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Bob Atkinson Poem
Sociocultural
Evolution
- by Bob Atkinson
here in the here and
now
well beyond that
date in time
beyond beginnings so
far back
as to look like
stones defined
by their
stratification
layers of that dust
of life
which settles into a
black void
and shoves us out of
life
here with a fond
reflection
we see what we've
become
our narrow minded
creases
of satisfied results
but satisfaction
deviates
from norms we can
arrange
to send our children
to the future
an establishment
pre-arranged
take a minute to
evolve
into something more
advanced
don't see your
brother as the enemy
to be pierced
through with your
lance
Copyright © Bob Atkinson | Year Posted 2014
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Bob Atkinson Poem
A Poem Wrapped in
Music
by Bob Atkinson
write that emotional
treasure
your life, your
loves, your leisure
tell all your best
stories
describing love,
life and glory
setting for us
location
describe all with
elocution
impact my heart with
fire
by describing
heart's desire
tell stories not yet
told
of your actions weak
and bold
tales of the heroes
gone
to the past or
current born
give me much to
contemplate
while I live that
sedate life
worrying about
tomorrow
with those darlings
or a wife
wrap this wondrous
treasure
in a blanket of
sweet sounds
music for a
lifetime's thought
bringing my spirit
to the ground
call this something
I will know
a word with which to
rest
my weary attention
span
spread out over my
chest
call the content and
the notes
an entire ball of
wax
something I will
know and treasure
from my future to my
past
call it song
Copyright © Bob Atkinson | Year Posted 2014
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Bob Atkinson Poem
Linux
- by Bob Atkinson
Linus had a vision
of that which percolates
upon the scene of tradition
giving wheat grain at the gate
to better the community
by effort of the hand of man
wherein we all accumulate
repayment for our plans
he sought that which one sees
in visions traded for
efforts of the skills obtained
on all the foreign shores
no matter who we are in our
simple lives of quiet revision
we do our individual part by
coding commerce for his vision
whereby the info flows down on
a matrix of delight
accomplishing our harder tasks
as if by a quill pen's light
Linus kept it simple
no greed carried within
let the others steal from man
his objective was to give
Copyright © Bob Atkinson | Year Posted 2014
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Bob Atkinson Poem
Unreason
- by Bob Atkinson
"... ode to those
who teach creative
writing at the
college level,
yet have not the
talent nor
understanding
required
to produce something
worthwhile ..."
to listen graciously
then turn away
feeling for the
first time
wonder at his
sayings
carries burdens
newly minted
for my life on lumpy
pavement
simply put this
wreck of words
drives not my lucid
statements
in fear of simple
castings made
those so hard to
correctly gage
find difficulty in
believing
what should or
shouldn't stand
feed me what to this
date
has not been allowed
percolation
to equate justice
circumcised
against wispy
thoughts berated
metaphors mixed
until complete
that nonsense we all
believe in
can only drive us
deeply down
a path toward firm
unreason
Copyright © Bob Atkinson | Year Posted 2014
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Bob Atkinson Poem
Anasazi and Hohokam
- by Bob Atkinson
tell me now your ancient stories
so I can feel your power and glory
survive you did in this harsh land
becoming a mystery to this small man
where did you go? are you still here?
tell me of your wants and fears
buildings you made of stone
still stand above piles of bones
did you lay down your lives
to the last because of pride
fighting those opposed
to your ancient way of life
over this land of dusty valleys
swept clean of life as if by water
you carved out of rocky soil
life for your sons and daughters
of those who lived those years
we know nothing more
we see them scraped from the land
was it peaceful or violent horror?
you who no longer sing
those songs of glory days
left us remnants of your cities
to remind us of your closed page
confers to us our wonderment
never allowing our minds rest
where and why did you go?
reason won't be known, but guessed
you knew how to test the ground
dug canals, brought water to dry land
giving seed to harvest yearly
moisture to crops of greenery
you knew facts that life required
by those who live and thrive
in arid lands which never seem
to allow for relaxed lives
ones who have gone before
left us not stories and lore
they keep their lives from our eyes
made us wonder where and why
let us begin the quest
to document that sixth sense
that which makes us who we are
our emotions pickled in a jar
document your current stories
so future can feel your power and glory
how you survived in this harsh land
become no mystery to future man
Copyright © Bob Atkinson | Year Posted 2014
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Bob Atkinson Poem
Don't Look Under the Bed
- by Bob Atkinson
..........Oliver Goldsmith tells the story ....
out walking for his health
a man spied his friend of years on pathway
how "are you sir?" he asked with smile
"not well" the gent replied back, looked terrified
"... what happed sir to create this stir
you seem so stressed this day
do you feel under the weather
perhaps you should stand in shade? ..."
