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