Friday, May 30, 2014

Cliché - by Bob Atkinson

(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

ten thousand years of lovin'
have spilled into my heart
best work of Artists' sculpture
molded tears with eyes dissolved

into a vapor fog of such
enormous power to behold
those open wounds sending shards
pounding out from my sad soul

dive into a dream in vain
to find you once again
at the foot of my soft bed
reaching out to touch my head

your love for me has ended
affection gone, so far removed
as to twist my sense of being
into a coil of altered moods

here in the captured world
of pain which knows no bounds
I've let my dreams begin to die
never rising to rebound

cliché that senseless manner
of expression overdone
told of how a lesion grows
from pain of losing such a lover

that sense of discontent
when close to you I'm not
devolves in wishes when you leave
to anguished trance of awful thoughts

puts into a spin within
some vaporized desire
transforming love lost beyond to
smoke rising from
a crackling winter fire

Classical Music - by Bob Atkinson

Classical Music
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

emotions of a musical flow
run fast through an audience you know
this enigma supersedes all hope
of prior instinctual sensitivity quoted

feeling part of a whole begins
those undulating causes retrieved
simple tones of simple minds
flow into and out of rhyme

if ten thousand souls or more
this feeling amplifies toward the cosmos
with warm laughter driven
into the hearts of men and women

ample messages abound
modified by action of bright sounds
piercing through to aura blessed
smashing into hard work compressed

hands wave in wild gyrations
forever longing for evaluation
of a tempo distributed fully into
a large nest of melodies superhuman

never before and never after
this combination of expressed laughter
comprised of this precise audience
one removed would make it different

exact construct of human form
an assemblage of human foreheads
feeding here upon their waves
that incidental matrix made

to occupy our universe
our simple thoughts our canted verse
our times herein supplied
with tales of old themes described

in depth of vision clearly made
a song, a tune, a broad display
of talent honed with practiced art
a medallion won for playing smart

herein lies fine art

Violence and Elegance - by Bob Atkinson

Violence and Elegance
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson
Napoleon did conquer
that first broad test of fame
not good, not bad, not in between
but in the here again

this place of mind so powerful
'neath that forest of the head
which strives to align ideals
with fearfulness of dread

sinks well into one's soul
a buttress does it make
to ward against illusion's loss
when the real into us bakes

can't find a goal which to reach
which doesn't sacrifice to lesser gods
can't move into that field of vision
without a licensed charge

in past we lived in barbarity
some still do that today
to feel the might of clenched fist
and open rebellion strays

from a goal of humanity
sought by those with sense
ignored by some who use the time
to instill broad fear and dread

who remains here in the right
don't know an answer to this exists
there lies beneath our skin a fire
for smashed out elegance

Voices - by Bob Atkinson

(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

carry thoughts within my head
of overlying marches tread
toward feelings ever absolute
driving deeply within my roots

voices in my distant past
those who led me with my hand
those who pushed me onward still
those who held my wildest thrills

those who stood me in my place
those who left me in disgrace
that tread upon my image unfairly
by stabbing into my ego squarely

voices ever in my mind
loving, hating, so refined
treading water when no shore
giving hope of purity absorbed

thank you voices for your time
because of you my personality shines
I am what you made of me
with your vocal symmetry

Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Dreams - by Bob Atkinson

(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

block the sun with hand held high
as you move from place to place
shunning all forms of irritation
with style and practiced grace

call those simple pleasures
ones we seek so many of
strip those dark incantations
down to the barest love

sweat pours from a body
from feelings held to chest
our needs reduced to simple forms
our loudest protests held with breath

tell me if I'm overdone
am I so out of place
as to dream some dreams of glory
impossible in these days of strong duress

I pass the tree of wonder
growing from the salted ground
as we discover growth comes fast
when life forms here in the round

tell me if I'm never to
see dreams come under light
those perturbed by simple pleasures
strength of will thought out by night

send me through that maze complex
of interactions with the crowd
and let me form my own opinions
some fruitful, some unsound

