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Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Greenfields - Poem of the Month - January 2015


Greenfields

- poemwriters: Gilkyson, Terry - Miller, Frank - Dehr, Richard.

Once there were green fields kissed by the sun
Once there were valleys where rivers used to run
Once there were blue skies with white clouds high above
Once they were part of an everlasting love
We were the lovers who strolled through green fields
Green fields are gone now, parched by the sun
Gone from the valleys where rivers used to run
Gone with the cold wind that swept into my heart
Gone with the lovers who let their dreams depart
Where are the green fields that we used to roam
I'll never know what made you run away
How can I keep searching when dark clouds hide the day
I only know there's nothing here for me
Nothing in this wide world, left for me to see
Still I'll keep on waiting until you return
I'll keep on waiting until the day you learn
You can't be happy while your heart's on the roam
You can't be happy until you bring it home
Home to the green fields and me once again
Commentary
a flow, a thought, a motion toward the unknown
this poem illustrates how poetry can affect the heart
much more than the established poetry of so called "masters"
poetry peaked in value in the last half of the 20th Century
and continues today to excel in the art of song lyrics


Brownfields of Today,
Greenfields of Tomorrow
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson
forever wandering over trails
left by others, stoic, wailing
travel up and over lands
first polished by wild, roving bands


here we think we're civilized
but time grew longer, circumscribed
by those efforts heretofore
produced by men who wanted more


then came an era of satiation
a pause, a stop, in goal creation
people standing on their porch
thinking not of worthy goals


how can we in our resolve
transition toward that future calm
a day when green fields cover over
graves of ancient warrior soldiers


peace, that elusive calm of man
which punctuates those wars of sin
that undulating fierceness of
greed for power causing fault


fault in our being, that of nature
compelled by want of procreation
something we can't do without
which ever creates in our hearts doubt


doubt we can be civilized
doubt we can well organize
doubt we can survive for long
with open hostility toward right and wrong

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Poe vs Reality or Revitalization of Poetry in the 21st Century - by Bob Atkinson

Poe vs Reality
or
Revitalization of Poetry
in the 21st Century
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

Poe's vision of poetry
demeaned a genre' shameful
arguing poetry functions merely
as a form of art time wasteful

well, here in my comfy chair
beg to differ with that man
couldn't be so far from truth
if he said he'd had three hands

one to write with laziness
one to scratch his head
one to turn large pages
of my poems about the man

poetry's not so simple
where in one breath you can compound
all past and future sentences
with something said profound

we must explore our history
what we thought of these events
we must describe our feelings
not only dates and times presented

we have so deep in our hearts
potential to explore
producing great good nations
where sea laps up to shore

have to, in these times of trouble
understand where trouble originates
does it come from circumstance
or does hurtful agitate

how can man hurt ones he loves
how can he not love mankind
how can he give his soul to devil
total uselessness of mind

how can we not learn from past events
how can we document our fears
how can we open up to treasures
produced throughout many years

tell you firmly I believe
we can start here in our time
to fully document our souls
with rhythm and with rhyme

Sunday, December 14, 2014

Poem of the Month - December 2014 - Theme From a Summer Place - poemwriter: MaxSteiner


Theme From a Summer Place
- poemwriter: MaxSteiner
there's a summer place
where it may rain or storm
yet I'm safe and warm

for within that summer place
your arms reach out to me
and my heart is free
from all care for it knows,

there are no gloomy skies
when seen through the eyes
of those who are blessed with love

and the sweet secret of
a summer place
is that it's anywhere
when two people share
all their hopes,
all their dreams,
all their love


there's a summer place
where it may rain or storm
yet I'm safe and warm

in your arms,

How to Get Your Poem Trashed

-->
How to Get Your 
Poem Trashed

At the risk of a bruised ego, e-mail your poem to: bob_saltzer@yahoo.com

You may, or may not get it analyzed.
Either way, there is no cost to you, or the public. 
  Be ready for some critical advice. Advice you may or may not feel is valid. Either way....your works are worked upon. Your energies elevated.....your taste berated.......try it and we'll do it to it.

