Sunday, October 26, 2014

Enemy of War - by Bob Atkinson

Enemy of War
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

gentleness contents my soul
for I cannot hate
those who oppose my dreams
those who close my gate

I feel frustration blowing winds
which destroy what man has built
with such avarice as taught
by he who gathers sins

claiming divine right bestows
an imposition of good action
not mean nor callous can he be
in attitude or reaction

if not gentle in approach
these deeds of which I speak
can only free the devil's heart
with nastiness and greed

to those who see him not
as something to respect
just someone who cannot use
his humanity with good senses

I say with time we will progress
to something of proud nature
building dreams for each of us
as life, itself, professes greatness

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Artistic Inspiration - Part I - by Bob Atkinson

Artistic Inspiration - Part I
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

can see from the beginning
this idea's complex in formulation
regulation completes description
definition fixed, closed, no aberrations

not ever in a world created
by imperfect minds of men
do we see reality's force
correcting errors in our plan

'tis artistic enterprise
which molds our character
differentiation drives us toward
becoming more than what appears

we wish to leave posterity
new vistas of approach
which surrender to distant feelings
our worries and our hopes

within this makeup necessity
for beauty does arise
in impersonation of the deity
as we wish to form delight

delightful order created for
those smiles which undulate
around our tiny planet
turning corners of our pages

Thursday, October 16, 2014

The Critic - Art & Poetry - by Bob Atkinson

The Critic - Art and Poetry
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson
'tis always easier to criticize
than is to do it yourself
although in truth the latter
contains far more fun and mirth


my point lies somewhere in between
good and bad of poetry
adjustment for the mainstream
how we absorb ideas


to see this in a different light
with crystal covers on the lens
we can, with open eyes
love writers with sharp pens

those who look beyond the fluff
and understand good meaning
divest themselves of constraints
and pursue a different dreaming

they see a world with tearfulness
not holding on to chains
which produce establishments
that grate and agitate

my desire in this arena
carries to all a simple message
don't let the future be determined
by past usage and direction

what you see is fabricated
a reality far from real
poo pooing things that matter
holds their only zeal

me, I've grown accustomed
to my meaning zipping by
heads of those who look
only at the surface side

doesn't mean I'm disheartened
to try is not hard at all
when you feel compunction
to rearrange it all

The Muse - by Bob Atkinson

The Muse
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

we forever brood, consider, cogitate
on our tails we contemplate
while when alone we deliberate
on feelings deep we mediate

reflecting, revolving, rolling
we ruminate and speculate
thinking seriously when we weigh
all situations during our day

some only chew over questions
while they mull their decisions
in puzzling over solutions
turned around in their heads

me, I consider this a test
of outside forces doing their best
to confuse my lack of intellect
in the morning while I wake

for during sincere effort to
take it all in during brooding
I cannot form a plan of direction
when my head's not back in action

maybe I should move to sink
and get cold water not to drink
just splash it liberally on my face
then dry the skin with towel of lace

only then will I wake up
and see the world across my cup
of coffee which opens up my mind
as if sipping each and every line

to muse again from time to time

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Many a Bad Guy's Bones - by Bob Atkinson

Many a Bad Guy's Bones
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson
prideful action drives them home
to gather all their guts
held skills of lawmen secreted
left with both knives and guns

these men may find their place
in history's legends, stories
inspiration for civilization
that plague of human glory

lone ranger stories told to us
about how he took to ride
with Grey Ghost of Seneca
both traveled here with pride

from Texas to the Ark they saw
duty well and clear
an overburdened force for good
powder dried with bad guys' fear

this pair of fired lawmen
who never gave an inch
cleared the land of impudence
allowing gentle citizens to live

lives of the purposed kind
to fray a muscled man
and raise a family in pure peace
with work, an honest hand

men who till soil deep
need protection from the rotten
Grey Ghost and Loneman steeped in dust
filled needs for skills of lawmen

heroes to our inner ear
to minds out of the city
holding firm an open grasp
of rightness without pity

brought bad men to justice
held their honor firm
never, ever backing down
no matter what the curse

to feel as if one matters
was felt there in their home
these lawmen of a changed world
broke many a bad guy's bones

Universal Drifters - by Bob Atkinson

Universal Drifters
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

we saw them twinkle in night's dark times
around that golden orb's clear lines
as if fairy dust pinched on
that circled moon beyond

beyond our world here on dry land
beyond those oceans edged with sand
beyond our touch with outstretched hands
beyond events we could command

twinkle of those newly evented
pseudo stars to us presented
grabbed imagination thoughtful
what could these be? good or awful?

here with feet firmly on this earth
we look at stars to define our worth
are we masters of this universe
or
merely travelers, drifting, useless?

