Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Ingredients of a Poem - by Bob Atkinson

Ingredients of a Poem
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

    Acceptance
    Affection
    Aggression
    Ambivalence
    Apathy
    Anxiety
    Boredom
    Compassion
    Confusion
    Contempt
    Depression
    Doubt
    Ecstasy
    Empathy
    Envy
    Embarrassment
    Euphoria
    Forgiveness
    Frustration
    Gratitude
    Grief
    Guilt
    Hatred
    Hope
    Horror
    Hostility
    Homesickness
    Hunger
    Hysteria
    Interest
    Loneliness
    Love
    Paranoia
    Pity
    Pleasure
    Pride
    Rage
    Regret
    Remorse
    Shame
    Suffering
    Sympathy

acceptance breeds affection
or so some smart have said
two emotions duly charged
with throbbing of our heads

aggression cannot live
in an aura of ambivalence
only apathy can conquer
anxiety with boredom's silliness

compassion feeds the inner soul
to quell confusion of the mind
without which depression wanes
when doubt gets clarified

ecstasy feels good to us
if empathy becomes the norm
envy breeds embarrassment
moment euphoria comes back home

forgiveness loves frustration
by way of gratitude
promising grief of guilt
as hatred loves to brood

hope turns to simple horror
if hostility clamps upon
homesickness as a hunger
as hysteria wanders on

interest in loneliness
follows love to paranoia
pity sits with pleasure
while pride rages onward

regret subdues remorse
if only for a while
as shame extends suffering
throwing sympathy wild

my personal definition of poetry:
"...the emotional content of literature..."
drives home the difference
between poetry and prose

if it's informative, it's prose
if it's emotional, it's poetry

emotions listed show much
of what's to write about, but
poetry's not limited to these ideas
yet it easily springboards from them

Monday, June 24, 2013

The Shaman - by Bob Atkinson

The Shaman
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

forever within our intellect
forever in our hearts
lies a thought we may be part of
some organized deportment

infused within our psyche
embedded in our minds
personified that powered deity
upon our character presides

a male, we think as taught
having traits like mortal man
thunder in his teachings
destruction in his hand

we beg his forgiveness
for little things we've done
while invoking harshly retribution
against our fellow man

desires, motives much like us
in holding us to his dictates
direction forced upon our souls
simple argument abated

those who go between ourselves
master and cornered slaves
grow in power multiplied
by this player's game

power becomes their motive
not our lives, our thoughts, our plans
power kills all progress
which dies in calloused outstretched hands

they see themselves as in control
of sheep who have no clue
and utilize established position
to conquer me and you

ritual becomes a tool
as in the magician's hand
using powers ancient of
subconscious memory expanded

repeat those chants until
my heart cannot see my chest
then plant your seeds of deception
into my soul, no defense left

Many Coats of Fur - by Bob Atkinson

Many Coats of Fur
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

trolling through the outlook
to read those words of sharpness
we see no different composure
than sincerely voided darkness

intelligence, an animal
with many coats of fur
some which conquer fever
some explain to us new worlds

some form opinions for the good
some implement what's decreed
some ponder over meaning
of life for you and me

like other mantles in our lives
this force of real quick wit
can remove that coat of honesty
in one unseen eye blink

Prosperity - by Bob Atkinson


Prosperity
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

declare here in the open
one frill of life's resolve
that overlooked compassion
to invigorate us all

a superhuman effort
requiring all our gall
pounding into notions
standing straight and tall

shoving forth our effort
on gentle and mean streets
saving us from suffering
while we sleep and eat

simple taste of possible
within and without
thereby instituting a
quick reversal of doubt

in our daily lives
what we do and where we stand
how we treat each other
how we see our fellow man

this change of broad proportion
my mind has thus arranged
would see our broad intellect
devoted only to our prosperity

not that word of money
that's no part of what I mean
a fully flowing purpose
is that of which I dream

possessions beyond the useful
lie there in our closet
gathering dust of the untouched
simply nothing much

purpose fills each niche within
our time upon this earth
purpose defines true wealth
without which we'd be dirt

Sunday, June 23, 2013

To Be Self Centered - by Bob Atkinson

To Be Self Centered
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson
(inspired by George Gissing)

doubts and fear
those twin evils
which sell my life
so cheaply

shake them off
forever reject
simplicity of purpose
by breathing deeply

assume what finds us in our funk
comes and goes as tides on beaches
swelling with intent to claim
more than its natural reaches

impacts our lives not with
hard waves, just gentle puffs expiring
telling openly our trials of
that which we grab, the brightness

changes in direction made
flapping our flag against its pole
no difference if a gust of wind
challenges that large flag's hold

will, of course, stay true to form
and cling to our tall spire
flying again when gusts of wind
become in speed much higher

