Saturday, March 31, 2012

History of Art by Bob Atkinson


History of Art
(c)2012 by Bob Atkinson

other objects strive to gain
attention in the artistic game
setting themselves up as central
artistic cores for painted subjects

birds, trees, animals
raging wild snorting bulls
buildings, bridges, royal halls
religions sacred, meant to awe

all these have good meaning
drawing artists' artistic feelings
to the fore of creative minds
standing still for chalk and oils

yet
when we sit down and ponder
didn't create that scene so wonderful
didn't make the river bend
shallow brook, or sweet red hen

aren't gods who have that power
so how can we claim the honor
without adding something powerful
else our talent won't ring true

false talent beyond our measure
tallies points deducted with summation
of those who carry on their drama
claiming that which they do not own

talent casts an angry wave
onto the canvas if not made
with the efforts long and sincere
many hours the voice of peers

simple forms made to shock
no close looks within those faces
no lines of worry on the brow
or angry man breathing hard

tell me now and firmly why
graffiti is an art of yours
simple forms and simple lines
do not fine art make

they only tell stories of

your backwards feelings

your lack of love for 

those you share life with


making ugly our environment

taking from us all our pride in

what we've built and made


ingrained culture

that which you do not know

powerful feelings inward hopes

of living in a life civilized


 
  if you won't show emotion
can't claim directness or devotion
need to shrink within your lark
can't hold good form if not good art

in my mind no subject can
rise higher in importance than history does
how can we freeze ingrained emotions
better than with our artistic notions?

seeing dates, times and places
brightened eyes and furrowed faces
stances proud and kneeling crying
solid hope and violent dying

tell me if my idea hits walls
or
can we line these hallowed halls
with that which we feel inside
always driving through our pride

with time set still, a frozen crystal
down below, our deepest thoughts
flying firmly beyond light's vision
toward that which defines our mission




Thursday, March 29, 2012

A Question of Heart by Bob Atkinson

A Question of Heart
(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

oh, if there ever was
a relationship not based on love
here in Paris one was such
an example of that breed

his need to capture fame forever
drew him to this cherubic lover
leaving him alone in Paris
in the year of eighteen eighty

her plight mirrored his image too
desired to live in gentle moods
carrying her on to better roles
within those thematic scenes

when two of a like mind see
themselves and all their hidden dreams
reflected in the eyes of lovers
makes for parting ways forever

too close he was to her emotion
knew her heart was shallow ocean
caused him to paint her as she was
a portrait of her empty insides

this left for those who viewed it to
begin to question who was who
did Renoir lack the talent to
look deep into her heart?

or was she one without a soul
one who rushed forward boldly
not seeing life as wonderful
without her lifelong dreams

as we know she was a beauty
which he stopped time from executing,
dropping her memory into the river
when her life passed by

did he paint what was there
or did he miss that cool quick air
was he master of this art
or
was she a vain and shallow tart?

warmth of a bitter soul
leaves the questions to be told
by others who can make a judgment
of those dead and gone

or
can we just say she was a beauty
and he painted as he knew her
capturing that which she showed
to the outside world

no need for arbitration
not my call or my station
just say there isn't much
of her spirit shown to us

leaving that for which to ponder
he went on to find new lovers
finding fame in works of art
sold for much yet still a bargain
 
she left for other beds
career enhanced by newer men
other painters to paint her soul
which they never did paint whole

Monday, March 26, 2012

Restraint by Bob Atkinson

Restraint
(c)2012 Bob Atkinson
oh my, the years go by
her beauty remains complete
soft and supple, bundled up
with silk and fine black lace

fire in that soul of hers
showed temper always near
drawn as if a bow string set
with arrow aimed to pierce

the heart of any mortal man
could not resist her charms
with little provocation one would
give life for one night's love

in her bed of fine silk cloth
her hand upon one's face
smile upon those supple lips
glow in her soft sweet glance

no, she would not look into
the artist's loving eyes
knew the power of attraction
caused her morality's demise

could not, would not, challenge him
she could not be his prize
could not, would not, let him see
tender love in her sweet brown eyes

