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Sunday, April 20, 2014

Balleto - by Bob Atkinson


Balleto
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson
she stood there en pointe
as if a statue made
to engage all hormonal flows
of men who watched her fade

into a somber lifeless body
of sweetness carried through
to movements Enrico taught her
some abrupt, some flowing smoothly
here on polished marble floors
arms spread out as tufted plumes
delightful in her poses practiced
as if Taglioni had returned
in that empty room this night
Sylphide was danced again for lust
beneath a hunter moon red glow
she to the light looked up

that body of the woman girl
danced for none around
yet soared up toward bright stars
never touching ground

a ribbon twisted in the wind
as sister to the dancer
both floated feather light
paying homage to the master
 Chris Dellorco
"en Pointe"
she made a point, then retired
to feel a heart beat fast
giving herself broad satisfaction
that she'd done her best in dance

Sunday, April 6, 2014

Poem of the Month - May 2014 - Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road
Poemwriter: 
Bernie Taupin

when are you gonna come down
when are you going to land
I should have stayed on the farm
I should have listened to my old man

you know you can't hold me forever
I didn't sign up with you
I'm not a present for your friends to open
this boy's too young to be singing the blues

so goodbye yellow brick road
where the dogs of society howl
you can't plant me in your penthouse
I'm going back to my plow

back to the howling old owl in the woods
hunting the horny black toad
oh, I've finally decided my future lies
beyond the yellow brick road

what do you think you'll do then?
I bet they'll shoot down the plane
it'll take you a carton of vodka and tonics
to set you on your feet again

maybe you'll get a replacement
there's plenty like me to be found
mongrels who ain't got a penny
sniffing for tidbits like you on the ground

so goodbye yellow brick road
where the dogs of society howl
you can't plant me in your penthouse
I'm going back to my plow

back to the howling old owl in the woods
hunting the horny black toad
oh, I've finally decided my future lies
beyond the yellow brick road
Commentary:
Such great feelings of a situation, real or imagined
this poem deserves the acclaim it received
and showed fully that poetry can be extremely popular
if it's recognized as song lyrics (poetry's original form)

Pink Flamingo
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

words of feeling flowed that day
at the hotel by blue sea reaches
a penthouse wall of glass
overlooked white sand beaches

Bernie tried to tell him
how he felt deep in his heart
his friend said "understood"
said "we'll never want to part"

in that mild and wondrous land
of people with much energy
the two constructed beauty
Bernie wrote, Elton played the keys

the fight was with professionals
not these friends of different roots
so to France they soon departed
for different sounding tools

no thoughts of independence
they relied upon each other
to fill broad dreams of popularity
endless drama herein sequestered


feelings laid down on the song
truths herein displayed with skill
bore a simple attitude professed
 of frustration's conflicted zeal

Bernie told us feelings deep
when one sees a slight develop
to injure one just inside the ribs
a placid form of judgement

made all of our hearts melt
two friends working together on art
sending emotions out on broadcast waves
describing drama caused by hardship

took us in our inner thoughts
to a place there on the sand
feelings laid bare with energy
documented by the band

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

If I'd Played it Different - by Bob Atkinson

If I'd Played it Different
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

if I'd played it different
would my game of life revolve
around success, no real regrets
was my walking path unsound

if I'd ran the flag up high
and stomped upon the ground
like a large black stallion
one of a thousand pounds

would my sense of urgency
have solved those puzzles quick
could my happy nature have been
 changed to thin from thick

who knows how life travels
who knows what lies ahead
when all our paths diverge
'cause of voices in our heads

to cry over what could have been
ignores the simple fact
that risk of failure sweetens life
it's not a burden on our backs

Friday, March 28, 2014

Future - by Bob Atkinson

Future
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

future bold, future cold
what will we think of time
when we're forgiven for our faults
our simple living crime

ingrained in obscurity's trough
purpose hidden, unclear
no everlasting meaning
in a thread of vapor here

never feeling satisfied
becomes our solid state
blending need for action
into a constant pace

fighting for that power stand
to give us meaning true
an underlying satisfaction
of egocentric acts imbued

how can good meaning percolate
toward some useful fate
by simple fact of circumstance
facing us toward open gates

without some guidance by those
who have walked this path before
and stumbled onto processes
which open up life's door

the door to everlasting being
something not so easy to obtain
when all our world's a wisp of gas
tending quickly to dissipate

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Big Iron - Poemwriter: Marty Robbins - Poem of the Month - April 2014