Bob Atkinson

Saturday, December 13, 2014

Salon of Poetry - by Bob Atkinson

Salon of Poetry
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

they stood so detached from minds
on easels, boards of rhythm, rhyme
these penned tomes of lives began
with promise of a fruitful land

here in Pueblo Ancient
stars of language concentrated
to begin work on maturity of thought
in this world so much distraught

leadership in some cultured direction
not fully developed, yet progressing
toward a future harmony sincere
that tasteful nut devoid of fear

they stood proud in that hall of fame
their words professing honest gain
no simpleton's remarks had they
made in letters naive, profane

taken by us one and all
this beginning in that open hall
began as something quite sincere
reducing our most deadly fears

fears of social progress not
that struggle for just freedom's knot
a world with potential clearly defined
beyond our present state of mind

Thursday, December 11, 2014

For Annie - poemwriter: Edgar Allan Poe

For Annie
 - poemwriter:  Edgar Allan Poe
Thank Heaven! the crisis --
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last --
And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length --
But no matter! -- I feel
I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead --
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart: -- ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!

The sickness -- the nausea --
The pitiless pain --
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain --
With the fever called "Living"
That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated -- the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst: --
I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst: --

Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground --
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.

And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed --
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses --
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies --
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies --
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie --
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast --
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm --
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,
Now in my bed,
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead --
And I rest so contentedly,
Now in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead --
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead: --

But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie --
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie --
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
Words that shouldn't be in this poem:
"The" 25 times
"That" 9 times
"It" 6 times
Verb "to be" 6 times

This is the most redundant, sloppy poem have ever seen.  Where did he get his fame?  Certainly not from tripe like this.

 

For Annie
- poemwriter: Edgar Allan Poe, rewritten by Bob Atkinson
thank heaven! crisis gone
danger eroded by morning's dawn,
lingering sad illness over at last
fever called "living," conquered and passed

sadly, I know
am drained of my strength
no muscle I move
as I lie at full length


rest so easily
now, in my bed
that any beholder
might fancy me dead

might at first look think me consumed

moaning, groaning, an end life tune
dissipated now, that horrible throbbing
from sickness delivered by love of my darling

illness, nausea, pitiless pain
ceased, with that fever
which maddened my brain

a fever called "living"
that burdened my shame
of all hurtful tortures
brought extreme pain

has abated, this terrible torment of thirst
for medicine's river of one accursed
have drank of a water which quenches security
an order of pills left by "Doctor Blood Thirsty"

a brook flows with lullaby sound
a spring but few inches under sheet
from a cavern not far above my knees
bubbles down toward where I sit on my seat

and ah! let never be foolishly said in this life
my room 'tis gloomy, my bed squeezed so tight
for man never slept in a bed of desire
one must slumber in comfort of love's fire

my tantalized spirit here blandly reposes
never forgetting new fields of clover
old agitations or myrtles and roses
those vices of comfort one always supposes

for now, while quietly laying I fancy
a holier aroma about room of lilacs
rosemary, commingled with odorific delights
beautiful, puritan, white purple fragrants of spice

so lies happily bathing in many
a dream of truth, sweet beauty of Annie
drowned in curls, her hair so bright
she tenderly kissed me to my great delight


she fondly caressed my heart with her hope
I fell gently to sleep on her breast not alone
deeply I dream about heaven of her scent
as if home, not alone in my bed

when light was extinguished
she covered me warm,
she prayed to angels
please keep me from harm

to queen of angels
please shield me from death
gently holding me in her arms
as I rest

I lie so composed now in my bed
knowing love, that you fancy me ever again
I rest so contentedly all fears shed
with my love sleeping calmly here at my crib

you shudder to look at me, thinking me gone
but my heart shines brighter, not dead before dawn
stars in bright skies sparkle from Annie
glowing with light of my lover candy


thoughts of those blue eyes calm me to sleep
thank goodness worst over, my brain in a heap
now I'll recover my strength in short order
to again hold her near, right there on my shoulder

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

A Day - poemwriter: Emily Dickinson


A Day
- poemwriter: Emily Dickinson

I’ll tell you how the sun rose, —
A ribbon at a time.
The steeples swam in amethyst,
The news like squirrels ran.