I cling in favor of myself
to what benefits my life
in spite of notions different
is myself I like

if I worry about the world
out there where I can't touch
my meaning dissipates
control of life destructs

so here in my cocoon
my bubble of only me
I feel forces occupied
by my own life's tree

causes me fully to accept
is me whom I adore
and give to others what is left
hopefully will find me more

of what I need to instigate
my own lust for personal gain
and free me of that load of baggage
caring at all for the remaining

Ode to the Lawn Refrigerator - by Bob Atkinson

Ode to the Lawn Refrigerator
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

it decorates my yard with fine
elements of intricate design
feeds my ego constantly
my lawn refrigerator

sitting next to my black Camaro
transmission blown, with primer fender
she says possessions multiply
with excesses shown by purchased pride

bicycles, tricycles, skateboard planks
crutches, hutches, red wagons bent
clothes laid over chain link fences
satisfy my whims and senses

all these treasures carried home
in the bed of a red pick-up
Ford one-fifty tricked out good
eight-ball screwed to shifter's stub

yes, my feeling's warm each time
I pull into that unpaved ramp
glow of desire for more owned stuff
beats my heart for what shows much

beer bottles line the entrance to
my kingdom of material goods
double duty as decoration
targets when that's my mood

camo outfit flaps in breezes
my clothes for Sunday's church
strap a bowie above my knee
after prayer go on the hunt

that white lawn decoration
Figidaire dad bought when was
a young boy without good learning
had black shadows on my rump

The Social Organism of Youth - by Bob Atkinson

The Social Organism
of Youth
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

youth devolves simplistic
melding into a fold
of broadly massed confusion
taking comfort in the bold

a social organism knows not fully
which ingredients measured in that mix
are true or false or with intent to create
illusion of standards jellied for the privileged

skills, abilities unknown if adequate
give doubt as where to stand
standards taught with firmness
anchor our meaning in the sand

ordered chaos innate to self
with undulated verbiage subdued
breeds vision of one's description
filling needs of completed attitude

skin upon sharp edges
creates pains when approached
by outside order established to
counter arrogance of ego's force

buried in this effervescence
below that surface quaking
conflict or submission's decision
demands one hard undertaking

Friday, June 21, 2013

The Blank Holiday - by Bob Atkinson


The Blank Holiday
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

drawn upon our inbred lives
carried within us, begging pride
that day of solitude begins with loud
bells ringing from churches around us

years ago, way back when
you would stop, no shops open
no yards with workers agonizing
no sets of preachers sitting idle

we'd grasp this time of quiet pleasure
ponder who we were and measure
those goals we'd had for last week
did we reap all we had seeded

now, for lack of faith in those
who send their message, subliminally spoken
beneath their overt tones and speeches
opening our minds to mindless preaching

I lament not those Sundays in a pew
not those stories, both old and new
I lament the trust in them I've lost
because of their harvest of my heart

they mean by harvest taking time
to invest their words deep in our minds
then taking all we have of freedom
planting seeds of doubts, unreasoned

strap a vest on tortured people
force their women underneath them
take all you can from freedom's choice
a legacy of the oldest order

grab my freewill with your ritual
keep my mind within your whirlpool
don't let me love my fellow man
preach hate simply because you can

Up Where They Belong - by Bob Atkinson

Up Where They Belong
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson
Bernie's talent gave him grace

to see those words describe

such thrilling moments of our lives

letting fear and anguish subside



Sonny brightened those who saw

and heard what he had done

taking a young girl from her giggles

toward that warm bright sun



together these two fellas drew

a picture of love not got

followed our hearts through puzzles

of sadness over despondent love



thank you both for what you did

to cheer me in my youth

drawing pictures with your minds

of clarity and honest truth

Sunday, June 9, 2013

Emotional Literal Tomes - by Bob Atkinson

Emotional Literal Tomes
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson
have written words before on
this subject some have blessed
how poetry fills the heart
with endless emotional progress

some give the subject passing grades
some give it no real thought
some think they know its content
see poetry as fully rotten

well, to some extent I do believe
that enough has be done
to give the genre a bad rap
with words of nonsense rung

rung from that tree of indecision
like a person in the park
who knows not which path to take
how to get home before the dark

they pen words of nonsense
taking the mantle for their name
of "poet" of the highest order
without good words to claim

not only are their words so frail
but their stories often walk
off in that useless direction
only they would think was smart

so, let's add to the "do's" of poetry
that requirement firmly instilled
emotional aspects must poetry contain
without which the story lies insincere

also, must refrains contain
a literal view of life
to point us toward our fate
or lay bare our inner strife

tomes must within these walls
sense passion of our being
stories telling those incidents
of which we feel have meaning