Monday, January 28, 2013

Fixing Mister Tamborine Man


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How would one fix a poem that had such success 
in spite of such obvious errors.  Perhaps it wouldn't 
have been such a success had it been done any other
way at the time.    Bob
"Mr. Tambourine Man"
Poemwriter: Bob Dylan
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.
Though I know that evenin's empire has returned into sand
Vanished from my hand
Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping
My weariness amazes me, I'm branded on my feet
I have no one to meet
And the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming.

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship
My senses have been stripped, my hands can't feel to grip
My toes too numb to step, wait only for my boot heels
To be wanderin'
I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it.

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Though you might hear laughin', spinnin' swingin' madly across the sun
It's not aimed at anyone, it's just escapin' on the run
And but for the sky there are no fences facin'
And if you hear vague traces of skippin' reels of rhyme
To your tambourine in time, it's just a ragged clown behind
I wouldn't pay it any mind, it's just a shadow you're
Seein' that he's chasing.

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves
Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Mr. Tambourine Man
poemwriter: Bob Dylan
hey, mister tamborine man
play your song for me
I'm not sleepy now
ain't no place I'm going to

hey, mister tamborine man
play your song for me
in the jingle jangle morning
I'll come following you

      I know a late night empire
has returned again to sand
simply vanished from my hand
left me blindly here to stand
not sleeping peacefully
although weariness amazes me

I'm branded on my feet
have no one to meet
on this ancient empty street
dead of night good for dreaming
when all but me are sleeping

Hey, mister tambourine man
play a song for me
in the jingle jangle morning
I'll come following you


take me on a trip upon
your magic swirling ship
my senses have been stripped
my hands can't feel to grip
my toes too numb to step
wait only for my boot heels
to be wandering old roads

I'm ready to go anywhere
ready for to fade away
into my own parade
cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it

though you might hear laughter
swinging madly across the sun
it's not aimed at anyone
it's just escaping on the run
but for the sky there
are no fences facing us


if you hear vague traces
of skipping reels of rhyme
to your tambourine in time
it's just a ragged clown behind
wouldn't pay it any mind
just a shadow he's chasing

Hey, mister tambourine man
play a song for me
in the jingle jangle morning
I'll come following you


take me disappearing through
smoke rings of my mind
down foggy ruins of time
far past the frozen leaves
haunted, frightened trees
out to the windy beach
far from the twisted reach
of crazy sorrow


yes, to dance beneath a diamond sky
with one hand waving free
silhouetted by the sea,
circled by the circus sand
with all memory and fate
driven deep beneath the waves
let me forget about today
until tomorrow

Hey, mister tambourine man
play a song for me
in the jingle jangle morning
I'll come following you

Sunday, January 27, 2013

Poemwriter by Bob Atkinson

Poemwriter
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson
he gazed up to the sunset
saw much beauty past his stare
said "some words describe my feelings
some words engage in puffing air"

two groups, both his and theirs
look differently at the sky's blue color
it's pretty nice up there he thought
they thought it's a world umbrella

I say different terms than you
you fellas with your arrogance
imagined puffs of smoke depict
egos flaring quite inelegant

language opens up mental visions
reflections of what's felt without touch
by twisting images of life into
willow trees and cool flowing brooks

so much for true opinion
many hide truth behind coat tails
a broad community exists
which allows its language to impale

stabbed through without emotion
only descriptions trite and common
should talk openly 'bout emotion
pretense kills quickly that good notion

those exploits we write of such
I write this way, you write that
don't accept me in your club while
I don't like hackneyed pitter patter

wasn't that my life was different
tone same as with our friends
young and wild, strong willed
most deliberately inconsequential

sometimes out of bounds
we grew up in the same society
did exactly as they've done
full of recklessness plus abandon

did my thing by runnin' 'round
searching for my own path
yet, when it came to growing up
how quickly, didn't matter

my path veered from the rest
believed the good in me could live
beyond objective circumstance
approached it all so glib

when I wrote my feelings down
my story differed from all others
described exactly what I thought
they described what filled their coffins

there again, wasn't so remote as
not to see beauty of a pale blue sky
was simply putting passion
beyond my life described

convergence of emotions amplified
wanted them to feel strength
saw the same things you'd done
impart happiness within

I'm not made for pretentious drawl
trite phrases appear a dung wall

many, many, events shone brightly
when words expressed them mightily

in that sphere which I watched
many applications demanded
language describe that lot of fools
who thought me not fantastic

going on in life
gathered it in a bunch
tried to apply what I learned
without sounding like your pop

belonged to a minority outside
who inhaled a deep belief in progress
mind carved world of a future which
few could document without lusting

as they preferred merely to observe
viewed the world as multi-leveled
not owned by one large crowd
tried to write a document of restriction


restriction of the solid force
that makes us who we are
that part of us not predictable
that part not a great farce

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Emotion of Disgust by Bob Atkinson



Emotion of Disgust
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

softly settled to my ears
those words I wished to hear
brought me to a higher level
when written well, so treasured

waiting patiently among
the throng of citizens, no guns
a gentle lot of doers well
those who praise art and tales

standing up to do their best
to settle for all the rest of us
a trumpet sound of sculpted tones
ones with meaning held upon

a field of life, pages open
emotional tags, sometimes spoken
carry me to advanced nirvana
please read good words, not trivia

when they speak these honored verses
so well received and prizes awarded
my hand reaches for the door
so I might escape these awful chords

no, they don't speak for me
blank faces in the audience
form so simply irrelevant
purpose one's only good intent
 
when sung accolades flow quickly
a million sold six months a pittance
poetry had come of age
yet nobody knew or accepted change