The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun.
Then I said softly to myself,
“That must have been the sun!”

But how he set, I know not.
There seemed a purple stile
Which little yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while

Till when they reached the other side,
A dominie in gray
Put gently up the evening bars,
And led the flock away.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I’ll tell you how the sun rose, — ................ punctuation and capitalization,
................. in poetry, are problematic
                                                  ................. word "the" should be used rarely
A ribbon at a time.                                            ...........................................
The steeples swam in amethyst,                                            ................ "the" again
The news like squirrels ran.                                        ................. "the" again, again

The hills untied their bonnets,                              ............ "the" again, again, again
The bobolinks begun.                            ................. "the" again, again, again, again
Then I said softly to myself,                  ................ "the" again, again, again, again,
                                                                                      and again
“That must have been the sun!”                ........... "the" again, again, again, again,
                                                                            .......... again, and again

But how he set, I know not.                                                ...........................
There seemed a purple stile                                                   ...........................
Which little yellow boys and girls                                           ...........................
Were climbing all the while                                                    ...........................

Till when they reached the other side, ........... "the" again, again, again, again,
 ..                                                                          ......... again, again, and again
A dominie in gray                                              ........... huh? what's a dominie?
Put gently up the evening bars,         ............. "the" again, again, again, again,
.                                                               ........... again, again, again, and again
And led the flock away.                        ............. "the" again, again, again, again
                                                                   again, again, again, again,
                                                              and again
                                                               (you get the picture, again?)
commentary:

wispy, mindless and poorly written
yet has great power to describe sunset
counter to progress for the poetry genre'
because of it's ill formed structure

Re-written by Bob Atkinson

tell you how our sun arose
one ribbon at a time
steeples swam in amethyst
news, like squirrels ran in shine

hills untied their bonnets
bobolinks begun
said softly to myself
"that must have been our sun"

but, how he set I know not
seemed a purple stile
which little yellow boys and girls
climbed for a while

till, when they reached another side
a dominie in gray
put gently up evening bars
and led their flock away

Saturday, December 6, 2014

Uprooted - by Joey Satek


Uprooted
- poemwrtier - Joey Satek

We started out blind under the earth,
....................... I find capitalization and punctuation in poetry distracting
poetry needs to flow with rhythm, (rhyme not necessary), line should be re-written to eliminate need for the word "the" 
until we grew eyes pointed upward. ...................nice line
Born to see the shambles abandoned by those whose
..................................is "the" necessary?
violent actions for selfish needs
tore down the foundation
.................................there's "the" again
of the life we patiently created
..................................another "the"
...see what I mean?

Beautiful yet disastrous
.......................................................................................
We were built to be destroyed
.......................................verb "to be, is, are was were....to be avoided like the plague
and destroyed to be rebuilt
...................................there's "be" again
Petals wilting,
.............................................................
colors fading,
..............................................................
just to grow anew ........................................................
Commentary:
first essential of poetry is a theme worthy of effort
Joey Satek nailed that one good
the rest comes on its own

Example of what my modifications
could produce:

evolved we did from blindness
until our eyes looked up
watching shambles constructed
by those who couldn't love

violence tore down foundations
of life presented to us
patient efforts to build a dream
destroyed by cruelty, greed and lust

and like that flower which blooms in spring
our cities we rebuilt
sweet smells of pedals opening
constructed from dust and silt

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Poemwriter - by Bob Atkinson

Poemwriter
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

tell me when this thing evolves
into a large idea in long wood halls
tell me how we presented fate
that overdone flowing gate

tell me when should signs light up
though my feelings lie in twisted muck
some show forever complex forms
while talking over ways and norms

find me ever in my head
pressing that which holds grand plans
take this overblown reprieve
to drive toward fuller sensual extremes

prior to this errant fluctuation
my signs pointed toward gyration
counting all within this scope
as here or there or castle roped

come to me you senseless dope
carry all you wished and hoped
trade measure for that measured hand
then pick up skirts and join the band

