Tuesday, April 26, 2016

How Can One? - by - Bob Atkinson

How Can One?
(c)2016 Bob Atkinson

how can one translate form
from idea to canvas norm
some twinkle in an eye open
or smile with smirk shown grin

where does talent infuse itself
to hands which hold artist's brush
sending imagination away
capturing drama of everyday

don't know if have ever seen
myself create this sweetest dream
not standing in front of that train
while holding images in my brain

perhaps he knew well his calling
studied masters, faultless darlings
kept discipline in his mind
and worked there on art's grind

worked until our sun went down
dreamed about some worthy crown
of sentiment awarded to him
by those who found him truly useful


Saturday, April 16, 2016

Poetry, Poetry, Poetry - by Bob Atkinson

Poetry, Poetry, Poetry
(c)2016 Bob Atkinson

gnarlish institutional force
files piles of paper in due course
about, around and up onto
this open ended curly cue

we have a name for that which we
don't know, or care to hold up to
a light of emotional tones
to flee our simple objective bones

define for me this world of yours
where words evoke with metaphors
thoughts evolved from open wounds
whereupon we savor hues

hues of nature, not man made
no underlying decadent parade
where some require control of their
fellow hearts through lack of care

similes strenghten thoughts supreme
ornate designs held back by dreams
wild activities brought up from past
with uncertain outcome devastating

naked obsessions flicker fast
those synapses flowing, but never last
wildness given free head
when talent gets out of bed

tell me truly, do you understand
these constructs of mortal man
or do you hide those questions deep
causing us to again repeat

repeat those institutional lies
which bury truth in senseless piles
a never ending path we take
an open ended journey made


Thursday, April 14, 2016

Uncivil - by - Bob Atkinson

(c)2016 Bob Atkinson

having sometimes absolute
feeling in my head
a person should remain polite
always with gentle hand

no shaking fist, or yelling
calling names, that sort of stuff
no violence upon a soul
no kicking up clouds of dust

for these, among other deeds
denote a lack of trust
another might be honestly
dealing with the bunch

I know you favor your position
as I favor mine
we both agree mentality
denotes our side of line

yet does this institution
we cling to in our hearts
support naked violence
devoid of deepest thought

or do we owe society
a handshake now and then
promising to be honest always
in our dealings with all men

Friday, April 8, 2016

Disaster of Olgiate Olona - by Bob Atkinson

Disaster of 
Olgiate Olona
(c)2011 Bob Atkinson
On a night, the twenty-sixth of June
nineteen hundred and fifty nine
all hell broke loose above a town
north west of old Milan

in the province of Varese
Italy's pure heartland
Olgiate Olona is a town of importance
to sixty-eight women and men

past the Busto station
beyond where it was flat
the Jetstream flew its last flight
exploding, then falling downward fast

there was no reason for this to happen
no normal quiet way
to fly a creature into the ground
smashing alloy into clay

the sky had been thunderous
lightning striking where it shouldn't
tearing apart aluminum skin
converting machine into 
pieces of pumice

spewing flames as though Mount Etna
had again thrown her fire and debris
the sleek machine of imagination
exploded all those dreams

no words can ever bring them back
no monument corrects
losses friends and relatives sustained
when machine was roughly wrecked

fifteen minutes into a climb
a bolt of lightning pierces metal
shattering hopes of sixty-eight
to have their lives extended

ripping structure of a wing apart
with massive explosive force
converting what had been so swift
into falling debris of metal and clothes

through the wind, a machine of legend
had conquered fast high flight
with methods of brute force and finesse
to move swiftly through the sky

so wild in the wind was all
the blown metal parts and pieces
and pretty dresses of pretty women
and men's suits with neat leg creases

seeing chaos where had stayed
an orderly progression
a routine take-off from Milan
in this stormy pre-summer season

first the wheels had lifted up
off the hard runway
into the windy stream
then retracted into bays

the pilot had been politely saluted
by the tower controller of Milan
have a good flight sir the man bid
as they raised the takeoff flaps

then vibration of the engines
felt good to the captain again
as they climbed into the stratosphere
guiding machine so fast and long

Paris was their destination
a city on the Seine
with streets of life so interesting
was always hard to go to bed

took not long to fly above
the first two mile high level
above the height where inside pressure
strengthened the aircraft's vessel

but pressure pushes on metal structures
and needless to say prevails
when lightning presses holes in skin
and explodes very large fuel cells

that night with surprise and wonder
in that storm of rain and thunder
Olgiate Olona was showered with
fire, metal and the desire of people

the desire to continue on
live life with those loved ones
who dream of old age years from now
not violence flying to Paris from Milan

Wednesday, April 6, 2016

Fine Art - by - Bob Atkinson

Fine Art
(c)2016 Bob Atkinson

something's necessary to life
a life that's full that is
we properly display our skills
in thoughts and good ideas

upon a canvas, by a sculpture
as words upon a page
or with a building designed for folks
who about a form do rage

we see in our memory
pyramids full of grace
constructed by a foreign crew
that distant human race

we feel deep down inside
we haven't done our duty
if we do not create
something lasting, of beauty

so, fine art gives us our title
of advancement for our crew
in forefront of constructs sincere
our gift to humanity's beauty

a beauty filled with joy
in a perfect sort of world
where understanding prevails
as perception strengthens fealty

a necessary function of life
to go where we can go
and obliterate opposition to
a perfect, gentle flow

Description of History - by - Bob Atkinson

Description of History
(c)2016 Bob Atkinson

here we have a world behind
what should suffice for us
yet when we describe what happened
we sometimes gloss over dust

where does reality arise
where do we stand and cheer
or lament strange passings
which flew fast past our ears

do we really know good truth
or tell lies to ourselves
in order to diminish guilt
piled on our minds so high

as we watch in horror
all actions of our peers
so do we file in folders
tears wept through sad years

hoping we gain compassion
finding strength in what we do
telling those not born yet
we tried our best for you

Monday, April 4, 2016

Hiding the Garbage - by - Bob Atkinson

Hiding the Garbage
(c)2016 Bob Atkinson

we see bios written long
profuse in praise of poet's songs
those who know words to say
tell stories endless in many ways

he's this or that
she's teacher of
awarded trophies
because of.....

but where do they give
humanity something solid
fair value designed not with
ego driven noshings

no monument to carry in our minds as we resolve
to accept as truth these
openly divine belongings

hidden away, vanity books
to add to bios padded
like a mimic of some ancient crook
hand out for purses grabbing

and when you find a snippet
of words for which they care
one sees there's not much to read
wisdom lacking in a tirade of greed

so tell your institutions please
before awards please this junk read
don't throw us under a long black bus
and feel you've done some good for us