Chandos lamented openly
no quotes from us, our poetry
were made outside our borders
were not champions of language order

thought about this for a while
remembered friends in distant lands
who spoke Germanic languages different
no English were they aware of meanings

yet sung our tunes with impassioned voices
wildly swinging arms to chorus
the words meant nothing to their minds
but beat with rythyms to their hearts timed 

Poem: 18 Stoic Faces by Bob Atkinson 

Poem: Emotional Literal Tomes     

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Le Miserables Poetry Comes to Song by Bob Atkinson

Le Miserables
Poetry Comes to Song
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson
Russel and Hugh amazed me
last night they played on screen
greatest show of emotions
think I have ever seen

shone there on the lighted wall
accepted by songs of talent
as poetry for the masses
windowed emotions pulled with tassels

verified my words of late
that form's irrelevant
impact of written words
brings explosions to the gate

letting flood out to the outworld
feelings held deeply, yet unknown
takes me to my primal core
gives meaning to my heart and soul

Monday, January 7, 2013

Master Poet to P.I.F. by Bob Atkinson

Master Poet to P.I.F.
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

wandered through a maze
as I do both now and then
following trails of discovery
about those words she'd penned

saw the accolades bestowed
upon her works so fine
wondered how these words began
desired to read her finest lines

took some time, writings obscure
published in some costly books
Amazon had them there behind
closed covers locked with currency

searched more, found the ribbons
had been given her in mass
she must have written a masterpiece
this learned sweet young lass

oh, it took a long time
to find one of her themes
shock attacked my brainy part
when found it I did scream

this isn't all I hoped for
words do not inspire me
for there on the laptop screen
I nearly lost my tea

choked and gagged,
spit and saddened
nearly lost my lunch
there before me stood some tripe
words thrown into a bunch

so to her credit I began
to formulate my bestest plan
to rid the world of these bad parts
at least do something for that stand

a "Poet" isn't created and designated
when words mixed without form or purpose
unrehearsed, cheesy, lacking fine refrain
won't rise greatness to the surface

those who take this mantle lightly
and work the system for their own
benefit at the expense of mankind
if starving, would not throw a bone

Master Poet she is not
hardly a P.I.F. in a large pot
no standing "O's" would she receive
when yelling out her dreams of written rot

Poets In Fact, or P.I.F.'s if you will
give more than take within this realm
they do not make the masses smirk
when the word poetry gets mentioned

they do, on the other hand
bring many on their feet to stand
and re-enforce that feeling of
enlightened senses and honest passions

they give for free with willingness
to share their inner dreams
complimentary display of thoughtful words
ordered to make us better people

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

2012 to 2013 The Transition by Bob Atkinson

2012 to 2013
The Transition
(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

transfer us from the past
to the future as we ask
what lies toward that new direction?
something more, or just convention?

all we share of our experience
wobbles forth, does flips and fits
sparks us here and hurts our heads
makes us lie again in beds

should we worry of this fate?
or
should we expect these alternate
uses for our timely game
grow up be gone from our own days

we see the young ones standing tall
have children as we did ourselves
become the mainstream, where we grow old
find for themselves what we have known

that in time the only purpose
we can find
would stand as something
to leave behind

which binds our friends
to those strangers
ones with dreams
of living greatness

how to do this simple deed?
how to enhance our breed?
some say leaving thoughts for others
does the duty of which we're troubled

write your notes, write your emotions
give to language your pure devotion
let those of future embattled times
know they're not alone, but joined

with the past in firm resolve
to fight beyond those wicked halls
through those hardened tasks we find
we join with all living in future times

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

Joan Baez, pif (poet in fact)


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Joan Baez, pif (poet in fact)

(c)2012 Bob Atkinson


gallant words upon the sheet
much emotion to reach way deep
into the heart, into the soul
not settled yet, no overdose

she plays my heart as if a fiddle
changing keys down in the middle
bring up those times of old
with bodies mingled, futures on hold

have sweet words of poets who
set upon language, but merely doodle
without effect, no teared wet eyes
no sympathy for their plight

call themselves poets
call their tripe poetry
call song lyrics
something mean

give only blank stares to emotion
no attention to good language spoken
set themselves as if on throne
defecate on what isn't their own

say song lyrics don't belong
because they're not poems but song
give awards to garbage pails
and move me not with their tales

hold themselves so high and mighty
empty shelves their only deity
pockets full of dusty sand
while song commands the audience to stand

Diamonds And Rust

written by Joan Baez

Well I'll be damned
Here comes your ghost again
But that's not unusual
It's just that the moon is full
And you happened to call

And here I sit
Hand on the telephone
Hearing a voice I'd known
A couple of light years ago
Heading straight for a fall

As I remember your eyes
Were bluer than robin's eggs
My poetry was lousy you said
Where are you calling from?
A booth in the midwest

Ten years ago
I bought you some cufflinks
You brought me something
We both know what memories can bring
They bring diamonds and rust

Well you burst on the scene
Already a legend
The unwashed phenomenon
The original vagabond
You strayed into my arms

And there you stayed
Temporarily lost at sea
The Madonna was yours for free
Yes the girl on the half-shell
Would keep you unharmed

Now I see you standing
With brown leaves falling around
And snow in your hair
Now you're smiling out the window
Of that crummy hotel
Over Washington Square

Our breath comes out white clouds
Mingles and hangs in the air
Speaking strictly for me
We both could have died then and there

Now you're telling me
You're not nostalgic
Then give me another word for it
You who are so good with words
And at keeping things vague

Because I need some of that vagueness now
It's all come back too clearly
Yes I loved you dearly
And if you're offering me diamonds and rust
I've already paid