes, no sensible romances would come
from such a situation as this in the sky above
thank goodness we were left with one moon
the brain hurts badly when pondering a twosome

one big disk is quite enough
one big smile from the old man above
one big wink from a cratered eye
no other lights need be seen arising

Monday, August 1, 2011

So Close to Living by Bob Atkinson

"So Close to Living"
(c)2011 Bob Atkinson

along the smooth and lighted ribbon
speeds the vehicle carrying within
those with smiles and good of heart
no seatbelt needed upon their laps

smirks and laughter, jokes and such
between brother sister, and loved uncle
the music playing in background
smoothness whistles it's whining sound

the car sits high up off the ground
to see those around them one must look down
sedans like little turtles changing lanes
wandering slowly headed east

passing fast the ones who just
barely attain speed limit's push
gives little time to see who's in
those little gum drop tins

a bit of beer upon one's breath
smoked a joint while still at home
not feeling totally in control
of four wheels swooshing up the road

thrust along the open lanes
the curves with powered gusts of air
doesn't make one afraid to push harder
on the pedal that takes one faster

something dark upon the ground
not big, not small just a shiny mound
too fast they go and no reaction
no understanding of its impact

a tire blown, a thumping sound
no longer air filled or round
a foot wrongly upon a brake
sends wild gyrations to the cage

the cage that holds the jolly people
who up to now whistled sweetly
a bump a grind a thump thump
a scream of tires going wrong

the car drifts over to the dirt
and sends a shower of sands far up
like smoke, no fire, in quick time
three without seat belts are flying

bodies settle upon the ground
after bouncing around and around
no hurry now to pick them up
they've breathed their last in this life

their death came quickly
a big surprise
no time to ponder
their own demise