Thursday, December 27, 2012

Why? by Bob Atkinson

(c)2012 Bob Atkinson
Chandos gave good meaning
to all we have become
all the forces in our universe
who observe and comment upon us

he said our real commodity
that which makes us valued
lies within our language
that daily pitter patter

a concept
although hard to grasp
lies open in our lap
overflowing our belief
in our future's past

our daily lives, why we live
those simple things we do
how we learn to love and hate
giving voice to me and you

seems the q-bit has potential
toward understanding all but one
facet of our existence
the beings we've become

ebb and flow of all emotions
we profess and call upon
needs the written word
documented, drawn and sung

if we can't read all there is
and feel some understanding
then empirical calculation
begins our lives to lag

behind all that can excite
some in their easy chairs
need to see, watch the show
and see us on our errors path

so fluid in its makeup
voiced emotions have a form
which changes ever gently
as the new becomes the norm

minds can't be read
that isn't possible
and television on the wall
distorts a real perspective

what we think about
everything we do
falls to the creation of poems
thoughts and observations
of our mind's inner view

giving emotions to others
as a normal way of life
has yet to take firm foothold
but someday it just might

so those with good machines
who read our connected words
can, if interested in this world
watch closely and observe

why we do those things we do
why we love and hate
in more expanded detail
because of our many written words
those much broader pictures we paint

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

You're Smart by Bob Atkinson

You're Smart
(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

who told you that "you are smart?"
was it your PO or your lawyer?
who told you that you are smart?
your sister or your brother?

was it the fellow at the gas station
when you aired your bicycle tires?
was it the fellow at the donut shop
when you scrubbed the restroom tiles?

who told you that you are smart?
the man on your TV set
or the one in your ear
on your iPod, model best?

who told you that you are smart?
did you get his name and number
or was it some jellyfish
who tried to sell you something

you spent an hour describing
your huge intellect to me
then you had to leave
more restrooms to clean

later, when you wise up
back to school you'll go
to find those that have the brains
think of themselves as slow

Poetry is Best Sung by Bob Atkinson

Poetry is Best Sung
(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

sands evolve from granite rock
seeking ever to develop status
from shadows cast in rigid stone
to something moved by tide along

music rings within our ears
causing something to disappear
that something, bears a hardened force
which keep us within our place of course

music takes us to that field
where sonic wonders reappear
within our heads as we evolve
thrusting feelings upon our walls

dependence, independence
a constant cycle
within, without, or back beside us
telling softly what makes us move
by shadowed forces within our grooves

so to say we shouldn't sing
our poetry made to make ears ring
and beat the hearts back and forth
defeats our nature in due course

Monday, December 24, 2012

After the End by Bob Atkinson

After the End
after the end, coffee's good
after the end, weather's warmed
after the end, all is calm
after the end, nothing has changed

doomsday seems not to have evolved
into that dark carnage for all
sure, some will find the end comes soon
perhaps for me, perhaps for you

those who predict the future can't
with general precision find good facts
although the effort seems sincere
can't carry with it all those fears

someday my watch will have a dial
to show me the path and display my trials
shows the future if I want it to
think its battery I will remove

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Master Poet Mark Knopfler by Bob Atkinson

Master Poet Mark Knopfler

(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

seems here a decision needs made
should I go with the flow
or send out large waves
stand for change, or bury my thoughts
let them alone, or shake up the process

toward the shores of calm lakes of the past
tranquil mediocrity crowds out progress
keeps the emotional elements suppressed
rips out the works of the best

this lets the world stand still
and a genre fester, sadly killed
keeping the Poet as not a large man
one with soul lacking, not with talent

or, should I without remorse
no regard to safety of my name in due course
shout it out loudly even if vainly
not my style to be quiet I'll hammer it plainly

in my mind
current establishment can't hold its own
gives accolades to drivel 
to their own they throw bones

if this shakes some conventional airs
my thoughts wildly passioned carried by stares
as I look at what we have produced
our libraries and bookstores lie dusty unused

if it costs me so dearly in getting support
then so be it, at least have not lost my goals
to swim in a school of sardines so aligned
a shark only smiles as his teeth cut spines

here's the dilemma
please help me decide
which course leads toward harmony
away from the divide

which way to proceed
which route to take
whose feelings do I hurt
when I stand up and state

an establishment that feeds on egos ferment
an old way of looking at those older precepts
cannot, will not, move toward the future
without redirection in assumptions of usage

poetry, hereafter, garners much fame
when acknowledge as useful within all our brains
prior to now, we see those who use
words with some useless, careless attitude

