Friday, January 31, 2014

The Critic - by Bob Atkinson

The Critic
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson
he stayed away from meaning
thought not duty to tell that tale
the poet had garnered all his wisdom
penned good thoughts into a shell

he stayed with purpose elegant
left those trials exposed outside
and flaunted lack of dignity
in a moment of repositioned pride

one critic drove into grains beyond
what was conceived as beginning text
within those concepts of devotion
to informal language meanings restless

was the poet literate?
was he well rehearsed?
did he follow what had been
good language for his verse?

did he show broad purpose there
or did he just write fluff
those oft repeated feelings
not really such good stuff

did he ask a question real
or did he just succumb
to character produced by habit
lacking purpose with words so dumb

here's the good part of this tale
why we should ponder meaning
key question asks what's produced
when we write those words of feelings

knowledge doesn't flow from us
flows from beyond the living
from past lives we build our tale
from taking until giving

we accept what has gone before
construct this foundation strong
then give to that next generation
a building tall and long

so if I say your stuff is junk
that meaning carries within
good instruction verified to
add goodness to tales explicit

a force we hold inside our being
to produce our heart's content
carries forth the world before us
lays out those tales of conquest

sends our minds into a state
of backward in time dreaming
then gives meaning to our children
when we depart this scenery

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Unspoken Tokens - by Bob Atkinson

Unspoken Tokens
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson
he walked over desert sands
for miles stumbling as a wild man
up to a fellow he did approach
to tell of the journey he made for gold

with quiet eyes this gent appraised
the needs of one who tramped so far
no canteen upon his back he saw
just tattered clothes and skin rubbed raw

"you need a bath" he said so softly
"the dust of road sets on you now,
I have no water for your dried lips
but here's a fountain in which to dip"

"please sir, a drink of water now
or I will die within the hour"
he showed his mouth dry of moisture
lips cracked open, face afire, broken

"no man," the gent respoke with irritation
"no water to drink, just to soak in,
you set out on this journey when you had duties
many things more important than wandering remotely

yet you proceeded to trek across desert
your lack of duty left your life useless

now you want water for drink of mouth
re-arranged priorities to that of the obvious
sit down on that rock and ponder all of this
how you ignored responsibility for a fools quest

take your bath with pleasure there
yet sip not the water, as you don't care
for those strong ties of devotion
to others and life's unspoken tokens

Stability of Life - by Bob Atkinson

Stability of Life
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

we look into a darkened sky
to see a bright ball rise up high
we think this object's so serene
steady movement laid for quiet dreams

yet, if rocking motion made some sounds
we, in our naive state would lay confounded
noting harsh movement directed past us
toward our home, this angry planet

we sit so still in easy chairs
no noise of thunder, no raging flares
how can we imagine such energy
directed at our quiet serenity

perhaps expanded animation
reflects this planet we habituate
as we learn to live with given station
yet yearn to rage in retaliation

that inner throbbing of moon's gyrations
fills our hearts with ostentation
that oh so energetic twist of fate
flowing deeply near an abysmal state

all this motion drives us onward
assuming destiny's flowered carcass
tilling soil toward permanent description
or
dead ended ballads never heard nor visioned

Scythians - by Bob Atkinson

Scythians
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson
"... in respect of the seasons and figure of body the Schythian race, like the Egyptian, have a uniformity of resemblance, different from all other nations;
they are by no means prolific, and the wild beasts which are indigenous there are small in size and few in number, for the country lies under the Northern Bears, and Rhiphaean mountains ..."
Hippocrates

comes 'round these tales of Hippocrates
as one of many documents for posterity
here we see those words jump out
tell us stories now documented with clout

feed me many trials of vision
how we see those long divisions
of our ancestors wild men gently
teasing senses toward clear mentality

let me know where I came from
let me feel those trials of men
let me find some roots within
my skin described in lost dead friends

tell me where I've gone in past
tell me fully how long I'll last
let me find my direction's path
a link in life's chain of progress

Enlightenment - by Bob Atkinson

Enlightenment
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

somber should our mood evolve
when enlightened we see ourselves
talent shown through all our fog
of distant calling herein resolved

inventive spirit tables lust
science tells us what we must
in crystal visions propagate
upon our future's brightness state

let this lesson sink in mind
change of any structural kind
carries costs associated with
false effort, wrong deportment

in good purpose we might fail
truth has its own vapor trail
which hides the end result of effort
to those choosing this selected method


Friday, January 10, 2014

Sir Walter Raleigh - by Bob Atkinson

Sir Walter Raleigh

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

here in those days gone by
four hundred years of worldly trials
we remember good and bad
recall ones who packed their bags

those blatant fools who blundered on
in the end finding sweetened song
of the hangman or the Axe
while ever moving unknowns back

never feeling fortune far
wandering over culture's bar
swinging, swaying, setting down
feet firmly on most unsound ground

finding favor and regret
pencil in that check marked past
filling voids of gallant pleasure
while flirting with extreme danger

best leave these deeds
for fiction pages?
or should we endeavor
to live them really?

see heroes in movies large
blow bridges with explosive charges
can this objective find good place
when all we want is calm quiet peace?