Edouard, too, fell in love
so many, many years later
drew upon her likeness
painted as her portrait's creator

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Poet Novo by Bob Atkinson


Poet Novo (c)2012 Bob Atkinson
 fondly admired works of art
looked upon as astute
yet so far apart

from that which was taught
by those with degrees
in those schools of fine art
with tuition excessive

that which the poor
can find in their means
that which the sensible
can see as esteemed

that which creative artists
long to promote
that which they work hard on
until it is rote

something actualized
in their own wild style
not copied for concord
or subdued desires

or,
as had been shown
to jump out of that box
of same old brush strokes
and simple hard knocks

those of Art Novo's crowd
let it always be known
where their hearts lie
what they love most

those original aspects
not newly minted clones
or painted abstractions
with well formed old bones

carry their own
banners to wave
strong with their hearts
upon life's page

begging for changes
in richness of Art
always looking for that
which is solid and smart

painting wild pictures
with passionate airs
good works of love
without baggage or cares

no formal format
or style to be shown
do they know it's not done?
or
just seek what's their own?

self taught manners
without master strokes
discovered themselves
new paths to go home

yet,
some have amassed
a following of lovers
grown by their style
those who've discovered

a beauty and a grace
of masterful works
brought to the public
by love and solid hard work

a presence
upon those artistic scenes
thought and dance
direct from their dreams

some people with letters
would demean these creations
some would find them revolting
clearly lacking and tasteless

surely,
I have joined
without thought to its meaning
with their group's folly
a simpleton's moonbeam

creating art of my own
silly loops disjointed
not caring at all about
constraints of protocol

pretty pictures of words
I thought quite good on my own
seems yet lacking what's needed
astute understanding by others

here with expressions
I coin myself
bringing the thoughts
direct from my belt

throwing ideas
upon blank white paper
without regard
for institution's favor

with letters and listings
with history and favorites
with quiet judgment
and hours of struggle

I find when I read
their quirky summations
I gag and I sneeze
at learned abominations

they write as if
they were the god true
demanding our loyalty
as if we were fools

I've researched their own
sad writings of note
books of some pages
as long as my notes

finding as always
their simpleton essays
of how “....the azure sky
hovered over the
deep blue sea's waves...”

accomplishment's tones
give favor to those
who give to their brothers
without large gagging tolls

decided my own way
will take me home
with smug satisfaction
if not with much gold

if all goes as it should
if dreams become real
my words remembered
in spite of artless zeal

efforts should leave
my name in footnotes
for thoughts that I had
as well as poems I wrote

to my learned friends
I'll beg their forgiveness
in short poems
with poetry endless


....tried it your way,
but my heart wasn't in it....
so followed my own path
though my words primitive”

Poetry Novo's the Craze
the words that give license
to a field dedicated
to furtherance of nonsense

well versed but tasteless
forms of word order
that said all I wanted
in noun and verb order

stutters and grunts
yells and squeals
furtive thoughts
and emotional feelings

an assessment debated
in my mind at this moment
can we kick off convention
but keep it well spoken?

Saturday, March 24, 2012

Migrant Mother by Bob Atkinson


-->
Migrant Mother 
(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

here, waiting in the tent
for her man who had gone
to the work site
in this morning's darkness
for cash wages if hired on

the children hungered
food was gone
no milk or meat or bread
this day of waiting settled her
into the pain of dread

did we make the right decision
in coming to this place?
did we find our dead end here?
how can we face this fate?

hunger in the body
hunger in the mind
thinking of the life she'd left
ago, seems such a long time

would the children end up as
they had in this worker's camp?
would they? could they? feed their families
better than he and I have?

shame of being on the bottom
no way to climb to the top
no honor found as some have done
while being chased far by the cops

the want of a better life
the hardship she'd endured
left her thinking to herself
is this life of her's bad cursed?

