The Critic - Art & Poetry - by Bob Atkinson

The Critic - Art and Poetry

(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

The Critic

'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 Tempest of Poetry - by Bob Atkinson

The Tempest of Poetry

(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

Poetry

there blows in stiff wind

created by the word

an everlasting frozen

collection of nouns and verbs

like a whirlwind of change

these letters spell the thoughts

of minds evolved to think

and report facts back to boss

here, in an open world

where flies the dust of change

we find restitution

in words thus re-arranged

cannot give to the giver

much more than we have done

for in an underlying thought

he knows what we have spun

stories of our past

tales of our future deeds

garnishment of life

on all we can agree

freeze emotions for all time

let thoughts be translated then

into a world evolved from us

as simple mortal men

let them know all we were

let them like us some

let them know we tried our best

as we from danger run

let them see what we were

back when we were young

and how we gathered wisdom

when older we'd become

trade our sincerity

for that truth of which we knew

let them see our tears of pain

when success we couldn't view

hopefully they will exist

if we don't destroy their seed

for if we continue on this path

we'll be devolved by greed

Sir - by Bob Atkinson

Sir

(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

Sir, can we sit and talk

so I can give you my concerns

about this life

and all its worth

no, not for something profound

just for my own device

to keep me centered in my life

satisfied and soothed by pride

thank you

softly, I see the scene, displays a dream

velvet in its touch, smooth, sweetly draped

across my eyes visible, told with pride

as if a work of art derived from emotion

prevailing winds keep this life

upon an edge, as if a knife

whispering go on, keep your mind

centered on your dreams

brave in your leaning

toward your constant dreaming

all arranged so elegant

from dusk to dawn visible in effect

then, during the night

dreams fold as if so frightened

afraid to show their openness

asleep or under sheepskin carpets

dormant

Sir, if you will pretend

that my meaning has recompense

can use some support

thank you for all your help

I'll sleep now

Statesmanship - by Bob Atkinson

Statesmanship

(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

Dwight D. Eisenhower

"... we hold it to be the first task of statesmanship to develop the stength that will deter the forces of aggression and promote the conditions of peace ..."