Grains of Life - by Bob Atkinson

Grains of Life
(c)2014 Bob Atkinson

softly flowing prior years
those of some past delights
determined elements of time
focused with indulgent desire

to relive some yesteryears today
we're dreaming toward those prior days
when all that went before was calm
no worries, or determined faults

sifting bad feelings out of mind
leaves thoughts of love again
we think not of that struggle
which determined where we stand

holding hands again resolves
those trials we all went through
to work bad memories to dust
and follies to laughing stew

no, there were no obstacles
we couldn't climb upon
no force of nature we could not
work on until was gone

we stand so tall within our hearts
we find we've done quite well
in working all our problems out
while passing close to gates of hell



Thursday, November 20, 2014

The Past - Poemwriter - Louise Glueck, 1943 - Critique



The Past



Small light in the sky appearing ...............drop "the"
suddenly between .....................................
two pine boughs, their fine needles ..........
now etched onto the radiant surface
 ........."the" again
and above this .........................................................
high, feathery heaven— .........................................
Smell the air. That is the smell of the white pine,
...... the verb "to be"verboten in poetry ...."the" & "the".......again
most intense when the wind blows through it
...."the" again ... "it" vague
and the sound it makes equally strange, 
.... "the" & "it" again
like the sound of the wind in a movie— 
.... "the" again
Shadows moving. The ropes ........................"the" again
making the sound they make. What you hear now 
..... "the" again
will be the sound of the nightingale, Chordata,
                                   .....verb "to be" ..verboten  ........ "the" again
the male bird courting the female— .............."the" & "the" again
 The ropes shift. The hammock ........................... "the" & "the" again
sways in the wind, tied ......................."the" again
firmly between two pine trees.
Smell the air. That is the smell of the white pine
                                                             ..."the" & "the" & "the" again
It is my mother’s voice you hear .............................................
or is it only the sound the trees make ............ "it" verboten in poetry
when the air passes through them .................................."the" again ............ them?
because what sound would it make, ..............................."it" verboten
passing through nothing?
Commentary:
poorly written tripe
lacks purpose, vague, useless
poetry, it ain't
"....the fireplace requires cellulose for bright flames to feed...."  Bob Atkinson
enough said.

Poem by Bob Atkinson:
18 Stoic Faces 

example of a real poem:

Lyin' Eyes
Poemwriters: Don Henly, Glenn Frey

city girls just seem to find out early 
how to open doors with just a smile
a rich old man and she won't have to worry 
she'll dress up all in lace and go in style


late at night a big old house gets lonely
I guess every form of refuge has its price
 
and it breaks her heart to think her love is only
 given to a man with hands as cold as ice 

so she tells him she must go out for the evening
to comfort an old friend who's feelin' down 
but he knows where she's goin' as she's leavin' 
she is headed for the cheatin' side of town


you can't hide your lyin' eyes
and your smile is a thin disguise
I thought by now you'd realize
there ain't no way to hide your lyin' eyes 

on the other side of town a boy is waiting 
with fiery eyes and dreams no one could steal 
she drives on through the night anticipating
'
cause he makes her feel the way she used to feel 

she rushes to his arms, they fall together
she whispers, "It's only for a while"
she swears that soon she'll be comin' back forever 
she goes away and leaves him with a smile 

you can't hide your lyin' eyes 
and your smile is a thin disguise
I thought by now you'd realize
there ain't no way to hide your lyin' eyes 

she gets up and pours herself a strong one 
and stares out at the stars up in the sky 
another night, it's gonna be a long one 
she draws the shade and hangs her head to cry 

she wonders how it ever got this crazy
she thinks about a boy she knew in school 
did she get tired or did she just get lazy? 
she's so far gone she feels just like a fool 

my oh my, you sure know how to arrange things 
you set it up so well, so carefully
ain't it funny how your new life didn't change things? 
you're still the same old girl you used to be 

you can't hide your lyin' eyes 
and your smile is a thin disguise
I thought by now you'd realize
 
there ain't no way to hide your lyin' eyes

there ain't no way to hide your lyin' eyes
honey, you can't hide your lyin' eyes