Big Iron
Poemwriter: Marty Robbins
to the town of Agua Fria rode a stranger one fine day
hardly spoke to folks around him didn't have too much to say
no one dared to ask his business no one dared to make a slip
for the stranger there among them had a big iron on his hip
big iron on his hip

it was early in the morning when he rode into the town
he came riding from the south side slowly lookin' all around
he's an outlaw loose and running came the whisper from each lip
and he's here to do some business with the big iron on his hip
big iron on his hip

in this town there lived an outlaw by the name of Texas Red
many men had tried to take him and that many men were dead
he was vicious and a killer though a youth of twenty four
and the notches on his pistol numbered one an nineteen more
one and nineteen more

now the stranger started talking made it plain to folks around
was an Arizona ranger wouldn't be too long in town
he came here to take an outlaw back alive or maybe dead
and he said it didn't matter he was after Texas Red
after Texas Red

wasn't long before the story was relayed to Texas Red
but the outlaw didn't worry men that tried before were dead
twenty men had tried to take him twenty men had made a slip
twenty one would be the ranger with the big iron on his hip
big iron on his hip

the morning passed so quickly it was time for them to meet
it was twenty past eleven when they walked out in the street
folks were watching from the windows every-body held their breath
they knew this handsome ranger was about to meet his death
about to meet his death

there was forty feet between them when they stopped to make their play
and the swiftness of the ranger is still talked about today
Texas Red had not cleared leather fore a bullet fairly ripped
and the ranger's aim was deadly with the big iron on his hip
big iron on his hip

it was over in a moment and the folks had gathered round
there before them lay the body of the outlaw on the ground
oh he might have went on living but he made one fatal slip
when he tried to match the ranger with the big iron on his hip
big iron on his hip


Commentary:
so much emotion driven into a poem
as to fill the mind with visions of an era past
with dreams of gallant deeds of men of arms


the poem depicts an event which
may, or may not have happened this way
in reality, an Arizona Ranger was killed
in a situation similar to this in Mexico
chasing an outlaw, but finding futility in the effort


the poem has purpose:
to document emotions of an event


Forged Iron
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson


the pistol seemed so innocent
as it lay there on the ground
had not an idea even now
of sequence, event and sounds


a man lay dying with bad wounds
holes in his mind as he
ebbed a personality
down gutters of a street


egos had been driving actions
not reflex or clear mind
just who was best in this contest
of quickness, fast good timing


mattered not to them who's best
mattered that they stood up tall
if death be a price to pay
they had their price on call


so years would pass and fade away
these times of violent deaths
and people would not understand
good efforts of the past


when all who looked to satisfy
their need to stand up tall
lay up the hill in six foot graves
having died so young for not

Monday, February 17, 2014

The Poet - by Bob Atkinson

The Poet
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

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

Monday, February 10, 2014

Poetry, Word Pictures - by Bob Atkinson

Poetry, Word Pictures
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson
one's eyes bequeath a sterile look
at what, we don't really know of content
description lacking, not imbued
with something more than metaphor's illusion

language on the other hand
lays down the wisdom of mortal man
selling us one train of thought
by so many with their red blood bought

herein lies a tale of those
who listened or ignored their ghosts
lessons learned with much great danger
laid down on paper by unknown strangers

take this gift of many lives
adopt ideas, reject a premise, persevere inside
learn from mistakes of lifetimes past
keep yourself on a solid true path

tell your tales so others might
avoid pitfalls of darkened blight
prosper honestly, no thief's consequences
when life lived fully with projected honesty

carry on to a new clean page
without that burden of useless rage
set yourself a goal with merit
to use ideas of honor we all inherit

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Poem of the Month - March 2014 - MacArthur Park


MacArthur Park

Poemwriter: Jimmy Webb










  



spring was never waiting for us, girl
it ran one step ahead
as we followed in the dance


between the parted pages and were pressed
in love's hot, fevered iron
like a striped pair of pants

MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark
all the sweet, green icing flowing down
someone left the cake out in the rain


I don't think that I can take it
'cause it took so long to bake it
and I'll never have that recipe again
oh, no!

I recall the yellow cotton dress
foaming like a wave
on the ground around your knees
the birds, like tender babies in your hands
and the old men playing checkers by the trees

there will be another song for me
for I will sing it
there will be another dream for me
someone will bring it

I will drink the wine while it is warm
and never let you catch me looking at the sun


and after all the loves of my life
after all the loves of my life
you'll still be the one

I will take my life into my hands and I will use it
I will win the worship in their eyes and I will lose it


I will have the things that I desire
and my passion flow like rivers through the sky

and after all the loves of my life
after all the loves of my life
I'll be thinking of you
And wondering why
Commentary:
in the sweet dreams of a Cantata
with orchestra background
this poem drives the theme of love
successful, and love failed
while searching and finding
the heart broken lover
lamenting a failed love
with similes and metaphors abundant
the poem strips the reader
of all connection with the real world
while attaching the mind to pain of loss