Dwight D. Eisenhower

here in that time of crisis

those wayward days of mud

when those who would be powerful

gain fashion with use of gun

not seeds of perfect charity

no love do they possess

just overriding purpose

by thumping of their chests

here in our development

nature has our crossroads made

do we digress to the point

where progress reverses trend

back to a time when people lived

a life so badly blessed

with slavery, toil and pestilence

given to their masters' whims

or do we define the nature

of progress to be made

a simple organizing statement

which carries to the grave

all we seek of accomplishment

all love grown for our friends

no enemies designated

we're all just mortal men

so first we can define

the void of useful souls

that underlying demon

we can't allow to grow

when some seek to gain power

by force or use of gun

intimidation, recklessness

they need to understand

society cannot fathom

such willful negligence

needs of the many for peace

herein takes precedence

Sound Turned to Silence - by Bob Atkinson

Sound Turned to Silence

(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

Oceans

we all, in our own way

struggle through pursuit deranged

broadcasting our thought processes

in that in life of little gain

how much snaps your memory

to where you hear my tune

and sift your own experience

to drive home my good moods

how much of who I am

rubs right off on you

am I just noise in your cabin

as you ignore my attitude

silence knifes the book pages

as if cutting sentences in half

spewing waste out through a gate

and pulling shards of glass

silence feeds the open echoes

trundles through my past

and forms that open crust

of my ocean as I laugh

silence fills my need for clarity

non-ambiguous in its tone

the world defined by nature

or total lack thereof

Songs of Louis Capart - by Bob Atkinson

Songs of Louis Capart

(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

Louis Capart
Video 

simple phrases satisfy

although messages pass me by

deep within the voice of sentiment

moves a heart toward contentment

driving again down a road

simple farms of crops unknown

to Dijon up from Paris

could have been just anyplace

City of Light still inspires

six story limit gives up an aura

expanding possibilities for space

room for sidewalk dining tables

Treff am Rex written on pages

a story told of feckless craving

someday bright screen will show

how heart's desire grows and grows

Capart's voice transcends my mind

could be from any decade past

language used to paint the sun

drives in toward all meanings of

past good times or future fun

satisfaction sipping a coffee cup

successful endeavor or busted run

no matter, has all been fun

no matter now, all will wait

for this album to run its pace

settled feelings of quiet grace

all bodes well, no wild cast rage

thank you Capart for morning mood

of my time within mind's groove

language meaning escapes my thought

yet this feeling ever locks

me into awareness of satisfaction

allowed this morning from reaction

to words describing your desire

to entertain with heart filled fire

Gibberish - by Bob Atkinson

Gibberish

(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

Gibberish

ten thousand lay within his grasp

that serious deportment lapse

how could he soothe his wicked soul

without announcing firm fixed goals

so many here within this time

so many gone devoid of crimes

task of interacting well

begins to fault his open self

herein this sad tale of woe

here lies quick wit of those

who sail seas calm, no wind to push

their everlasting comic book

no, can't shove that form into

a volume small with compact tool

to change in size a scheme so deep

requires rest and extra sleep

all is nonsense if not related

to the real or initiated

tell you true this can be done

for purpose of grabbing ........

The Fault of Social Training - by Bob Atkinson

The Fault of Social Training

(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

Oliver Goldsmith

Goldsmith devoted paragraphs

to the weakness of our kind

in bringing up our youth

sending them to circumcise

all demons of disorder

all thoughts brought into

a mind with application

of respect for monies few

philosophy tears the heart out

of ambition to build again

out of nothing something greater

than we had with empty hands

empty hands no longer afflict

our sons view of themselves

when books they read of simple deeds

take the place of industry's challenge

my son did not have fire

in his head for accomplishment

no wish to work his hardest

for himself or for the man

it did not phase him dearly

that in short life he needed to

grasp every opportunity

to those mountains move

my fault, I do believe now

put books there in his hand

in open disdain for entertainment

as an alternative to seeking fame

so when I charge myself with hurt

my hurt comes from within

good intentions don't overcome

what's driven into heads

Duplicity - by Bob Atkinson

Duplicity

(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

 Louis XIV of France

"... the extent of falseness of which he was capable is surprising, when we consider how limited was his intelligence ..." France Under Regency

duplicity of purpose, deed

to us has become adverse

seen as an overarching putrid retch

in not giving respect for thoughts reversed

our people desire courtesy

not storms of simple hate

when one believes in this

as a group we cannot take

an idea as held within the heart

held back by indecision

and future vision failed

crime of a cloud cast vision

no, give me something to believe

that doesn't oppose my memory

of mamma's purest dreams

house built next to an apple tree

not all believe the same thing

so what's the matter with that?

