Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Time To Recall - by Bob Atkinson

Time To Recall
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fSybml7XsH4

Don'n Loftin played their hearts
as if headed for the lights
when Susan saw them at the school
and directed them to try

something new in her imagination
seven years they did arrange
to flow with treasured feelings
Pozo-Seco became their name

Time took off among the rest
based upon their feelings shown
about the world and its contents
emotions ever overgrown

here in Time we see ourselves
as we move through simple lives
seeking status knowing that
the world will pass us by

most folks do "go their way"
without our feelings in their hearts
not seeking gifts to give away
just looking for that treasured spot




Time
Poemwriter: Michael Merchant
some people run, some people crawl,
some people don't even move at all
some roads lead forward some roads lead back
some roads are bathed in light
some wrapped in fearful black

time oh time, where did you go
time oh good, good time, where did you go

some people never get, some never give
some people never die and some never live
some folks treat me mean, some treat me kind
most folks just go their way, don't pay me any mind

time oh time where did you go
time oh good, good time where did you go

sometimes I'm satisfied, sometimes I'm not
sometimes my face is cold, sometimes it's hot
sunset I laugh, sunrise I cry
at midnight I'm in between and wondering why

time oh time where did you go
time oh good good time where did you go

time oh time where did you go
time oh good good time

Your Children Taught Well - by Bob Atkinson

Your Children Taught Well
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson


Graham got the idea long ago
from watching children play
games adults thought were cool
in their much distorted way

cops and robbers shooting up
the town for what was right
soldiers killing on the field
to express a nation's might

Hollies didn't see the gain
in producing such a twist
on the age old adage
teach maturity to your kids

discipline of mind and thought
not confused with freedom's pride
instills the progress we all need
as to our egos identified

that which makes us better
not that which gives us wealth
those treasures of a lifetime
true, pure, and heartfelt

Garcia pedaled such good notes
in his effort to expand
abilities of the Dead
before dying like a man

as we travel through these themes
let us carry onward within our lives
in that tradition of full respect
for what is rightfully applied

the old song had, as cats do
many lives of some great note
filling inner needs of those
who sung lyrics and bespoke

feelings of the grateful men
who saw as their duty plain
children should be led beyond
that selfishness we disdain




Teach Your Children Well
Poemwriter: Graham Nash
you who are on the road
must have a code
that you can live by
and so become yourself

because the past is just a goodbye

teach your children well

their father's hell
will slowly go by
and
feed them on your dreams
the one they pick
the one you'll know by

don't you ever ask them why
if they told you
you would cry
so just look at them and sigh

and know they love you

and you, of tender years
can't know the fears
that your elders grew by
and
so please help them
with your youth
they seek the truth
before they can die

can you hear
and
do you care
and
can't you see we must be free
to teach our children
what you believe in
make a world that we can believe in

teach your parents well
their children's hell
will slowly go by
and
feed them on your dreams
the ones they pick
the one you'll know by

don't you ever ask them why
if they told you, you would cry
so just look at them and sigh
and
know they love you

Saturday, April 20, 2013

Wish I Was Sixteen - by Bob Atkinson


Wish I Was Sixteen
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson


now and then with frustration
seems more often now with age
a puzzle twists my brain in loops
a pretzel's form it retains

what's the answer here?
what's the way to follow?
wish I was sixteen again
back then I knew it all

now, I guess, I'm not so smart
I know the questions better
fields with which I'm not acquainted
expand with each summer's swelter

those scientific calculations
sums of numbers large
seeds of plant and animals
stars away so far

yes there wasn't anything
I didn't know when a teen
back then, you know, the questions
weren't even gleamed in dreams

this made the answers crystal clear
when detail not an issue
you reason simple thought processes
show contempt for those old people

Thursday, April 18, 2013

Winslow - by Bob Atkinson

Winslow
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

Jackson gave it first life
Frey saw it to the end
both believed in printing pictures
by jumping on the band again

sweet sounds of harmony entangled
loving moments good as wine
preening wings for eagle's flight
somberness blowing old wind chimes

"...running down that road in Winslow..."
searching for a ride to carry home
an always knowing lamp of sparkle
with which talent can evolve, well known

simple pleasured sweetness, brooding
drifting to extremes of heat and dust
for adventures golden in your pocket
hurts given attention by a lover

such caused temptation's evolution
wild gyrations of unspoken dreams
simple pleasures toward feeling good
expressions stuck in moving streams

here the words of masters ring
with wonder of their youth
circling covered wagons under
starlight aggregates within life's soup

try that sense of purpose now
doesn't feel same as moods back then
sense of duty more ingrained these days
better uses for inked blue pens

although one wouldn't know
reasons we couldn't follow home
our goals within us attained fully
years before our dreams outgrown