The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When Rivers rage and Rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields,
To wayward winter reckoning yields,
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten:
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and Ivy buds,
The Coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Over an Ocean - by Bob Atkinson

Over an Ocean
(c)2103 Bob Atkinson

travel though a world began
when time was but a thought
of who and what we do not know
an idea now to focus brought

brought by interaction elegant
in those little chunks of matter
reflexive motion twisting back
or simply from one hand passing

an ocean collected for our smiles
when whales wave arms at us
minnows swimming into gaping mouths
of larger fish and sharks

so many miles of water here
so many mysteries on our planet
we feel a passion displaced by sight
internal wonderment of water or granite

dive beyond a surface rough
churned by soft flowing winds
into a realm of salted liquid
below lighted air breathed in

beneath where submariners go
to guide their vessels deep
and leave behind those on the top
to say gosh, golly, gee

gone are pirates of years of old
though pirates exist today
living dreams of acquired wealth
pocketed in some violent way

ships of sail, pushed by trade winds
those of calm or violent tone
adventure given to the body
shores adorned with dried out bones

here in the middle of our time
toward life's story ever after
we see beauty gathered in
blue waters as we're passing

Mshazari - by Bob Atkinson

Mshazari
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

"....crooked, slanting, oblique,
out of the straight or level
sloping, on one side...."


"Mshazari" a Swahili word
injects caution in our minds
to alert our stance to deviation
from the objective toward broad lies

here in a few letters
we see our challenge taken
to follow paths destined toward
success, not aggravation

applied to actions of all men
we choose to lead us onward
away from harmonious outcomes
of peace, goodwill and honor

my wish was not to criticize
make fun of projects failed
my wish stands only to commence
honest description of ourselves

if taxes go toward anything
they should here be paid for much
organization of establishments
those we can always trust

Mshazari, a word developed
to state in plainest terms
who is honest in their deeds
who lacks developed purpose

lies told for expediency
devolve our way of life
by rejecting cooperation
in the name purpose obliged

tell me truth, tell me plain
don't set me on this path
to distrust your every word
your image thusly trashed

get off the stage of power
if power's all you seek
not caring at all about my life
just what you can pocket freely

The Battle of Fornovo - by Bob Atkinson

The Battle of Fornovo
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson
over and above again
we see such idle times
when creeps that open honesty
which covers up broad lies
French were settled in the land
of those not from their soil
for want of wealth and power
willing others to destroy

war would enable Venice
to grab power over foreigners
retrieve some land and citizens
for their own selfish motives

calf be free of foreign tongues
directly to the boot
here in the land of history
and intrigue set wild afoot

we find some evidence in this
with what we have today
that ever active struggle
for which the children pay

gather into a ball with fist
your power and your sword
to give your wealth an increase
when you with peace get bored

those simple minded twits
who fight with violent opposition
to that which now exists
find no peaceful disposition

satisfies their want of power
takes goodness from their hand
give wildness of indiscretion
to their money and their flag

not only do we see a frequent
sadness from powered thrones
we see the open clarity
of greed mixed with firm resolve
French had traded claims for land
with Spain to them support
or support stays not a proper word
when aggravation here evolves

who won this battle openly
can now stand with much debate
doesn't matter why I say
to those who died in stages

you died for greatness of your soul
in fighting for the man
who found in his life a purpose
to instill agony in the land

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Phoenix - by Bob Atkinson

Phoenix
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson
Sulmona has a son
who described to us a beast
that bird of dragon character
long lived in tall oak trees

when long life had ended
when breath has stilled in heart
a newly born young version
arises at light of dawn

Ovid my thanks profusely
for rising above the dirt
an epic form of poetry
not of convention's mirth

you breathe into my being
that wondrous form of story
which flies as though a Phoenix
from ashes bringing glory

glory of our present times
documenting those follies broad
which shun away our future
success not to be bought

from these golden ashes
of pain manufactured by our lust
identity of purpose fills our soul
follows beyond with sacred trust