as long as disagreement

doesn't result in violent spats

vile, viscous decomposition

of good intent displayed

by an unraveled monarch

applies actions destined for decay

to those who value good in us

for morality to prevail

let us give boot to monarchs

who try to cross our trail

with lies of fact or fiction

a single purpose to erode

our will to combat destruction

of safety in our homes

for all who come to these shores

to all who work so hard

we pay respect for efforts given

hats tipped when passing farms

we see our country as a place

for freedom to discharge

an organized creation

which cannot lies absorb

in time of future need

in time of energies enormous

we'll build a fabric for us all to

sit and contemplate accomplishment

where the words

not for him, nor her, but me

have no settled place

a home for us all

built with style, the finest grace

all treated by the mass

as equal in potential gain

but not given anything

not earned or needing repay

School & Scholars - by Bob Atkinson

School & Scholars

(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

Harvard University, DM

drag us through that institution

one which sends us to the grind

of absorption, mass confusion

intellect, determined kind

why should we this journey make

why count new candles on our cake

why fill our nights with dim light

on pages not so often bright

why study what's been donated

to posterity, postulated

why fly toward some lofty goal

why sweeten all facts we know

when fact worship becomes the norm

before each and every dawn

we find puzzlement abates

discussion ended, new thoughts not made

a person sees himself in light

of white and black, super sized

not assuming new ideas

of those opposed to one's ideals

moral to this simple story

one vaguely crafted with allegory

here in this place I place

a challenge to the well disgraced

think of all you've been taught

the manner of which it's been brought

ritual settings synthesized

to mold your mind to their way of life

and who are they who poke at you

and prick your thoughts with attitude

are they the cream of nature's crop

or are they just mindless dogma mongers

Fifty Years Ago - by Bob Atkinson

Poem of the Month, December 2013

Yesterday,

When I Was Young

Poemwriter: Herbert Kretzmer

Herbert Krtezmer

seems the love I've known has always been

the most destructive kind

guess, that's why now I feel so old

before my time

yesterday when I was young

the taste of life was sweet

as rain upon my tongue

I teased at life as if it

were a foolish game

the way the evening breeze

may tease a candle flame

the thousand dreams I dreamed

the splendid things I planned

I'd always built to last

on weak and shifting sand

I lived by night and shunned

the naked light of day

and only now I see

how the years ran away

yesterday, when I was young

so many happy songs

were waiting to be sung

so many wild pleasures

lay in store for me

and so much pain my

dazzled eyes refused to see

I ran so fast that time

and youth at last ran out

I never stopped to think

what life was all about

and every conversation

I can now recall

concerned itself with me

and nothing else at all

yesterday, the moon was blue

and every crazy day

brought something new to do

I used my magic age

as if it were a wand

and never saw the waste

and emptiness beyond

the game of love I played

with arrogance and pride

and every flame I lit

too quickly, quickly died

the friends I made all seemed

somehow to drift away

and only I am left on stage

to end the play

there are so many songs

in me that won't be sung

I feel the bitter taste of tears

upon my tongue

the time has come for me

to pay for

yesterday, when I was young

Fifty Years Ago

(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

heard a song played on ceiling speakers

while dining at that special place

lyrics fervent in their meaning

about how adults could at him rage

didn't know his mind of reason

understood his feelings not

couldn't hold a candle to him

in depth of inner thought

papa kept him from his passion

Mary that sweetness imbued

with all his inner strength

to work hard for a car to use

let him wander aimlessly

down school halls so late to class

picking up where he left off

homework's not finished in his bag

many yells and screams at him

by folks not in the know

about the latest dance step

or what's good to wear of clothes

driven, his mind by hormones

dripping sweat down from his brow

while playing full court basketball

in front of the hometown crowd

left him prideful and aware

of his importance there that night

how could they see him as the one

who never turns out the lights

or cleans his room with passion

or finishing a plate of food

while contemplating sadness

one of his many moods

this kid who loved to nothing do

now laments these same hard trials

as the song was written years ago

about his teenage child

The Poet - by Bob Atkinson

The Poet

(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

The Poet

thrill of indecision made

when words don't flow like in the glade

fumbling over choice of meaning

transgression mixed with emotional feelings

talent, that elusive spice

lies dormant when no words suffice

to exhale meaning toward the public

setting norms within a subject

here and there we supplement

that life force created from existence

drag forth into our combination

tales of wispy conflagration

yet, when all is said and done

we track our usage to number one

that most important task we do

having feelings for me and you

gives one purpose here in time

sets memories together, some might rhyme

some simply sit and agitate

some drive us to open another gate

history accumulates

emotional ties in a fragile state

settles upon those worn out troughs

frees our souls to move just onward

acquiring energy to motivate

onward, upward, such great agitation

feeding upon what has past

giving to the future something lasting

Phoenix - by Bob Atkinson

Phoenix

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

Ovid

Sulmona has a son

who described to us a beast

that bird of dragon character

long lived in tall oak trees

when long life had ended

when breath has stilled in heart

a newly born young version

arises at light of dawn

Ovid my thanks profusely

for rising above the dirt

an epic form of poetry

not of convention's mirth

you breathe into my being

that wondrous form of story

which flies as though a Phoenix

from ashes bringing glory

glory of our present times

documenting those follies broad

which shun away our future

success not to be bought

from these golden ashes

of pain manufactured by our lust

identity of purpose fills our soul

follows beyond with sacred trust