they call themselves poets
even have credentials of note
from org's and associations of folks
who seem important and fixed
with attitudes of the stately mix

although their impact to life is just nil
would not in all earnest from them get a thrill
can't lift wings of a gnat their words have no power
don't garner approval from a younger crowd

from the masses of people of different classes
both young and old, the lads and the lasses
some very timid some loud some bold
some learned some savvy some overly stoned

they call themselves talent
but talent eludes all of their works
which they publish though useless

walls of halls in apartments of brick
are lined with vanity's sickly garbage tricks
that which they see as oh so unique
makes some like me think they are dopey not slick

they give out as presents
to all relatives and friends
their "great works" toiled
many night times in bed

their friends buy their books
only when cornered
relatives smirk smugly
when not rightly sober

their wives smile sweetly
when reading diatribes
not wanting to work
on soothing hurt pride in this verse
I do now declare
a quiet war of words
about those who don't care

that poetry in form
has many central themes
can come in all forms
from whispers to screams

from spoken to sung for anyone
as long as it's words shouted or written
and brings out emotional feelings
it is poetry which has useful meaning

if it doesn't bring out emotional bursts
laughter, singing or some such loud spurt
elation or sadness or wicked gladness
some form of confusion or sad illusions

then poetry it isn't and a poet he's not
and his cheap self image hasn't bought
him the title which he gave himself
that Willy Wonka toy on his belt

he or she must
in order to be Master of Poetry
write with the Master Poet's hand
must have purpose and grand emotion
to the word of mankind have pure devotion

I leave you example
a good refrain
by Mark Knopfler
a Master Poet of fame

if your words don't match his in depth
then you're not a poet and thus you should quit
leaving the verse to those who can write
who understand the meaning of words not so trite

"........You get a shiver in the dark
It's raining in the park but meantime
South of the river you stop and you hold everything
A band is blowing Dixie double four time
You feel alright when you hear that music ring

well now You step inside but you don't see too many faces
coming in out of the rain to hear the jazz go down
competition in other places
but the horns are blowin' that sound
Way on down south way on down south London town...."
(Sultans of Swing, by Mark Knopfler) 

Bob Dylan, Poet, Master by Bob Atkinson

Bob Dylan, Poet, Master

(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

Dylan grabbed my heart back then
on 4th street slowly he walked again
turned left and right and winked at Joan
she seemed somewhat a friend to folks

dragged his harmonica along with him
on the side of a walked mall with friends
carried over his refrains of powered words
mind's music flowed so undisturbed

sweet, sweet times he did recall
with tender loving care for all
rolled stones over until worn smooth
words hung in the air, didn't fall so soon

my cultural attitude developed slowly
owe much to his word selection wholly
grabbed his useful phrases for my own
imagining my inner strengths not frozen

while never looking back at him
took his lead and moved within
that proven useful shell of which
saw someone doing all of it

all those things we do in life
school, work and family strife
friends and social contacts
flights of fantasy real and not

we just passed close in the night
he saw me not at all, not lighted
yet, I felt his image press firm upon
my mind against that wall each dawn

to him the art of poetry floated potent
a newly charged degree quite free
a firmness Poe wouldn't like to see
soothed my pride alright, did he

no smirks contained within his lair
no tune-smiths hiding their newer flair
no shame for what my words would say
as long as were soft and sincerely made

Thursday, November 22, 2012

I Have Known Victory by Bob Atkinson

I Have Known Victory

(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

have known victory in my travels
have known defeat in battles fought
have climbed the mountain to the top
have floated on the sea with bright foam froth

have shot through the air as cannonballs
far above the highest clouds white and pale
allowed by the quick wit of those whom
I've read of their good life's tales

have seen the kindest passions
have seen men and women doing deeds
in their quest to assist other hands
an unselfish race to heaven's scenes

have seen them rebuilding cities
which blew to rubble in hard gales
making the cold warm again
new houses for survivors to dwell

no matter how each feels
some find a way to feed the hearts
of those with outstretched needs
and pockets full of dust

have seen the ones who hurt their kin
zombies of the saddest hardness
causes meanness deep inside their being
one way ticket to hell's acid garden

perhaps the good which sees us all
as one family, no matter our beliefs
can temper power hungry souls
keep them from being mean

Friday, September 28, 2012

Tucson, the Poet's Dream by Bob Atkinson

Tucson, the Poet's Dream
(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

come back to my birthplace
or, within a hundred miles of it
a lifetime spent in struggle daily
for that dollar which to spend