the man then told his story
one of dubious glory
had come home early yesterday
and found his wife not at her work
lying without on her bed
no stitch of clothes or hat on head
had looked down and seen some shoes
not his size, but a style he knew
looking further had seen his friend
under the bed with open hand
covering body parts unnamed
a context which him inflamed
"... hmmmm the first man perused
this situation's not so unusual
a fix of gross proportions
one of life's heartless distortions
the gent began to lament
how he's sending wife to mother
divorcing within the week
slapping her with lawyer on each cheek
his friend then held up hand to stop
this track of mind which he thought
not a path one should take
in this situation of disgrace
"friend," he said with saddened tone
"you have no witness on your own
just your word against your lover
should you really send her to her mother?
your word against her own
you'll alimony pay through the nose
and half your wealth will be disposed
to this woman of lover spoken
best never again look under her bed
when you come home you should slam
front door hard to make some noise
yell 'Honey I'm Home' loudly in bright tones"
thus, the gent saw sense in this
went home with smile to his sweetness
"Honey I'm home," he loudly declared upon entry
he never again looked under bed or pantry
Copyright © Bob Atkinson | Year Posted 2014
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Bob Atkinson Poem
18 Stoic Faces
- by Bob Atkinson
eighteen stoic faces
faced four who had come
to read the erudite refrains
of poets both dead and gone
readings were in earnest spoken
for respect for some who had
garnered from the establishment
accolades, awards, well sanctioned
yes, eighteen stoic faces
faced four who read so good
those meaningless diatribes
of useless linguistic words
significance became not evident
for similes provided here
metaphors vaguely crafted caused
me not them to revere
this didn't change my attitude
my demeanor didn't rise
waiting for an end to it
was my only real desire
so I couldn't clap and whistle
and be smiling in my face
that would not have been sincere
became just a little bit ashamed
whistle I didn't do at all
felt not much real emotion
gave a polite nod to those speaking
headed quickly out the door
save me from disjointed thoughts
can't those people see the truth
senseless disorganization
does not good poetry produce
of those thoughts not poetry
I firmly do believe
the fireplace requires cellulose
for bright flames to feed
listless words written poorly
carried my imagination not
was frozen in my dreamy state
rusted any worthwhile thoughts
next week went to Vegas
to see the eagle band
and watch as pure emotion
rocked that audience grand
ten thousand had paid apiece
a couple hundred bucks
to see those wordly masters
like Henley, Frey and such
they told of the situation
which emotion played upon
a woman's real life choices
why she'd become despondent
ten thousand cheered upon
recognition of great words
displayed while coddled with sounds
soft guitars and drums beat purrs
I thought "now here lies real poetry"
not those prissy kind of words
that speak only of the unimportant
with wispy mindless verbs
some lock credentials grand
for that which moves us not
and laugh at the suggestion
that song is our greatest art
me, I have a vision
that we shall all enjoy
songs we've grown up with
as emotional literal tomes
Copyright © Bob Atkinson | Year Posted 2014
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Bob Atkinson Poem
The Kentucky Hayseed
- by Bob Atkinson
he looks a little confused
his mind cast in a fix
how can he concentrate on this
just a little bit
a jerky set of previews
float over and above
his articulated vision on
some confused state of fuss
he'd never seen a problem
like this in all his life
a complex set of jargon
not allowing mushy light
he chewed on a blade of grass
considering all possibilities there
just open ended reflex
on most of which, he didn't care
his mama told him something
when a child was he
he tried to focus reason
when allowed here to repeat
that never ending slogan
of truth and firm despair
carrying nothing in between
his inner and outer ears
the hayseed settled down to work
a tumor he could see
grabbed a scalpel from the nurse
and simply cut it free
Copyright © Bob Atkinson | Year Posted 2014
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Bob Atkinson Poem
Belleville Boys
- by Bob Atkinson
walk the streets of
our old town
thoughts of fame not
unfounded
tell us if our
hearts conform
with success to be
adorned
here on those
sidewalks laid for
us
by streets of
asphalt drawn from
dust
lights which shine
for us at night
below the stars of
heavens might
we desire to succeed
we develop from
another breed
we transform
ourselves again
into a newly formed
music band
names will change
along our path
some come along,
some don't last
some add to our
candle power
some step back, some
stand for honor
Connie sang the
"Sorry" song
Bert and Harry had
penned so long
ago, seems ages, but
was nice
when she our hearts
sliced with a knife
Tommy dreamed of
success
as did Nick and
Frankie, Bob
whom Joe presented
to the guys
as wonderment in
writing style
Shorts had success
in history
Cheri started the
money tree
life goes on toward
open progress
twists and turns
leave some
despondent
for the memories
these guys made
as we went through
our phases
their style, their
efforts well
appreciated
from this side of
life's directive
we thank them all
for their work
their toil, their
songs written in our
book
those memories now
folded into
the fabric of our
grasp of future
to those who have
not seen the sights
of minds expanded by
these guys
we present them as a
legacy
of dreams
accomplished with
energy
Copyright © Bob Atkinson | Year Posted 2014
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Bob Atkinson Poem
The Critic - Art and Poetry
- by 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 idealistic dreams
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
Copyright © Bob Atkinson | Year Posted 2014
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