Saturday, May 24, 2014

School & Scholars -- by Bob Atkinson

School & Scholars
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

drag us through that institution
one which sends us to the grind
of absorption, mass confusion
intellect, determined kind

why should we this journey make
why count new candles on our cake
why fill our nights with dim light
on pages not so often bright

why study what's been donated
to posterity, postulated
why fly toward some lofty goal
why sweeten all facts we know

when fact worship becomes the norm
before each and every dawn
we find puzzlement abates
discussion ended, new thoughts not made

a person sees himself in light
of white and black, super sized
not assuming new ideas
of those opposed to one's ideals

moral to this simple story
one vaguely crafted with allegory
here in this place I place
a challenge to the well disgraced

think of all you've been taught
the manner of which it's been brought
ritual settings synthesized
to mold your mind to their way of life

and who are they who poke at you
and prick your thoughts with attitude
are they the cream of nature's crop
or are they just mindless dogma mongers

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Pride and Respect - by Bob Atkinson

Pride and Respect
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

tales begin with the ending fate
of those who further propagated
lives of ages past devolved
because of our thoughts upon

relationships we describe
in our hearts, in our minds
those simple fundamental tunes
which blow up fiction like balloons

incomplete information
sends signals fraught with infatuation
while in a real world we show regret
not prepared for life's harsher test

a soldier's fate, bloody death
a citizen dies of microbe's fester
one without luck gets stuck on a pole
nobody rides for free we're told

hard work kills at mid twenties
no concubines or willing hussies
no wealth for those born into
that quagmire of low caste stew

today we strive for opportunity
some sense of order, righteous duty
hopefully bringing to the table
all we can when we are able

couch potatoes, those inactive screw ups
the lax, the slugs who move stones not
find no purpose, are discarded
dearly missed, but soon departed

we must produce more than consumed
or pay the price of one fully useless
hard work begins the day by dawn
work ends not when we go home

if one lives in putrid squalor
has two arms and legs that follow
grab a broom and clean that mess
don't look for reward beyond respect

Monday, May 19, 2014

Greatest Poet, Best Poet - by Bob Atkinson

Greatest Poet
Best Poet
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

those who view our language
as some simple tricks prevailing
see nuts and bolts not attitude
nor purpose in their wailing

me, I see some use for words
not like some who help poetry not
those who kill the genre'
with ideas lacking any thought

they drift their minds onto the sands
and feed their egos without care
for any finite judgment, producing trash
flimsy descriptions of what is, or isn't there

to read these tripe-ly scribblings
sometimes brings fluid from below
to mess the table fully
needing a gag to end the flow

this creates masters in name only
not those with talents broad
holding a parchment paper stating
their credentials lie quite strong

then send them to the real world
to the bottom of that list
where they could have risen to the top
like lead weights they mostly sink

to study history enlightens minds
to study art tempers the soul
to feel the passion of old times
produces spirits brave and bold

to ponder over simple problems
creates a solver attitude
while those who produce the garbage
see their words as absolute

don't profess to know the truth
but truth here is quite strong
when simple salutations are
read of Baudelaire's longings

he dove deep in his own mind
and saw what could be gleaned
when one tries to adjust to change
that simple or profoundly keen

Modern - by Bob Atkinson

(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

rejection of tradition can
in places denote progress
or regression to untamed goals
bringing pain of older process

creation of a world defined
by daily chug-a-lugs
feeds a sense of sanity
deep into minds of thugs

here we must digress
to discuss what we have done
to filter goodness from our lives
in the name of flagged resolve

nature has us combining effort
to build a super being
constructed from the sinew
of labored backs and teachings

to live that life devoted
in an animated gyration
resolves to infuse direction
and purpose for our breathing

we call it city
we call it state
we call it nation
we call it race

we call it full of vitality
and hopes of leisure times
as we sit on our backsides
fully relaxed and reclined

smoke our poisoned dope
to detract from efforts made
to infuse into reality
that price we have to pay

for filling our grand illusion
that we've meaning yet to find
and teach our children right from wrong
so they might remember our times

here in the sad confusion
of life we have created
we sit and ponder reality
a hard duty relegated
to those who run down a path
which ends with high stone walls
and teaches us to try our best
a purpose for us all

Saturday, May 10, 2014

Time For the Feeling - by Bob Atkinson

Poem of the Month June 2014: Tell Her No/Time of the Season
poemwriter: Rod Argent

