Tuesday, December 11, 2012

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

3 comments:

  1. Thank you Ando for your unsubstantiated comment. Please post one of your poems on my Poetry Critic site for comparison. Thank you for reading mine, if you did. Did you get the meaning of this poem? It says those who call themselves poets aren't poets and the likes of Bob Dylan and Mark Knopfler are the real poets of our times.

    Bob Atkinson.

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