Tuesday, July 30, 2013

Rata Tat Tat - by Bob Atkinson

Rata Tat Tat
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

formed ideas of new dreams
those old ways, most simple scenes
into passion flowing like a river

calling names both grown and withered
rata tat tat

told no lies to the water
face was smug with bottled fervor
flowed over into sighs of caution
toward deep thoughts of boundless progress
like a rata tat tat

no hunting out theories distorted
broadly reaching for queries noted
complex questions for ages golden
some over and above all emotion

wildness of the old days
simple songs create good ways
sending out to our peers
something to believe in

a zealot's taunts past empty weekends

nothing tense like strong bookends
selling short those conscious pens
holding most in broad disorder
to and from our older notions

here and now we have good times
been settled down to live our lives
within feelings prior procreated
mind games dancing on floating tables
like a rata tat tat, rata tat tat

Stability - by Bob Atkinson

Stability
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

allowed within our own desires
mind wanders through funeral fires
into those open laments of language
describing all that's forced upon us

energy deep within covers our being
promoting progress always unseen
adapting here, adapting there
coagulating into raging despair

saw a quote the other day
who survives best remains
those adaptable to rapid change
trout fared better than ponderous whales

do we need to implement
disorder for our betterment
or can we sit back on our rears
live our lives without changing gears?

question now within my heart
grabs in earnest that doubtful art
can we absorb what exists this minute
without sad longing for what isn't?

Or, are we alive due to desire
of our universe to acquire
something out there unknown
that goal of demons driven home

Thursday, July 11, 2013

Divine Feminine - by Bob Atkinson

Divine Feminine
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

the Artist Lisa Marquis-Bradbury
and her painting "Devine Feminine"
 
down a narrow walkway
we find a gallery hidden there
with flavored walls of artists' calls
enhanced with style and flair

thunder of impressions made
as if Manet had brought with brush
fabled productions to be hung with pride
by Académie des Beaux-Arts

colors bright to light the night
from mental image illustrations
driving into hardened contour
chroma flavored means of expression

the painting "Eastport Lobster" by Lisa Marquis-Bradbury

above a harbor filled with craft
we find an artist's angelic musings
within an empire hand created
from that cobbled alley's viewpoint


with paint of many colors to
introduce style of private design
we view those great indiscretions
of appreciation only within our mind

wildness of purpose enveloped
on flowing explorations duly made
sending convention out the door
with adoption of style not sameness

another trained in art might find
comfort at that school of copyists
she never allows inner doubts
to fall onto her canvas images

here we see what we believed
to exist only in our sweet dreams
creation of new forms depicted
in hues of reds and greens

trails of no other artists' tracks
lead us to this firm belief
only confidence in feelings
drawn so deep beneath

appreciation of the painted
canvas thusly made to grab
some directions taken by the heart
of a startled mortal man

Tribute to Healing Hands - by Bob Atkinson

Tribute to Healing Hands
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

feeling pain not invited
to our lives so hard, impaired
fosters dire engagement of
dread mixed with saddened despair

older skill of far past ages
wisdom slowly gathered, reaped
allows some with knowledge to
aid us in our troubles, permitting sleep

enlightenment drives a healer
those hands of skill so sure
driven by processes accumulated to
mend us in our days of dark despair

allowing troubles of our lives
to fade far in the way gone past
gives us chances to see the day
as brightly lit for dance

Philosophical Student of the Species - by Bob Atkinson


Philosophical Student
of the Species
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

seems so strange to ponder
that picture formed of our lives
which gives us our intuition
of where best answers lie

this self described capsule
what we became as people
fabricated not in earnest, but
by points of guns and steeples

causes migrant messages
to flow across our minds
passing over fabric
woven uneven over time

by totality of our situation
that existence we call us
who we duly root for
why we live in bunches

how our interaction
strains our daily speech
taking us from selfishness
to broadness in good outreach

we see all that can be seen
with experience clouded eyes
pushed fully to extremes
those whats, wheres, and whys

I do not know finite answers
to truth a subject yet elusive
barely understand good questions
caused by this planet's usage

how can one know the explanation
enough to state fully whys and hows
when rationale so transitory
ever evolving even now