Tell Her No/Time of the Season

and if she should tell you
come closer
and if she tempts you

with her charms

tell her no no no
don't hurt me now

for her love belongs
to me

I know she's the kind of girl
who'd throw my love away
but I still love her so
don't hurt me now

don't hurt me now

If she tells you I love you
just remember she said that to me

tell her no
don't take her love from my arms
no no no
don't leave me now for her love belongs to me

it's the time of the season 
when love runs high

 in this time
give it to me easy 
and let me try
with pleasured hands

 to take you in the sun
to promised lands
 to show you every one
 it's the time of the season
for loving

 what's your name? 
who's your daddy? 
is he rich like me? 

has he taken any time
 to show you what you need
to live

tell it to me slowly
 tell me what
I really want to know

 it's the time of the season for loving
are you ready for the show?


Time For the Feeling
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson
as time slips from my pocket
my love, you have compressed
all desire in my soul
all feelings I possess

into that ball of thunder
bright flashes in my eyes
telling me to seduce you
before the sun's on fire

here in the dark of midnight's grasp
I feel the embers glow
of want, desire, gotta haves
your body with its flow

flow of senses, smell and fire
all that tumbles through your heart
beyond to morrow's situation
may we never, ever part

Pre-History - by Bob Atkinson

(c)2014 Bob Atkinson
numerical in some broadest sense
a life developed, drawn with pen
toward complex character of being
senses, smarts, reflexive dreaming

thrown into a capsule's form
to replicate via expanded range
taken to some broad extreme
form defies a simple meaning

how'd we get here, heaven knows
how'd we survive with nature's clothes
untold past many dreams of glory
implicated but not seen, or recorded

five thousand years of history
small chunk of time that seems to me
before must have been a shaker
not much remains of landed matrons

yes the question rings into my ears
my whole being, I am sincere
where are those who went before
what are their stories, tell me more
how did they live
how did they die
how did they this world

what were their dreams
their wants and fears
how can we talk to them
this year

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

Fifty Years Ago - by Bob Atkinson

Poem of the Month, December 2013

When I Was Young
Poemwriter: Herbert Kretzmer

seems the love I've known has always been
the most destructive kind
guess, that's why now I feel so old
before my time

yesterday when I was young
the taste of life was sweet
as rain upon my tongue

I teased at life as if it
were a foolish game
the way the evening breeze
may tease a candle flame

the thousand dreams I dreamed
the splendid things I planned
I'd always built to last
on weak and shifting sand

I lived by night and shunned
the naked light of day
and only now I see
how the years ran away

yesterday, when I was young
so many happy songs
were waiting to be sung

so many wild pleasures
lay in store for me
and so much pain my
dazzled eyes refused to see

I ran so fast that time
and youth at last ran out
I never stopped to think
what life was all about

and every conversation
I can now recall
concerned itself with me
and nothing else at all

yesterday, the moon was blue
and every crazy day
brought something new to do

I used my magic age
as if it were a wand
and never saw the waste
and emptiness beyond

the game of love I played
with arrogance and pride
and every flame I lit
too quickly, quickly died

the friends I made all seemed
somehow to drift away
and only I am left on stage
to end the play

there are so many songs
in me that won't be sung
I feel the bitter taste of tears
upon my tongue

the time has come for me
to pay for
yesterday, when I was young

Fifty Years Ago
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

heard a song played on ceiling speakers
while dining at that special place
lyrics fervent in their meaning
about how adults could at him rage

didn't know his mind of reason
understood his feelings not
couldn't hold a candle to him
in depth of inner thought

papa kept him from his passion
Mary that sweetness imbued
with all his inner strength
to work hard for a car to use

let him wander aimlessly
down school halls so late to class
picking up where he left off
homework's not finished in his bag

many yells and screams at him
by folks not in the know
about the latest dance step
or what's good to wear of clothes

driven, his mind by hormones
dripping sweat down from his brow
while playing full court basketball
in front of the hometown crowd

left him prideful and aware
of his importance there that night
how could they see him as the one
who never turns out the lights

or cleans his room with passion
or finishing a plate of food
while contemplating sadness
one of his many moods

this kid who loved to nothing do
now laments these same hard trials
as the song was written years ago
about his teenage child