Fear by Bob Atkinson

Fear

(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

the day had started hopeful

she wore her best fine dress

the blouse of soft silk cloth

and scarf with one light twist

knew the Turks were moving

none knew where they would go

she looked to the field for vegetables

for her family's supper meal

knelt to grab them carefully

no change then in her manner

feeling confident in those

who protected all that mattered

we all have felt those times when

we did as always we have done

even though the situation

was charged with something wrong

habit of the daily life

isn't broken with a whim

habit of the hand and need

for simple food continues

here in the open field

they ran in front of her

they gave as good as they got

and killed while dying cursed

cursed by those who held the power

upon their horses large

not giving quarter to those who

held beliefs not similar to theirs

for them to kill the heathen men

and women, children too

left them no sleepless nights

or times they couldn't move

they had no soul, it had been taken

by those who worshiped wrong

their God and God of us all

whose name changed with the tongue

we all believe in the God

we all have thoughts of him

but some reject him for the power

to hate their fellow men

and here in the field of battle

which held peace a moment ago

the girl looked up to see the slaughter

she knew would take her soul

the fear would show in her eyes

she saw her fellow Greeks

cut to shreds with long swords

hearing their dying shrieks

with saddened bulging eyes

they looked to her as they fell

could not protect her life

could not protect themselves

Liberty's Struggle by Bob Atkinson

Liberty's Struggle

(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

over the hills of history

the ups and downs of time

one fact remained quite constant

liberty controlled men's minds

in uncertain times of struggle

in an organizational array

survival was relegated by freedom

into the cavern's darkest caves

liberty, the freedom given

for those to take whole chunks

of that form of living which

garners wholesome thoughts

absorbed all those dynamic feelings

of nobility and passionate ideals

which reduced the men to living

on the edge of life itself

and now the question comes to 'fore

do we challenge what we see

or do we live as sheep when those

gather from us our hard earned seeds

freedom's not a simple ideal

it can be stolen from us

by some who wish the power

only for themselves

they make us eat the mushroom

they fill our heads so full

of those ritual repetitions

which our senses dull

we've seen this over and over

when men die for a cause

it fills the heart so full of dread

to see them energy charged

from the tool of those

who power only want

they use the ritual and the chants

to deaden the soul's free hearts

Oh, Cezanne by Bob Atkinson

Oh, Cezanne

(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

in those normal times

my reflexes tell me to avoid

that which makes them mad

so they won't spit on your clothes

but, here the subject matter

begs so serious as to cause

me to lose my quiet temper

lay out my feelings right or wrong

among the petty masses here

were those who looked upon

his work as something anti-special

no wonders, smiles or awe

guess I'm in that class of folks

who look to see what's there

and find dismal retrogression

in those broad strokes, no flair

classify me as a sinner

as one who comes to the plate

without those written credentials

a smug look upon my face

take me for one who leaves

his badge in the corner pocket

when he shoots the ball between

sideboards on the table's carpet

here we must examine closely

how my mind formed that opinion

of a master believed to be

one whose work was brilliant

followers came to his side

defending his good lessons

while little me in the back room

cannot see his broader vision

I break it down into two forms

one has the fine art timeless feel

the other is only cheap decoration

no character or outward zeal

many times here in my life

I've been wrong in my opinion

here again maybe I have gone

to that wrongful disposition

I state firmly for all to see

my simple taste bud's tradition

Cezanne's works cannot mean

so much, no forward vision

I'm sure he was an honest man

so his character I won't disparage

but in the field of art he made

art go in the wrong direction

this, of course, is what I say

with an untrained eye for this

no skill set of my own design

compared with his master's twists

but then again with closed eyes

might be able to reproduce

these awkward fabled tablets

or some such similar goofs

still, it isn't in my heart

to remain quiet on the subject

when I see stupidity praised

I look, freeze and stutter

giving him the award

of the leader of the pack

disgusts me ever so much

and takes my attention back

to those who think poetry

is only for those folks