Tucson carries to your soul
that calm artistic feeling
broad mountains ringing valleys
saguaros standing neatly
art gallery at the airport
or Covington if you need
more than Etherton's offerings 
Etherton Gallery
or maidens' Letter reading
art and history museums
Tucson Museum of Art 
a zoo to prick your mind
Tucson Zoo
showing fine accomplishments
of that deity, yours or mine
a university well respected
a college on each corner
Pima Community College
scientists in their labs exploring
astronomy or spatial formats
Kitt Peak National Observatory 

cultures diverse in order
from south and east and north
some came here from China, or
from Africa's west center coast
Bently's for a slam with those
who woo you with their words
telling tales of the malcontent
Cafe' Passe's crowd if you choose

TSO rings beauty in your ears
a laugh at Gaslight's table 
The Gaslight Theatre 
plays become Invisible
with Workshop's good creations
Invisible Theatre 
Live Theatre Workshop 

here in the land of dreams
my dream stands next to you
soft sands of time slip by as
one documents inward moods

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Fire Iron by Bob Atkinson

Fire Iron
(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

poke the pole into hot fires
tend to that which burns
see embers flying brightly
our dreams upon those burrs

carry us to brighter days,
days we do not lament,
days upon our future built,
not by arrogance or regret

days of solid common sense
strength born from those now older
who traveled roads not paved with gold
yet, produced fine sons and daughters

time to hold strong lessons learned
from all who walked briskly on
these roads and ridges, valleys too
left footsteps from their own run

stand me firm upon my feet
so that I may live well past
these newest times of trouble
such an easily accomplished task

why do we lament our lot?
our challenge makes us stronger
taking heart begins our journey
into a grand common adventure

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

American Poetry by Bob Atkinson

American Poetry
(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

everybody feels the world by touch
a different texture, different cuts
diverse ways to see the sights
some feel kindness, their given right

some feel pain in every move
some deliver hardship, acting foolish
protoplasm of evil construct
devoted to composed destruction

battles good and new directions
face of ever changing projections
guilt and pride in the same thought
living out their quiet hopes

age old struggles haven't changed
direction constant, forever strained
toward what and where, not in our sights
only live out our given desires

simple by nature, reflex directing
all we are and who we hang with
why we do that we do in life
why we set selfishness in our sights

American Poetry reflects this all
yet behind hard covers, hard to tell
poets who write and see only dollars
give humanity not their free poems

they hold their works published in
vacuum of sales to family and friends
and claim distinction not really earned
gives them not credentials, merely saddle burrs

search for poetry on the line
you'll find not much more than mine
only content easily mustered
comes from distinguished, both dead and dusted

here's the challenge to all who hear
let us create some poetry here
content displayed for all to see
most important of all, should be free

those who have these false credentials
need to improve on their essentials
carry to the public something
which may or may not provide discovery

do they fear open discussion?
do they not possess real compassion?
does their form not fully function?
are they self-absorbed and crusty?

can't give openly their artistic side?
freely distributed to become archived
that soul of man we hold as our hearts
set out in plain sight for all to ponder

those of today
those we can dream
those who develop schemes

those who hold humanity close
and those who need guidance
us normal folks

 I only laugh violently
whenever someone else decrees
themselves a poet of some note
when nothing's free of which they wrote

The Dance by Bob Atkinson

The Dance
(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

music played emotions swayed
as people danced with lust
forgetting cares of their lives
was worries they had tossed

friend and foe and family
came together as if just one
a night of dancing to the tunes
Henry played his bagpipe songs

take me back to those old days
when beyond trees I wouldn't look
no deepness in my inner feelings
past those of summer breezes

celebration with my peers
those with whom I grew up proud
destroyed feelings of remorse when I
carried sword to the battleground

people here and now with me
are all I care of the living
beyond those hills may be seen
broad, stout horrors brimming

tonight I'll woo my honey
reservations thrown to the winds
forever letting harsh life's trauma
bow down to these good friends

American Poet by Bob Atkinson

American Poet
(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

tell the tales of no regret
tell them with your heart
tell them truly all you feel
before you this world depart

tell the truth in all you write
try to find how emotions
hold a mirror to their souls
for change of inner devotion

describe the tightened chains
which bind us closely to our brothers
then breaks us free of all constraint
in the name of progress cautious

wander over time and thoughts
years gone by with those who had
fought the battles of their times
which made them alive or dead

marvel at ones who held
your imagination in its place
and gave you feelings of pride
or sometimes such gentle shame

put all these thoughts in words
so another might possess
strength and purpose for all time
combined with quiet gentleness

