Friday, October 30, 2015

Going First Class - by Bob Atkinson

Going First Class
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

flying seems a sweet dream
soaring high above white clouds
into the stratosphere we go
on mighty tubes of thundered sounds

we board buried in our thoughts
don't get caught there in the aisle
they'll yell at you and kick you off
if you don't at them smile

don't joke of things of terror
we're all frozen in our place
by some who use a tool of life
and their brethren wholly disgrace

me, I have my complaints
most aren't really harsh at all
a snide ticket agent's ego giving
a second security check's result

result that no, I'm not a threat
a pacifist if anything at all
a person caught in imagination
since was a kid not tall

but, here goes my thoughts on this
first class on airlines decks
seems to me a problem
a social thoughtless mess

why do we treat the public different
when in a communal state
does cash in pocket say of some
not run of mill, they're great”

me, I'd fly coach even if
had $$$billions in my pocket
same plane, same destination
why allow them classist nonsense

no people when with community
have privilege in my heart
over other souls sincere
not a thought here in my pocket

treat me same, no different
no better or no worse
exactly as the next guy
else we're a society cursed

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

The Kitten and the Beast - by Bob Atkinson

The Kitten and The Beast
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

18 Stoic faces told of a night back then
where simple want of usefulness
fell flat as facial bends

there in a setting of
tranquility prearranged
a group of souls tried to pretend
those words had meaning caged

yet, when those darling readers
who had practiced their good art
spoke strange metaphors
this hardly looked the part

no emotional conditions
no meaning universal
no grabbing of my soul
to attach quivers to my thistle

why do I harp on this
well, we need to revamp “us”
to better understand our place
in universal dust

and begin to gather form
to press on toward a future
where division doesn't cause
wars of famine and derision

life lies universal
not divisible in the least
in the end we're all the same
the kitten and the beast

Monday, October 26, 2015

Poet - by Bob Atkinson

(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

who is this masked man pontificating
about this silly world of ours
he seems so pompous, overbearing
in his pushing of strange causes

why does he feel he knows truth
when billions know more than him
why does he laugh at those souls
who with so many sardines swim

why does he try to change this world
in ways only he can see
why does his heart cry out in pain
when people aren't freed

well, taking something from a past
where all stood a lonely vigil
to create our world in its entirety
working fingers bony, brittle

gives meaning to some lonely souls
who only wish for good
and cry at gruesome outcomes
engaged by dopey fools

one feels so intensely pained
when cornered for an answer
something wished for in a dream
as if a subject mastered

we feel more in control
when we put our thoughts in print
makes one think before the act
of jabbing keys for sentiment

so now in my lonely room
will write these words of mine
even though nobody else
will find them good in time

to be so useful to a world
where ideas sit on the top of heads
and generate such movements
as to advance a theme ahead

words must form ideas in clear air
where everybody can relate
to themes with passion openly
brought forth to soothe the hate

hate brought on by selfishness
a simple thing so cruel
something given by nature
returned as an unused tool

we don't need this thing no more
don't need to hate each other
we're only saddened by the need
to scold our wildest brothers

peace through form of action
be our mantra from now on
no time for callous persons
no acceptance for badness of cause

Science Fiction - by Bob Atkinson

Science Fiction
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson
to dream gives legacy another try
our world, our lives, our sad goodbyes
we feel as though more should reign
on good hopes, and real life pain

to read some thoughts of another gives
a sense of order not in life's mix
so many possibilities prevail
yet we see just one here on our trail

straight toward destination we glide
not going left or up or down in life
winding roads go misty on us
fog of living hides all good promise

fiction believes in what could be
not what exists by some guarantee
drives our thoughts out of that pit
overly produced by effort, grit

science on the other hand
means observation by mortal man
of a world not seen, unknown of character
beyond what humans control through barriers

unless we see we can't believe
we can't suspend that finite need
for proof of validity ticketed
by repeated scientific experiments

then comes science fiction to
save us from reality's brew
gives options less sincere in focus
let's us believe in hocus pocus

there goes a wondrous invention as we
can work ourselves out of tall trees
no need for right and wrong to live
when we our imaginations give

give sanction to believe in all
that we can dream of or describe as logic
those times of undulating cries
exposing imagined, created lives

Sunday, October 25, 2015

Who We Think We Are - by Bob Atkinson

Who We Think We Are
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

wildness of words portends
some future life event
where buildup gives in to love
and future chips get spent

so, here in my later years
I think of events past
where things I thought were temporary
weren't such, they lasted

and permanents would seem
endless in their nature
but disappeared without a trace
as endurance, for them, wasn't natural

so goes with our self image
we see ourselves not much
evolved with open ended dreams
and stately aged crust

to flutter on toward immortality
was once our greatest dream
then we find perpetuality
not in the scheme of things

finding we in our hearts
did all the best we could
transfers to reality
of assimilation in a world

a world of like minded souls
who work with what they have
hoping, in the end
they've done something grand

Thursday, October 22, 2015

Avidance - by Bob Atkinson

(c)2015 Bob Atkinson
"The avoidance of logic or reason entering into one's life.  
Working solely on reflex learned by life's ancestors, not by logic or reason.
A person engaged in Avidance has no understanding or concern
for right or wrong, merely what one can get away with"
Bob Atkinson

always, in my memory
have pained me to appraise
those who travel without purpose
on this our living stage

they never see a single thing
on which to hang their hat
no facts to anchor meaning
upon their this and that