My Version: 

 
Emotional Literal Tomes
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson
have written words before on
this subject some have blessed
how poetry fills the heart
with endless emotional progress

some give the subject passing grades
some give it no real thought
some think they know its content
see poetry as fully rotten

well, to some extent I do believe
that enough has be done
to give the genre a bad rap
with words of nonsense rung

rung from that tree of indecision
like a person in the park
who knows not which path to take
how to get home before the dark

they pen words of nonsense
taking the mantle for their name
of "poet" of the highest order
without good words to claim

not only are their words so frail
but their stories often walk
off in that useless direction
only they would think was smart

so, let's add to the "do's" of poetry
that requirement firmly instilled
emotional aspects must poetry contain
without which the story lies insincere

also, must refrains contain
a literal view of life
to point us toward our fate
or lay bare our inner strife

tomes must within these walls
sense passion of our being
stories telling those incidents
of which we feel have meaning

Sunday, February 2, 2014

Landfill - by Bob Atkinson

Landfill
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson
saw a three page dissertation
read every word he said
about the art of poetry
how to write on paper with pen

he seemed to know each corner
of this craft on which he wrote
bedazzled my imagination
so firmly, over and over

watched an interview with awe
that man could talk a lot
about the words of poetry
about his inner thoughts

when came time to read their words
the ones which meant a lot
came not awe and inspiration
came trite junk not worthy of

reading or repeating
or remembering concepts told
cannot in my wildest dreams
think they knew good what they had told

both these fellows were sincere
in their efforts true and strong
yet each had not a clue
about these words upon

which we rely to guide us true
to remember tales of woe
or concepts of the living
emotions sincerely flowed

Friday, January 31, 2014

The Critic - by Bob Atkinson

The Critic
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson
he stayed away from meaning
thought not duty to tell that tale
the poet had garnered all his wisdom
penned good thoughts into a shell

he stayed with purpose elegant
left those trials exposed outside
and flaunted lack of dignity
in a moment of repositioned pride

one critic drove into grains beyond
what was conceived as beginning text
within those concepts of devotion
to informal language meanings restless

was the poet literate?
was he well rehearsed?
did he follow what had been
good language for his verse?

did he show broad purpose there
or did he just write fluff
those oft repeated feelings
not really such good stuff

did he ask a question real
or did he just succumb
to character produced by habit
lacking purpose with words so dumb

here's the good part of this tale
why we should ponder meaning
key question asks what's produced
when we write those words of feelings

knowledge doesn't flow from us
flows from beyond the living
from past lives we build our tale
from taking until giving

we accept what has gone before
construct this foundation strong
then give to that next generation
a building tall and long

so if I say your stuff is junk
that meaning carries within
good instruction verified to
add goodness to tales explicit

a force we hold inside our being
to produce our heart's content
carries forth the world before us
lays out those tales of conquest

sends our minds into a state
of backward in time dreaming
then gives meaning to our children
when we depart this scenery

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Stability of Life - by Bob Atkinson

Stability of Life
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

we look into a darkened sky
to see a bright ball rise up high
we think this object's so serene
steady movement laid for quiet dreams

yet, if rocking motion made some sounds
we, in our naive state would lay confounded
noting harsh movement directed past us
toward our home, this angry planet

we sit so still in easy chairs
no noise of thunder, no raging flares
how can we imagine such energy
directed at our quiet serenity

perhaps expanded animation
reflects this planet we habituate
as we learn to live with given station
yet yearn to rage in retaliation

that inner throbbing of moon's gyrations
fills our hearts with ostentation
that oh so energetic twist of fate
flowing deeply near an abysmal state

all this motion drives us onward
assuming destiny's flowered carcass
tilling soil toward permanent description
or
dead ended ballads never heard nor visioned

Enlightenment - by Bob Atkinson

Enlightenment
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

somber should our mood evolve
when enlightened we see ourselves
talent shown through all our fog
of distant calling herein resolved

inventive spirit tables lust
science tells us what we must
in crystal visions propagate
upon our future's brightness state

let this lesson sink in mind
change of any structural kind
carries costs associated with
false effort, wrong deportment

in good purpose we might fail
truth has its own vapor trail
which hides the end result of effort
to those choosing this selected method


Monday, January 20, 2014

Poem of the Month - February 2014 - Words - Poemwriters: Barry Gibb, Maurice Gibb, Robin Gibb