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

The Native Convert - by Bob Atkinson


The Native Convert
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

to believe natives could accept
our culture in such a short time
after ten thousand years of devotions
to rituals varied, self designed

flies in the face of reason
our refinement, to them, not much
yet we expect the impossible
homage to goodness of thought

we can call it pagan
beyond what we understand
gods designed for lives apart
from our incestuous older lands

then we insist true deities
become beings supreme
form themselves as if were men
in hopes and laws extreme

divinity of our own design
which pleases you and me
appears to the outside world as
no hopes, no standing, no dreams

this irritates some leaders
who grew up with different thoughts
believing control of minds acceptable
in a world without free thinking

point made of this diatribe
over force applied herein
begs some sense of purpose
in order to let others live

we should wish, when exposed
toward that force of coarse coercion
to temper actions decidedly of those
with obviously corrupted purpose

those who kill, mutilate, and torture
their friends whom they call foe
need give themselves not to the devil
in their effort to us control

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Wadsworth of Eastport - by Bob Atkinson

Wadsworth of Eastport
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson
 
a chandler serves the ocean
as a spoon serves a mouth
feeding ocean vessels with
supplies to venture out
rosin, tar and pitch
harpoons, rope and twine
all those old ingredients
which feed those ships so fine

here in the state of Maine
upon rocky shores so green
Wadsworth's been perfecting
this ship supplying scene

for over two hundred years
through wars and ocean trade
from clipper ships to whalers
also the lobster and salmon trades


thirteen canneries for anchovies
wood craftsmen for fitting out
those sleek serpents of the water
manned by sailors brave and proud 

one company successful
six generations of material goods
loaded upon sleek wood vessels
with sails to the wind unfurled

Scott sees the future differently
gone are those wooden ships
this busy port of older times
now serves some smaller slips

sloops, ferries, whale watching craft
those private sailing boats of purpose
enhance lives on pleasured passages
yet not much goods are needed

no whale oil now required
no new harpoons for whalers brave
no coal for bunkers down below
or cloth for up swept sails

be it iron or be it wood
ship of war or commercial trade
this business fed the wants of those
who plied harsh ocean waves

Henry Wadsworth-Longfellow - by Bob Atkinson

Henry Wadsworth-Longfellow
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

I do not know him personally
left the living before my time
this golden man of letters
who led all to read good lines

he studied oh so brilliantly
wisdom of those older ages
translated themes to our words
those well written action pages

to see a character leave so much
to those of future centuries that wander
bandages my wounds with written pages
soothes feelings about my expositions

I do not see myself as such
a brilliant kind of being
just add these words of my thoughts
to dreams of better seasons

this man who chose to teach the world
about their inner contemplations
led me as if a general
in a war of gallant phases

not a war of blood laid down
although have seen such things
a battle given for the thoughts
of people on life's stream

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Verona by Bob Atkinson

Verona
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson
sailed Verona across the lake
to settle once and all
who had within this club so new
procured the finest vessel hull

be it schooner, or be it yawl
sloop, cutter or fine ketch
simple dinghy or paddle boat
with or without tall mast

to pecking order of this club
brought boat with pretty lines
a hull of sweetened symmetry
rigging perfectly tightened, aligned

first Commodore position at stake
assigned to one with finest craft
upon the Great Lakes he sent on a search
his first and best trusted man

when George had returned
from shores afar and distant
he spoke of possibilities enhanced
a boat of quality and distinction

lie in a harbor over there
by the American state
of York named in honor
of our country's city great

a vessel built with pride tied there
no man had produced much better
she rode upon the winds of water
as if summoned by a demon

with news of this fabled build
on the New York side of water
he sought the soul of every sailor
that true spirit held with honor

settled once and all a price
of which she could be bought
had seen her in that foreign harbor
ride on fast winds toward honor

lay down as if in super sleep
then would her mast arise
to bite the wind and push her up
to speed of which designed

that hull of oak
and teak wood sweet
all perfectly aligned

one fledgling institution
Kingston Yacht Club at the harbor
would appreciate a flagship
of such proper nautical order

was a yawl, this be true
not a ketch as he had hoped
she slipped across those open waters
as if chased there by a ghost

his eyes opened wide to view
this luscious lengthly gem
had that appointment in his pocket
best vessel he'd ever seen
the Artist Liz Rae Dalton