The Iron Lady by Bob Atkinson


The Iron Lady
(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

 reaching up to the sky
a statement made of the times
industrial revolution's mark
transformed our lives out of darkness

symbol of this evolution
a triumph of organized man
this tower lasted longer than
its contract had demanded

first an eyesore seen as such
not appreciated, admired nor loved
the tower seemed to cast a pall
upon that entrance to the mall

then some warmed to its horizon
useful somewhat for signal sirens
lights and radio, flags to wave
hearts to remember their younger days

then a symbol it became
through spring sunshine
then darker days
 always standing straight and tall
straddled over that walkway mall

an icon of French resolve
to leave their mark upon us all
paintings, art and search for freedom
displayed by their constant love of reason

now we see time frozen there
telling us to soon beware
of the power we enjoy
to build large and, or destroy

not that what we do is bad
sometimes it is, makes us sad
is that our footprint on the land
produces harm we hadn't planned

Friday, March 23, 2012

Jeweled Abodes by Bob Atkinson


Jeweled Abodes

(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

seems we've missed the river boat
not keeping what we can
in home centric organization
not building right upon the land

Bucky ball's in our court
yet we dribble out stick habitats
without much logic of construction
building weakened paper shacks

watch the old homes disappear
watch them fall down flat
swift winds blow their worst
to shred them oh so fast

unreinforced masonry
in shaking earthquake zones
causes one to pause and ponder
where did their builder's brains go?

earthquakes happen here and there
wherever you can stab your toes
which is anywhere on the land
when they come nobody knows

BB's solve these problems
cheap, strong and beautiful
those are what we need to build
for the safety of our children

can we convert the strange
to something we all crave?
how do we change an image
so alien to our faces

by injecting neatly into city plans
nodes of sweet abodes
so soft of form and strong of love
BB's we'll call our homes

triangle panels of smoked glass
double as solar generators
one built within the other
to send current to the masses

double wall of these nice cards
with air between their beam-less forms
insulates and radiates, producing power
more current for our phones

here our deeds fill our needs
for jobs and homes and such
giving to us goals and direction
in reconstructing our old dumps

instead of leaving for new digs
watching old apartments deteriorate
seeing them slink and fall apart
when we leave them to move on

with Bucky balls made of those things
which don't turn to dust with time
we can build our cities large
and ever watch them shine

Fever Without Heat of Fire by Bob Atkinson

Fever Without Heat of Fire

(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

could have been any purpose
any humdrum subject called
the group debated furiously
while passions ebbed and flowed

no two believed a similar premise
no agreement found here at all
egos bulged their coats out full
somewhat like raging bulls

logic invoked, fingers poked
men spat and threw kid fits
walking out into the garden
to grind their teeth like grit

how so many honored men
linked ties to this disgrace
giving life to this proposal
which saw them losing face?

oh, they joined in early praise
of their songs upon the walk
giving, getting scenarios for
the society's written document

fever without heat of fire
flames within them shot
out their mouths in fiery speech
laying out their plans for guidance

carrying thoughts to far extreme
then setting down upon a plan
revamping, organizing and seeding
in the end, agreeing to the man

all organized here before
had not worked so well at all
a mass of confused self images
yelling heard way far down the hall

settled now with just a nod
sending to those most in need
assurances of logical progress
for betterment of the breed

could have been any subject
process always was the same
debate and argue, spit and yell
in the end, agreeing to the game

here it was they joined en mass
to sign upon this new charter
names of famous, names obscure
names that would go down

as those who founded gracefully
the long lived franchised group
painters, sculptors architects
who believed in standards good


Charles backed them fully
with wealth like of a king
should they need support
he would fill those needs

every Royal thereafter had
when lack of assets showed its head
staunchly put them in the black
if they dipped down in the red


gave them quarters simple
then better every time
until they moved to Piccadilly
complex of buildings set so fine

sent their sense of organization
to the far distant future
adding to our lives the vision
contained within their moods

forever hence be known as
Royal Academicans
of the Royal Academy of Arts
Reynolds their leader man

launched here by moral character
in one smoke filled room
an infant brought fully to life
destiny enshrined by those who knew

quality best be guided toward
the same thought out direction
men setting differences aside to
accomplish their group's objective