Winslow knew the memory of love
combined with western storied lore
that sandy sort of process we observe
to which shallowness becomes absorbed


grit, tenacity, our base talents
guts and attitude arranged in lines
without the temperament of age
unknown, which path is yours or mine

not adverse to risking failure
or surprise results sometimes
in our youth we followed fantasy
incomplete descriptions, chaotic rhymes

carry me back to a world when
all that was, was future dreams
no present in our desire then
no volume in our screams
Take it Easy
Poemwriters: Jackson Browne, Glenn Frey


well I'm a-running down the road trying to loosen my load
I've got seven women on my mind
four that want to own me, two that want to stone me
one says she's a friend of mine

take it easy, take it easy
don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy
lighten up while you still can
don't even try to understand
just find a place to make your stand and take it easy

well I'm a-standin' on the corner in winslow, arizona
with such a fine sight to see
it's a girl, my lord, in a flatbed ford
slowin' down to take a look at me

come on baby, don't say maybe
I've got to know if your sweet love is gonna save me
we may lose and we may win
but we will never be here again
open up I'm climbin' in to take it easy

well I'm a-running down the road trying to loosen my load
got a world of trouble on my mind
lookin' for a lover who won't blow my cover
she's just a little hard to find

take it easy, take it easy
don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy
come on baby, don't say maybe
I've got to know if your sweet love is gonna save me

you know we got it easy
we oughta take it easy

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

the Death of Evil - by Bob Atkinson

the Death of Evil
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson
if all Gods are willing to concede
killing in their name they do not want
to worship evil produces heartless sadness
for followers of those depraved taunts
 
if ground remains forever frozen
no bricks falling on sidewalks here
no tornadoes to leave us homeless
yes, the timid we'll revere
 
we'll thrive on soft words spoken
be gentle with our fellow man
take our seed to full fruition
seek peace through all our lands  

if water washes not with force
no salt blending with river streams
washing away all erected there
debris mixed with broken dreams

if men refuse that barbaric call
to kill their cousins without remorse
those who lead not in that direction
can claim sainthood in due course

with all who declare stupidity
not a due and proper ambition
we see perfection established
civility rises to dominate visions

if kindness falls within our grasp
no goal needed for its prevalence
our love of life and each other not
blown away by anti-progress

if all the motion we produce
produces not conflicted paths
then with a rising sun tomorrow
all evil will have passed

Sunday, April 14, 2013

Everybody's Talkin' at Him by Bob Atkinson

Everybody's Talkin' at Him
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson
back when imagination reigned
back when ideas prospered
before accomplishment set in
I saw the cowboy walking

Harry, who had been so rude
got bounced upon his rear
along with Lennon at the club
they Tommy and Dickie ridiculed
was where later protest engaged
for closing at ten o'clock too soon
causing Peter to get busted by Sherman
inspiring "For What It's Worth," the tune
  
Harry sang the song of heart
with feeling, his voice nicely fit
that mood we all grew up with
understanding life, us not a bit 

represented that which we
all claimed as our own pages
wasn't us out of tune
was those outrageous aged

Fred Neil wrote the words
lamenting people he had seen
as having their own purpose
not aligned with his deep dreams

Grammy thought it so sincere
when Dustin had engaged
that shuffled gait of confidence
representing some who faded

summer breezes, since
warmed my face with kindness
too many to admit to strangers
here in my time of soft reflection

I see more purpose now for writing
the notes of a life lived fast
when all I could have wished for
came but didn't last

 

Everybody's Talkin'

Poemwriter: Fred Neil
everybody's talking at me
I don't hear a word they're saying
only the echoes of my mind

people stopping staring
I can't see their faces
only the shadows of their eyes


I'm going where the sun keeps shining
thru' the pouring rain
going where the weather suits my clothes


banking off of the North East winds
sailing on a summer breeze
skipping over the ocean like a stone


everybody's talking at me
I don't hear a word they're saying
only the echoes of my mind


I won't let you leave my love behind




Friday, April 12, 2013

ASoIA Arizona Salon of Independent Artists by Bob Atkinson

ASoIA
Arizona Salon of Independent Artists
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

one can tire quickly of
working hard at developing art
grow talent to produce a line
of that which brings all smiles
here and there you sell a piece
spending ten for each you keep
all the while working hard
for a name and rewards large

tired of this useless task
one must of course settle back
onto the road of retrenchment
banding with others for progress

will of course run into walls
but if we're smart we'll hang in halls
our best works of arts and such
making good names for us

we join together as a lot
giving, getting or fretting not
drive good bargains all around
display our names when we go to ground