who describe the azure sky

hovering over the deep blue coast

not bad to have opinions

about art it is said

you only like it or you don't

can't say it's good or bad

this is a saying I believe

in my deepest heart

but then there is Cezanne

who makes me lose my lunch

had it not been for him

Picasso would have gone

from master decorator

to one who drew fine art

when this cubist nonsense

took hold and left its deep void

in the beauty of painted formats

he killed my tempered voice

Don't Yell at the Wind by Bob Atkinson

Don't Yell at the Wind

(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

don't yell at the wind for doing

what it does to things we've made

isn't something one can argue

just inhale deeply, be fascinated

we seem to favor status quo

over our long term good

and never, ever seem to

do those things we should

if we wish to be correct

and plan out rightly now

seems to me there are some issues

we need to address, and how !!

we have a lack of ingrown armor

construct flimsy weak abodes

while fighting over that which

has little substance shown

the assumptions we must make

if we are to survive and grow

should go the way of planning

not mud at each other thrown

first it is assumed

Earth changes in an instant

oceans fill their basins

then jump quickly out of them

the winds are calm most times

then they really blow quite mean

and scrape all life from the ground

those things we've grown and seeded

the ground is firm beneath our feet

seems mostly hard as solid rock

then, like jelly it vibrates waves

which knock us on our butts

sky is blue in normal times

but sometimes it's the color red

sometimes we breathe clear fresh air

sometimes bad air makes us dead

stars remain floating in the sky

most times when we look up

yet, sometimes they attack us fiercely

and really muck things up

to know all of these simple facts

and ignore what they mean

seems to me to be one faulty

unstructured life plan scheme

we could start today the goal

building what we need and want

to keep our lives safe and warm

protecting our good seed from harm

would mean we'd have a purpose

would mean we'd have to work

to clear up all naive struggles

the things that make us jerks

The Friend for Life by Bob Atkinson

The Friend for Life

(c) 2012 Bob Atkinson

seems not long ago we ran

with the summer winds

memories carried to adulthood

making lifelong friends

going strong upon the roads

which sent us to our dreams

always looking back to those

with whom we shared our schemes

Sofie and the sailor's kids

grew here as did the trees

on Perry Road at Loveland

where Don hid his Mopars neatly

I remember Dave

running down the street

for being close to Ruthie Brown

being chased by those irate

looking for his head to pound

brothers, cousins and friend

holding firm in their resolve

to really smash him big

jumping into Don's car

Dave pushed Don out the door

Don watched them pound on the hood

'till he couldn't take in any more

threw them down on the pavement

“don't care if you kill that man

but leave my Dodge alone you guys

or else I'll kick your a$$”

the nights we spent in Buena Park

in the morning at 3:00 am

cruising down the alley ways

looking for old dented sedans

in '67 nature called

that fickle sort of friend

took the young ones in their prime

sending them to Vietnam

left his Newport with me

that cherry '53

with leather seats and windows

powered down for summer breezes

Shirley wrecked it with a crunch

when Batman I was watching

smashed the hood up to the windshield

playing grab butt with his girlfriend

spent time in Asia on a boat

with radio in hand

left a boy without a rifle

came back a full grown man

before he left he had me come

to his night shift on the dock

to drive a forklift on the concrete

of the corporation boxed

my early days back from Europe

with new wife and a son

his help for us tremendous

as we started our own run

his dad and he helped us clean

and paint that old porched house

the sailor fixing plumbing

in the kitchen and the bath

then he got me a job

with him at the factory

where he drove the flatbed beast

I made cardboard cartons daily

then we moved on to South Gate

touching base now and then

and giving nods forever when

on the telephone with friends

then in the last few years

he and Johnny and me

spoke sometimes, spent a night

reflecting past memories

at the reunion of the classes

our school on Agra way

how we passed over caution

while I was making failing grades

we talked of those old times

we spoke of things we'd done

cleaning streets of abandoned cars

for parts and gas money runs

sad to see his passing

he was always so calm

didn't seem to be excited

or flippant as I was

his demeanor always even

his temper set just right

his soul on its way to heaven

in darkness one starlight

in memory of Don Parrott

March, 2012

"a friend for life and beyond”