Thursday, November 26, 2015

The Barderer - by Bob Atkinson

The Barderer
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson
she wasn't sure to do this
was not a twist of fate
purely inspiration
of a thought she had made

her family had provided
all to her she'd need
yet, to foster innovation
she with this man agreed

agreed to allow him insight
into their world of lifetime events
a poet of distinction writing
a poem to document accomplishments

from aunt Millie's flings
to Aaron's success on stage
and grandpa's infatuation
with a red head's wandering ways

she saw an opportunity
to document these lives
which held so much meaning
for a family's lengthly pride

he didn't fuss or bother with
profusion of fanfare or pretense
as she asked him to write some
experiences of success via excess

made her nervous in her thoughts
a feeling of disarray
yet, on she wrote these paragraphs
to set him on his way

so, here he furnished her with words
that showed fallibility on display
and said of this family
we're gone, but from where we came

the book lived on for hundred years
provided smiles on those who read
about a family who lived a life
years before, but live again

every time one reads lines
the poet wrote about
daily events of this family
who cast descendent's here abouts

we find we're not the first
to lay claim on leveled tracks
just first to know where feelings came from
and where to send them back

as history's not just read in books
in school for learned fare
sometimes history's personal
about those for whom we care

Monday, November 23, 2015

Academy of American Poets - by Bob Atkinson

Academy of American Poets
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

here we have in our land
a purposed version of that band
which tears across a broad landscape
taking words up to scrape

scrape language from gray dust
and bring glory down to us
for words arranged in bright patterns
focused here with ideas not tattered

yet, when we trust them to lead
us in our journey on feeble steed
we find them lacking in broad skill
to cull out garbage from this mill

where grains get crushed of seeds so bright
instead of planting rows of light
they plant here feces on our page
and let us think we've been enlightened

but, in reality 'tis a charade
where purpose languishes today
our country's words don't mean much
in view of this rotten dust

will they wake up someday
and square away this awful page
of literature deranged
or will we still get muck on our shoes

well, I for one will stand up tall
and say to them "get on the ball"
don't feed me droppings from the horse
give me words that stay the course

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Creative Minds - by Bob Atkinson

Creative Minds
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson[pidLi]=509&tx_commentaire_pi1[from]=841&cHash=98f57917c3

settled here in absolutes
these men of creative minds
all who, in their own way
transcend with bonds of time

we still remember what they did
they knew us by first name not
left us with soft legacy, a gift
of times otherwise forgotten

to build upon another's work's
so much easier than from scratch
for those who did much dirty work
and help us look back to past

past achievements duly made
to bind ourselves to dust
making rocks of sand pebbles
with eagerness of thought

an open secret wandering
through simple calloused hearts
until becomes a memory
so purposed in thought and art

feeds progress of creation
what wasn't there before
becomes our pride evolved with time
teaches us to ask for more

Monday, November 9, 2015

Elegant Solution - by Bob Atkinson

Elegant Solution
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

some reaches of our universe
contain what we surmise
an articulated benefit
with open, loving eyes

appeal not fully understood
simplicity wished for gain
we, of an unknowing kind
knew not from where we came

I feel, in this moment's pause
as if my brain's on fire
why don't I understand this
why don't I knowledge desire

carry me beyond those trees
beyond those mountains great
to an equality of sound
to an awareness plain

plain for simplicity of mind
plain for knowing well
how we, in clinging to what we know
give chatter to ourselves

chatter only serves to calm
us in our lack of fire
something we try to overcome
with energy of desire

to solve a mystery requires luck
and luck's what we have much
to be here on this oval speck
of gasses and brown dust

took ever so much overcoming
of process duly made
an elegant solution to
an empty, useless phase

so here, we sit and ponder fate
yet fate's what we stand living
we look to each other's help
please be kind and giving

Saturday, November 7, 2015

SheWolf - by Bob Atkinson

(c)2015 Bob Atkinson
there glides a monster so salty
as to find herself adrift
on waters south of islands few
out in a wet abyss

she sees herself so tall of mast
and creaking in her ways
ropes held taut all through a gale
rudder locked firm with firm hands staid

men of a certain twist
hard worn in sailor's lot
these cut throat demons
on land not sane
but here with duty locked

she falls beneath the upper class
yet, high above some tramps
here in an open ocean's winds
sets yards of sail on masts

masts so tall as to embed
themselves in low clouds down
near to deck of uncertainty
meant to earn a crown

where bound this lady of the wind
where from this crew sincere
about their duties ever keen
under captain long of beard

what lies beneath her decks
in holds so dark and damp
why can we not see her cargo
on a ship's good manifest

why can we not ask of men
where goes this wooden ship
why, “sir if I told you that
I'd have to slit your gullet”

so, on we sail toward westerly
winds of time gone by
so some, in future, can surmise
this ship's eventual prize

Friday, November 6, 2015

God in the Hand, Not in the Heart - by Bob Atkinson

God in the Hand,

Not in the Heart

(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

he carries scripture in his hand
yet knows not love of man
he bombs and murders many souls
who cannot understand

how someone professing purity
has no purity deep within
why does he take a mantle of
forced leadership of man

when he goes upon his way
he leaves barbarity in his path
stirs humanity with spoon
a devil's sincere conscript

someday, when he awakes from slumber
he'll understand those hearts
who beat only for power's goal
and tear this world apart

they love man not, these demons
only wanting to grasp what's insincere
by forces deep within our thoughts
mind control, an art despised, feared

when all who get caught up in this
understand where they fit into
a deviant progression of
a dishonorable ancient attitude

we'll begin to build together
a place where love reigns supreme
and all within our boundary
have feet washed in a gentle stream