ASoIA starts here and now
Arizona of which we're proud
Salon, the show we do quite often
our good slabs of oils, sculptures

independents 'cause that's our nature
our culture's diverse with styles, creations
artists because of our work for people
artistic talent drawn from research

our smiles large
our work quite hard
our endeavor to succeed
always in our hearts and deeds

Good Times by Bob Atkinson

Good Times
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson
this day in tomorrow's sun
gets labeled as what's been and gone
an historical time of no real note
what's been well traveled, a boat refloated

good times seem so far away
observe we've had those better days
without the strain on our backs
exhaustion caused by hard walked paths

ideals control us always pushing
first that thought of antiquity's musings
from here to there in a straight line curved
despondent minds, sometimes bizarre

melding time and space within
describes to ourselves our sins
making worldly noises loudly clanging
fixes those demons within our frenzy

what we see with clouded eyes
looks so different to another's style
shame and fear together meld
while carrying us up to our hell

within or without we find forgiveness
shrouds of fabric straightened smoothly
letting us observe what's been
as good times not to return again

Addiction to Fun by Bob Atkinson

Addiction to Fun
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson
if you ponder with deep thought
your future life beyond today
desires pervade your mind
have children, alternately
give kindness away

kindness breeds its own rewards
those which glow inward of course
sends feelings of love without your brain
responded likewise, wildly uncaged

today, you see yourself as one
who enjoys contentment and good fun
among your peers you see yourself
as toasted, roasted, that jolly elf

if that group paints its skin
if drug use enjoyment begins
you're first in line, you hold no fear
you can control your demons here

lessons learned from the past
inject themselves here if you allow
your brain to break from that shadow of
false hope caused by peer group pressure

to you that group doesn't have
connection tight beyond this day
they use you merely for good laughs
then pass you on as one lost lad

your mind degraded, sub-tiered
progress doubtful, skills meager
cast off from that which you found firm
sensibilities disturbed, emotions curbed

forget that stuff, it's not benign
you'll recover fully in time, although maligned
meet someone whom you fully cherish
marry, settle down, have children many

then the real world grabs your throat
your children's minds have become distorted
by your DNA, oh so damaged, twisted
when broken by drugs you had fun with

Maynard G. Krebbs by Bob Atkinson

Maynard G. Krebbs
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

mister Krebbs do you understand
the life you have undone
you sent me to that slovenly place
to settle upon a rock

and ponder all that could be
all that's possible in this world
of thinking thoughts of malcontent
and super critical verbs

of course, your fault you know
this kid that grew up to
follow paths which went nowhere
and characters within a stew

you gave me something to aspire
that beatnik persona taken
for many hundred months upon
martinis stirred, not shaken

mister Krebbs trust you to
be satisfied with your lot
that which you cast me into
those words held out for thought

Friday, April 5, 2013

18 Stoic Faces by Bob Atkinson

18 Stoic Faces
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

eighteen stoic faces
faced four who had come
to read the erudite refrains
of poets both dead and gone
readings were in earnest spoken
for respect for some who had
garnered from the establishment
accolades, awards, well sanctioned

yes, eighteen stoic faces
faced four who read so good
those meaningless diatribes
of useless linguistic words

significance became not evident
for similes provided here
metaphors vaguely crafted caused
me not them to revere

this didn't change my attitude
my demeanor didn't rise
waiting for an end to it
was my only real desire

so I couldn't clap and whistle
and be smiling in my face
that would not have been sincere
became just a little bit ashamed

whistle I didn't do at all
felt not much real emotion
gave a polite nod to those speaking
headed quickly out the door

save me from disjointed thoughts
can't those people see the truth
senseless disorganization
does not good poetry produce
 
of those thoughts not poetry 
I firmly do believe
the fireplace requires cellulose
for bright flames to feed

listless words written poorly
carried my imagination not
was frozen in my dreamy state
rusted any worthwhile thoughts 

next week went to Vegas
to see the eagle band
and watch as pure emotion
rocked that audience grand

ten thousand had paid apiece
a couple hundred bucks
to see those wordly masters
like Henley, Frey and such

they told of the situation
which emotion played upon
a woman's real life choices
why she'd become despondent

ten thousand cheered upon
recognition of great words
displayed while coddled with sounds
soft guitars and drums beat purrs
I thought "now here lies real poetry"
not those prissy kind of words
that speak only of the unimportant
with wispy mindless verbs

some lock credentials grand
for that which moves us not
and laugh at the suggestion
that song is our greatest art

me, I have a vision
that we shall all enjoy
songs we've grown up with
as emotional literal tomes