Words
Poemwriters: Barry Gibb, Maurice Gibb, Robin Gibb

smile an everlasting smile
a smile can bring you
near to me

don't ever let me find you gone
cause that would
bring a tear to me

this world has lost it's glory
lets start a brand new story
now, my love

right now
there'll be no other time
and I can show you how, my love

talk in everlasting words
and dedicate them all to me

and I will give you all my life
I'm here if you
should call to me

you think that I don't even mean
a single word I say

it's only words
and words are all I have
to take your heart away

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Phoenix - by Bob Atkinson

Phoenix
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson
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

Friday, December 6, 2013

Poem of the Month - January 2014 - She Can't Find Her Keys - Poemwriters: Roy Alfred, Wally Gold

Poem of the Month - January 2014


 She Can't Find Her Keys

Poemwriters:  Roy Alfred, Wally Gold
when I take my baby home at night
I can't wait to kiss and hold her tight
but by then the time begins to drag
when she starts searching through her bag

she says just a moment please
I can't find my keys
and here's what happens while I'm waiting for her squeeze

she pulls out
lipstick, powder, bubble gum and bobby pins
but she can't find her keys

 curlers, tweezers, cold creme and candy bars
but she can't find her keys

nail file, school books, an autograph of Fabian
she can find with ease
but I'm standing here waiting for a goodnight kiss
cause she can't find her keys

sha da sha da sha da 
she can't find her keys

I give up go home and go to sleep
but next night my date with her I keep
walk her home we start to kiss and then
it all starts happening again

she says just a moment please
I can't find my keys
and heres what happens while I'm waiting for her squeeze

she pulls out
gumdrops, glasses, magazines and tangerines
but she can't find her keys

 Presley records, hair spray and jelly beans
but she can't find her keys

eyebrow pencils, perfume po
tato chips and portable batteries
I but I'm standing here waiting for a goodnight kiss
cause she can't find her keys
I'm standing here waiting for a goodnight kiss
cause she can't find her keys


she pulls out
frozen custard, piano bench, pr
etzels and a monkey wrench
tennis racket, army cots, pumpkin seeds and coffee pots
watermelons, goal post, a rabbits foot and French toast
fire hydrant, ash can, TV set, electric fan
but she can't find her keys!

Observate - by Bob Atkinson

Observiate
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

from the outside looking in
or from the inside looking out
toward the bottom or the top
left side, right side through the heart

each of us has our way
to see an issue, observiate
which means to judge while looking at
something round, or something flat

another sees something different
a bended corner or lid for flipping
colors hued in some strange tone
lacking texture or smooth as bone

here in our world imagined
we sometime garner lack of passion
or, with ever knowing eyes
see what isn't while telling lies

we Observiate

Thursday, December 5, 2013

Artistic Creation - by Bob Atkinson

Artistic Creation
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson
many objects strive to gain
attention in the artistic game
setting themselves up as central
artistic cores for painted subjects

birds, trees, animals
raging wild snorting bulls
buildings, bridges, royal halls
religions sacred, meant to awe

all these have good meaning
drawing artists' artistic feelings
to the fore of creative minds
standing still for painted lines

yet
when we sit down and ponder
didn't create that scene so wonderful
didn't make the river bend
shallow brook, or sweet red hen

aren't gods who have that power
so how can we claim due honor
without adding something creative
else our talent won't ring true

false talent beyond our measure
tallies points deducted summarily
by those who carry on their drama
claiming that which they do not own

talent casts an angry wave
onto the canvas if not made
with the efforts long and sincere
many critiques voiced by peers

simple forms made to shock
no close looks within those blocks
no lines of worry on the brow
or angry man breathing hard

tell me now and firmly why
graffiti is an art of yours
simple forms and simple lines
do not fine art make

they only tell stories of
your backwards feelings
lack of love
for those you share life with
truly common simple breath

making ugly our environment
taking from us all our pride in
what we've built, what we've made
through deviant cultures on parade

ingrained elegance
that which you do not know
powerful feelings inward hopes
of living a life civilized
beauty ever by our side

if you've not shown emotion
can't claim directness or devotion
need to shrink within your lark
can't hold good form if not good art

in my mind no subject can
rise higher in importance than
history of our sweet green land
or brown earth areas sparse of man

water conquered by design
perseverance, endless trials
confusion of our fellow man
in how to live in tree lined lands

can't freeze ingrained feelings
better than with artistic notions
trained with an eagle eye
pouncing ever upon emotional ties

seeing dates, times and places
brightened eyes and furrowed faces
stances proud, kneeling, crying
solid hope and violent dying

tell me if my idea hits walls
or
can we line these hallowed halls
with that which we feel inside
always driving through our pride

with time set still, a frozen crystal
down below, our deepest thoughts
flying firmly beyond light's vision
toward that which defines good mission