I have a name for this event
which seems to fit this notch
a working title for which we can
place observations on their lot

avidance” with some reflection
becomes a perfect name for not
thinking through our actions
when dealing with our problems

removing most of reasoned senses
back to those wilder days
training ourselves in insincerity
no gentleness for sake

for sake of taking us toward goal
as human's with good purpose
a step above that character
which only serves the surface

yes, I know you don't believe
we need to label lame
attitudes of our children
in this lifeless game

but some will find life foolish
without reason in the mix
I choose to observe these friends
choose to ponder senselessness

senselessness which ties us to
a past of wild jungle life
that reflex touting attitude
which continues mortal strife

Monday, October 19, 2015

Add to My Collection - by Bob Atkinson

Add to My Collection
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

you say your religion's nice
does everything it should
keeps one on the straight and narrow
within good attitude

you say it answers questions old
and moves us toward a light
of ever lasting lovely life
even after death so bought with pride

you sure you've got this right
as we end our time on earth
reflecting on impropriety
seems you got that nailed good

you designate as crime
things open to discussion
while crimes of carnage expanded
separates your loved one's huggings

crimes of passion, crimes of lust
crimes of control of minds
seem more to me disoriented
from your camp so many times

to kill another in lustful ways
'tis truly not humane
a degenerated thought process
removes you to a cave

give me tenants of your laws
so I may add them to mine
except the ones which hurt and maim
I'll leave those all behind

The Absolute Gift - by Bob Atkinson

The Absolute Gift
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

about time we stood our ground
in this era of feigned validity
where some with guns shoot their friends
for being of another creed

so simple an observation's not much
to hang another by the neck
removing validity from a cause
by showing lack of respect

they beg only one idea
be put forth for the truth
but to force those of lesser strength
to adopt another's attitude

by force of gun or bomb
removes validity from their cause
and gives us pause to reflect
who we ever are

don't take from me my freedom
should revel in my cause
to find truth in all I do
herein displayed because

because truth's not always evident
even though you're told it is
nobody knows the absolute
absolute's not a gift that gives

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

The Shark and The Sardine - by Bob Atkinson

The Shark
The Sardine
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

two fish swam together
first time for each one of them
both had heretofore gone alone
been single while on the run

both had found more pleasure
gliding through life all alone
yet here they swam together
large shark and small thin bone

shark he smiled when came upon
a school of fish complete
swimming up through the mass
with grin on sharpened teeth

he cut the spines of small fish
who had here massed for safety
and small pal sipped the cuttings
as if was flavored gravy

little one chose not to swim
with other little fish in schools
felt he made more impact
alone or with his friend so cruel

they wandered under water
at depths both low and high
always giving problems
to schools so meek and shy

then one day in pair they swam
in shallows of sand bar white
a shadow cast on the bottom
led to a startled display of light

both shadows equaled in their size
our little friend had grown up large
he smiled at this and showed a grin
with teeth big as clams or logs

so little fish who grew so big
found out he wasn't sardine
was a shark, like his friend
big, but not so mean

War Flame - by Bob Atkinson

War Flame
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

seems glory's not reserved for men
exists some glorious ships of tin
where bravery and accomplishment
combine to give one thoughts of sin

she started life in seventeen
a need for her arose
because of conflict overseas
a fight for strength of throne

at quickened pace constructed
we couldn't do that now
they had in hearts conviction
we've lost this talent somehow

her birth in Seattle
steam powered with one screw
this lengthly apparition fated
to bravery of her crew

saw service in two wars
between war for island fare
we look to construction
of strength determined there

here and there she saved her peers
by towing them to harbor
a wonderful device of man
which served to feed the soldiers

took on cargo, manned and ready
she headed for Saint John's
to join with those who braved the seas
and wolf's who wanted carrion

desired for them to sail below
those waves of windy times
when friends became strong enemies
and bombs would burst like chimes

they set out for the Liverpool
to deliver cargo for a war
but ran into one flowered pack
many died in pain and sorrow

Dalcroy and Rinos went to the bottom

at four AM that day
four-oh-two reloaded 'torps
then went after more good prey

Siegfried saw his 'tunity
two more with hulls of steel
ate fish meant to sink those vessels
which wandered toward the kill

at eight AM SS Antelope
went down with flames so bright
her crew saved, a miracle
by Stockport that wonderful sight

of the two torpedoes
which left the U at eight
one, as said, sank Antelope
the other sank our friend

to brave crew of Leopard
forty-one in tallied numbers
we lost all but three
as this fine hull went under

bravery and glory
an essential food of man
showed there exists no mercy
when friends got sunk by friends

Friday, October 2, 2015

Graceful Movements to Diction (Poetry) - by Bob Atkinson

(c)2015 Bob Atkinson 

sensing such an open point
we feel one must arrange
those words within a framework
adding feeling to a page

to impart an idea
in prose goes straight to point
yet leaves one confused
as if on a bumpy road

rhythm sends a message of
direction free and clear
as if on compass point
a way for us to steer

while, on the other hand
prose hasn't got a clue
as to meaning of these words
no simple force by attitude

textbooks written gingerly
with rhythm and good rhyme
allow for impression of a point
to remain within our minds

having said these words to you
feel I must confess
I cannot comprehend all that
lies in a jumbled mess

when organized with care
words have a strong effect
they blend with all our insides
giving our minds a rest