The Compulsion of Barbarity - by Bob Atkinson

The Compulsion

of Barbarity

(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

some see living in their dreams

a different world upon

which we rely

to carry ourselves toward dawn

some see peace and justice

as goals for which to rise

toward that institution

of derelict disguise

me, I find unusual

a soul who cannot see

simplicity of our germ of life

when we set it free

free to wander openly

beyond constraints of pride

free to send our children

toward the other side

free to search our feelings

for all who walk near us

and free to find sincerity

as a well defined plus

while jumping on those teachings

which never were that good

for faith in understanding

tells some what's absolute

absolutes have no place in life

leftovers from those times

when life carried less of value

than a pocket full of dimes

The Critic - Art and Poetry

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

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

The Art of Poetry vs The Discipline of Poetry - by Bob Atkinson

The Art of Poetry

vs

The Discipline of Poetry

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

Encyclopedia

Fine Art has its alter ego

Art D'cor which also breaks

these two ideas into factions

one primitive, one more staid

Fine Art means something learned

art constructed from the past

having trained in master's techniques

meaning that will ever last

Art D'cor lies more transitory

fills merely a momentary need

more for pleasant decoration than

further advancement of the breed

in literature begins an era bold

of truly differentiated tastes

in a time of new beginnings

of newness that will rage

Poetry as an art leans

toward the wispy, mindless tripe

thoughts without complex emotions

guided by throttled emptiness

no purpose in its dreaming

no research done for its themes

no imparting information gathered

beyond simple illusion of mindless motif

Discipline of Poetry

on the other hand

takes our minds into a world

of culture broadly expanded

always purpose in those words

always thought deep in what seems

complex exploration of existence

researched flowing through watered streams

that tell us what we didn't know

what a writer knew not too

when he began his assemblage

of words that wanted to

expand our understanding

of this, that, or the other

setting us on a journey to

correctness, not toward blunder

he sets out to explore a point

be it theory or merely fact

and takes us on a journey meaty

never wanting to look back

he opens books of reference

gives those notes there for our usage

to let us quickly acclimate toward

understanding an idea's currency

here we've gotten something good

what pushes on our hearts

total construction of our world

observed at least until we're dust

"Blowin' Me Away” by Bob Atkinson

"Blowin' Me Away”

(c)2010 Bob Atkinson

don't blow me away

don't stop all this fun

I'm not a felon or a soldier

or someone on the run

had good vibes
in the city

could feel the gritty kitty

a pick-up game

on some strange lot

would new friends make
for me

sad sack there
watching my flair
bets were made
bread paid
spun around and proud

shot, dunk, points
money in the pocket
trinkets here, no cash there
I'll take your locket

simple was
the rush to hoop
ball gently laid


gimme five
oh yes behind
we're champions
for the day

Firestone to Washington

was my range of motion

it didn't matter
where I played

were lots of folks
who liked my jokes

up from the city

empty lots not pretty
tags on walls
near
brick building tall
proof of ownership in paint
no trespassing on the gate

some would rest their bones
some had left their homes
others would search for things
wire carts they would bring

homeless they did toil

hard upon their souls

to live another day
and maybe 

even bum a smoke

with their neighbors

they would talk and joke

maybe eat a meal

maybe lie in a bed

of cardboard shards

tin panels large

or freeway covering heads

someday in a field

of green clover or grass

they would forever sleep

beneath their river overpass

where needs met

and no frets

about being weaker
than the rest
and of course

as prey of the best

thoughts of good times

when they were young

life new to them each day

an adventure sweet

many games play

young and innocent fools

future seemed
to brightly gleam
then comes

the saddest kind of gloom

great fun always to run

wanting to get older

brightened up their days

bantering with

brothers, sisters and mother

but now it's different

hearts in a mess and spoiled

future soiled

control not theirs

they weren't really bad ones

only somewhat broken

direction unclear

maybe even hopeless

they gave up jobs

which frowned their mom's

and couldn't do no show

without a needle in their arm

or a pipe for smoke to blow

they didn't see out in our city

we sang and danced and played

did the drugs and bad stuff hard

which took our future away

some took to forty-fives

some took to thirty-eights

me, I took to having fun

on the street a dollar to make

don't blow me away

don't stop all this fun

I'm not a felon or a soldier

or someone on the run

I'm someone
who is older now
by luck I'm still around

I'm myself, my me, who else?

danger's a sad old thing

don't keep me from doin'

all the things that I like best

don't let me die

on pavement lie

with blood all over

my face

Contact Bob Atkinson

“A SOLDIER TO THE FRONT” by Bob Atkinson

“A SOLDIER TO THE FRONT”  

© 2007 Bob Atkinson

A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN 
KNOWN QUITE WELL

IN ALL THE RIGHT CIRCLES
A TRUE SOUTHERN BELLE

SHE DROVE THROUGH PARADE GROUNDS

HER PORSCHE WAS TOPLESS

SUCH A FINE LOOKING WOMAN

NO ONE WOULD STOP HER

THE SOLDIERS SHE ADMIRED
SO PRIM AND SO PROPER

IN MANLY ATTIRE
UNIFORMS SPOTLESS

SHE SAW THEM SHARP
THEIR CARBINES DID MOVE

SWIFTLY TOGETHER
LED BY THEIR BOOTS

THEIR CHINS UP HIGH
THEIR PRIDE SHOWING THROUGH

AS THEY MARCHED TO THE CADENCE

OF LIEUTENANTS WELL SCHOOLED

HUP, TWO, THREE, FOUR

YOU ARE FIGHTING MEN OF LORE

HUP, TWO, THREE, FOUR

THE CHOICE OF WHERE ISN'T YOURS

HUP, TWO, THREE, FOUR

THE PEOPLE VOTE AND IT IS DONE

YOUR ONLY FRIEND IS YOUR GUN

HUP, TWO, THREE, FOUR

GOODBYE SWEET LAND

OF LIBERTY AND STRENGTH

IT IS FONDLY WE BID YOU

LET NOT DEATH BRING US BACK

GOODBYE SWEET LAND 
OF LOVED ONES APLENTY

WHICH HOLDS OUR FUTURE 
AND THE PROMISE OF MANY

SITTING SWEETLY
ON THE CABROLET

SHE SAW HER WILLIAM 
MARCH PAST THE CANNON

HEAD NOT MOVED
SHE SAW HIS EYES

WITH LOVE GIVE HER SADLY
A TEARFUL GOODBYE

HUP, TWO, THREE, FOUR

YOU ARE FIGHTING MEN OF LORE

HUP, TWO, THREE, FOUR

THE CHOICE OF WHERE ISN'T YOURS

HUP, TWO, THREE, FOUR

THE PEOPLE VOTE AND IT IS DONE

YOUR ONLY FRIEND IS YOUR GUN

UP THE STEEP RAMP
BATALLIONS AROSE

INTO THE MOUTHS 
OF WINGED MONSTERS DROVE

FORMATIONS OF SOULS
TO SIT AND REFLECT

IN FULL PACKS AND CLOTHES
NO SIGNS OF NEGLECT

LET BATTLES BE FOUGHT
AND STORIES TO BE TOLD

OF HOW THEIR LOW SPIRITS AROSE

WHEN A WOMAN OF BEAUTY
SAT THERE AND WAVED

TO EACH ONE DIRECTLY
AS THEY WENT TO THEIR GRAVE
HUP, TWO, THREE............FOUR

Contact Bob Atkinson