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

The Fourth Wall by Bob Atkinson

The Fourth Wall
(c)2012 Bob Atkinson
just ran over an article
about trouble on a continent
the Hutu's fighting Tutsi's
or some other bloody argument

horrors created by submission
no morality in the gut have they
people slicing people with
machetes or with foul gun play

parallels our problems here
with drugs and gangs and such
politicians bought and paid for
with money and with lust

have in our own towns
so many problems to correct
don't need all this social distraction
produced by violence of the sick

we have many resources
2.1 million souls for one
ready to do their work
by pointing a rusty gun

we can invade the continent
place our flag on fertile soil
build a prison with stone walls
to give our jailbirds homes

could save lots of money by
building only three walls for them
with strong containment on three sides
fourth open to freedom's wind
fourth wall won't be as hard to build
a foot high is good enough, I'd think
no barbed wire, fences or armaments
just an open freedom gate to quit

see a problem with our stance of late
some wish to live their own way loud
seeking to utilize violence as a tool
while system manipulating unbounded

for only barbarity can provoke
expanded power of weak minded twits
thrashing fully any hope of resolution
to follow this play with eloquence

dollar meant more to them
than safety of someone's mom
a wicked way of conduct among
those contained within the throng

if they need to behave this way
no need to keep them from
their peers who see it their way
or detain them from a free run

doing that sewn in their heart
doing what we feel bad at home
no need to bury them in walls
or some overcrowded dorm

place them near their brethren
be kind to one and all
let them live with those people
who think violence a rightful cause

let them feel how we feel
seeing violence used wrongly
let them live among their friends
and die by their own rule of anarchy

would cower in their weakness
wetting leg when others take
from them their lives or money
without that safety cage

see them babble when
opposed by another just as strong
see them leave their wetness
on the pavement stones

from them no safe world of rules
anarchy replacing ordered thought
satisfied their dire need to thrash, and
match their mind's disordered process

most feel a need to stay among
the gentle lot those civilized
people who, advanced in mindset don't
propagate more wrongs than rights

some protect these heathen souls
say we should treat them nicely
breeds an attitude immensely sick
preys on the innocent nightly

I say to anyone who protects
these less than human souls
blood of the innocent
is in your hand to hold

say also to those who take
to the street with clubs
you'll be joining with your friends
if mother's words you shun

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Secret Element to Success by Bob Atkinson

Secret Element to Success
(c)2012 Bob Atkinson
tried and true methods
seem more than they appear
taking with them attention
away from that sincere

tantalizing as they glisten
they mean not all they show
stabs the green banana
you know where that goes

first and fundamental
to this worthy prize
comes attention to the deed
that masters as it flies

a quick and dirty profit
from screwing all your friends
returns those favors many times
as they peel off your top skin

same goes with those you
don't really know so well
always returned, the favor
good or bad with interest paid

focus, lately, diverted to
what works, no matter how
it fits into the moral scheme
describing our human shell

can we be kind to others
or, do others not matter much
do we wish to see ourselves
as people, or merely puppets

Monday, July 30, 2012

Billy Flynn by Bob Atkinson

Billy Flynn
(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

flying through the skies upon
those metal and plastic ships
Billy threw caution boldly to
hard strong prevailing winds

he sailed upon the waters
of blue and green and red
threw his arms around the world
as if in a firm fixed trance

Flynn knew all the angles
knew the rules alright
knew troubles could be brewed
for those not smart, farsighted

dove into the deep ocean
saw whales as large as ships
canyons deep beyond one's dreams
pinnacles built high with basalt cliffs

saw peaks of Hawaii's mountains
largest volcanoes on this planet
fall down slope into what was
depths which now held highlands
waves broke over dry land
washed out some wicked mores
drew upon the hills a shoreline
false beach as tides restored

let this remain a lesson
for those who do not seek
to plan for all unusual events
originating from the sea

to sit and brood about what we
do not have, only that we covet
places us in a category substandard of
those not deserving progress's pleasures

easier to get off our backsides
start working hard within
our minds and bodies establishing
that which we can be proud of as men

tearing down what others built
keeps our pride false in its bottle
we smirk with contentment while
a world laughs at our inner troubles

Billy knew all these facts
tried to wave a flag for attention
without co-operation swam against
his cousin's greed and bad senses

Billy must leave this place
the water has grown cold
mother stands there with a towel
to dry her baby boy