Sunday, March 18, 2012

The South Sea Bubble by Bob Atkinson


The South Sea Bubble

(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

on Threadneedle Street
below the quiet gardens
those who seemed in control
hurt many hearts with bad bargains

had plotted and deceived
and sought to disagree
with that famous master fellow who
drew money through his bellows

bubbles of which we speak
transform all wealth we petition
from outright liability held
to that mold-able paper position

seems such a simple circle
which carries with it so many hurdles
can be poofed away with glee outright
upon the regulatory feeds of thought

during those complex days
when nations struggled in organic ways
to develop seeds of circuitous nature
with which they'd grow in wild gyrations

gave seeds we look back upon
with thought and honest plans upon
which we can build our future on
and rest for having made

our cities in reborn mode
our home warm and covered firm
our hearts not fighting others' forms
but adopting that which protects us all

can't argue with the fixed direction
destiny deems us passengers not captains
we need to fix our simple pride
on riding out the fiercest tides

while holding close our dearest dreams
along with family, friends and trees
building large our sweet abodes
working ever toward our righteous goals





Saturday, March 10, 2012

Fear by Bob Atkinson

Fear
(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

the day had started hopeful
she wore her best fine dress
the blouse of soft silk cloth
and scarf with one light twist

knew the Turks were moving
none knew where they would go
she looked to the field for vegetables
for her family's supper meal

knelt to grab them carefully
no change then in her manner
feeling confident in those
who protected all that mattered

we all have felt those times when
we did as always we have done
even though the situation
was charged with something wrong

habit of the daily life
isn't broken with a whim
habit of the hand and need
for simple food continues

here in the open field
they ran in front of her
they gave as good as they got
and killed while dying cursed

cursed by those who held the power
upon their horses large
not giving quarter to those who
held beliefs not similar to theirs

for them to kill the heathen men
and women, children too
left them no sleepless nights
or times they couldn't move

they had no soul, it had been taken
by those who worshiped wrong
their God and God of us all
whose name changed with the tongue

we all believe in the God
we all have thoughts of him
but some reject him for the power
to hate their fellow men

and here in the field of battle
which held peace a moment ago
the girl looked up to see the slaughter
she knew would take her soul

the fear would show in her eyes
she saw her fellow Greeks
cut to shreds with long swords
hearing their dying shrieks

with saddened bulging eyes
they looked to her as they fell
could not protect her life
could not protect themselves

Monday, March 5, 2012

Don't Yell at the Wind by Bob Atkinson

Don't Yell at the Wind
(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

don't yell at the wind for doing
what it does to things we've made
isn't something one can argue
just inhale deeply, be fascinated

we seem to favor status quo
over our long term good
and never, ever seem to
do those things we should

if we wish to be correct
and plan out rightly now
seems to me there are some issues
we need to address, and how !!

we have a lack of ingrown armor
construct flimsy weak abodes
while fighting over that which
has little substance shown

the assumptions we must make
if we are to survive and grow
should go the way of planning
not mud at each other thrown

first it is assumed
Earth changes in an instant
oceans fill their basins
then jump quickly out of them

the winds are calm most times
then they really blow quite mean
and scrape all life from the ground
those things we've grown and seeded

the ground is firm beneath our feet
seems mostly hard as solid rock
then, like jelly it vibrates waves
which knock us on our butts

sky is blue in normal times
but sometimes it's the color red
sometimes we breathe clear fresh air
sometimes bad air makes us dead

stars remain floating in the sky
most times when we look up
yet, sometimes they attack us fiercely
and really muck things up

to know all of these simple facts
and ignore what they mean
seems to me to be one faulty
unstructured life plan scheme

we could start today the goal
building what we need and want
to keep our lives safe and warm
protecting our good seed from harm

would mean we'd have a purpose
would mean we'd have to work
to clear up all naive struggles
the things that make us jerks