Friday, October 3, 2014

The Poet's Sorrow - by Bob Atkinson

The Poet's Sorrow
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson
"... he is praised by all, read by a few, and soon forgotten ..." Oliver Goldsmith

to be read becomes the poet's dream
a fast approaching lovely stream
of sweetened insight or lamented dreams
this shining light of unlit streets

poetry on the face of time
begins a process circumscribed
into a mist filled night we find
that pen and paper of rhythm, rhyme

rhythm fills a void in heart
softly pressing as required by art
to sink gut into a pool
unfilled by this moment's attitude

reflexive as our lives become
standing still requires none,
no complexity of a wandering tongue
a simple brain of mushly dung

we mostly tread waters still
retreat to couch, no excess frills
trading worth for quietness
protesting loudly we've done our best

when this leisure fortifies
we click the vision, games of pride
and watch as those people there
score touchdowns, followed by prayer

no effort in this wasteful gruel
satisfies need for flying fooled
beyond sincere accomplishment
on coffee table poetry rests

Thursday, October 2, 2014

Slow and Painful Investigation - by Bob Atkinson

Slow and Painful Investigation
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

we fly there on to judgment
when seen as requiring thought
no intermediate stage within
no pondering beyond

where, when, and what for
doesn't enter into our minds
just flip a coin and believe
which side pretends it's right

want of deep reflection
carries with such misery
as to form directives
required of you and me

flaky tones of disbelief
rattling down toward thoughts
devoid of understanding
what this situation wrought

no history uncovered
to back up our destiny
just reflections of a tone
assumed for disagreement

next time someone asks you
for an opinion on some idea
just shake your head and tell them
you need more research to make it clear

Prudence - by Bob Atkinson

Prudence
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

hell bent for leather
although cow's not on board
with these unique actions
a violent midnight storm

some trade in opposition
fear not this path to take
say “move on to unknown territory
worth risk for gains we make”

me, I'm in the dark on this
don't know which road to travel
although isn't my choice
don't want seams to unravel

hunkered down within my womb
in some outlying space resolved
to ride out a winter storm
of argument about it all

as formal institutions
collapse there down the hall
my country seems to change direction
while ignoring peoples' wails

fear not some edgy feeling
buildings tall begin with dust
of bulldozed foundations
removing coatings of dried crust

can see discretion gaining force
a tightening of desire
to implement some sane promotion
which sets our souls on fire

always in this destiny
call it what you will
conclusion seeks a straight path
of fully formed ideals

ideals which include chivalry
and care for fellow man
purpose added to the stew
salted with blown desert sands

Sharpness of Her Pen - by Bob Atkinson

Sharpness of Her Pen
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

she stood upon that center stage
to act as if she had
an openness of direction
through sharpness of her pen

she told of laments abundant
tales of woe held near her chest
an alternating aberration
lost in such soft duress

tried to absorb her meaning
face covered by my hands
alternated sobs and laughter
a simple mortal man

she ended with a diatribe
on how he left her moods
buoyed by freedom's percolation
which let her find her tools

to build a character of love
when lover left the nest
seeking a fully formed pretense
which sauntered to the audience

I loved here every moment
although couldn't tell you why
just felt as if emotion
had hit me in the eye

my character I questioned
because she knew so well
needs of the initiated
past things I'll never tell

the end came quite abruptly
lights faltered and went out
causing a gasp from audience
then from them many claps

tell you when I'm sober
thing I did right then
in reaction to her motions
and the sharpness of her pen

Tribute to the Boxer - by Bob Atkinson

Tribute to the Boxer
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson
thank goodness for St Paul
good a place as lives for song
in those halls we found reverb
new feelings we can borrow

instruments gave such a chorus
was long to end this job
as one hundred hours of studio
took to complete, went on and on

yes, words can gather meaning
as the years roll down my back
I'm involved in life's true feelings
as if they're coming back

to the places I have traveled
to the tears that I have shed
as if an instrument of feeling
as I lay here on my bed

was done by bits and pieces
this song of boxer's lust
an instrument of reason busted
should send out for more lunch

here when fall time season
changes colors of the trees
my worth becomes a nickel
as my bones begin to freeze

my character climbs fully
on those walls of ivy leaves
taking only but a moment
to reject my cries and pleas

yes they didn't give me credit
when my credit card was due
yet, with only six string fingers
I have penned these words for you

our youth gives many lessons
when we take those things in stride
which ever finds us pressing
for expansion of our pride

we carry for a lifetime
some great cause for which we're shamed
and expand those open pleasures
of enjoyment for our pain

never entering into visions
which dissipate like fog in rain
just let me soothe my burden
with whatever I have gained