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Thursday, November 26, 2015

The Bard. A Pindaric Ode - by Thomas Gray - The Barderer - by Bob Atkinson

The Bard. A Pindaric Ode
'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
Confusion on thy banners wait,
Tho' fanned by Conquest's crimson wing
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!'
Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance:
'To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Robed in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the Poet stood;
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair
Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air)
And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
'Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave,
Sighs to the torrent's aweful voice beneath!
O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breath;
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
To high-born Ho├čl's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
That hush'd the stormy main:
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
Mountains, ye mourn in vain
Modred, whose magic song
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail;
The famish'd Eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your country's cries--
No more I weep. They do not sleep.
On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,
I see them sit, they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land:
With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hands, the tissue of thy line.'

'Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding-sheet of Edward's race.
Give ample room, and verge enough
The characters of hell to trace.
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall re-eccho with affright
The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing King!
She-Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled Mate,
From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs
The scourge of Heav'n. What Terrors round him wait!
Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.
Is the sable Warriour fled?
Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead.
The Swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
Gone to salute the rising Morn.
Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes;
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;
Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening-prey.

Fill high the sparkling bowl,
The rich repast prepare,
Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
Close by the regal chair
Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
A baleful smile upon their baffled Guest.
Heard ye the din of battle bray,
Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
Long Years of havock urge their destined course,
And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murther fed,
Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame,
And spare the meek Usurper's holy head.
Above, below, the rose of snow,
Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
The bristled Boar in infant-gore
Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
Now, Brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

Edward, lo! to sudden fate
(Weave the woof. The thread is spun)
Half of thy heart we consecrate.
(The web is wove. The work is done.)'
'Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowden's height
Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll?
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,
Ye unborn Ages, crowd not on my soul!
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.
All-hail, ye genuine Kings, Brittania's Issue, hail!

Girt with many a Baron bold
Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old
In bearded majesty, appear.
In the midst a Form divine!
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line;
Her lyon-port, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.
What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
What strains of vocal transport round her play!
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,
Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-colour'd wings.

The verse adorn again
Fierce War, and faithful Love,
And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.
In buskin'd measures move
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,
With Horrour, Tyrant of the throbbing breast.
A Voice, as of the Cherub-Choir,
Gales from blooming Eden bear;
And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
That lost in long futurity expire.
Fond impious Man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud,
Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the Orb of day?
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,
And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
Enough for me: With joy I see
The different doom our Fates assign.
Be thine Despair, and scept'red Care,
To triumph, and to die, are mine.'
He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night.
when a written poem becomes catalytic
and influences future writings
it has a more central place in literature
than contemporary writings
here, we find one that did just that

The Barderer
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

she wasn't sure to do this
was not a twist of fate
purely inspiration
of a thought she had made

her family had provided
all to her she'd need
yet, to foster innovation
she with this man agreed

agreed to allow him insight
into their world of lifetime events
a poet of distinction writing
a poem to document accomplishments

from aunt Millie's flings
to Aaron's success on stage
and grandpa's infatuation
with a red head's wandering ways

she saw an opportunity
to document these lives
which held so much meaning
for a family's lengthly pride

he didn't fuss or bother with
profusion of fanfare or pretense
as she asked him to write some
experiences of success via excess

made her nervous in her thoughts
a feeling of disarray
yet, on she wrote these paragraphs
to set him on his way

so, here he furnished her with words
that showed fallibility on display
and said of this family
we're gone, but from where we came

the book lived on for hundred years
provided smiles on those who read
about a family who lived a life
years before, but live again

every time one reads the lines
the poet wrote about
daily lives of this family
who'd cast descendent's here abouts

history's not just read in books
in school for learned fare
sometimes history's personal
about those for whom we care

Monday, November 23, 2015

Empty Ring, Nest Fire - poemwriter: Sun Yung Shin

a prime example
of what makes people smirk
when you say the word "poetry"
what garbage this is
full of cheap words
lacking universal purpose
a jumble of not
- just sickening

Academy of American Poets
should roll up their tent over this one
don't they read these things
before publishing them?
where's their quality control?

of American Poets
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

here we have in our land
a purposed version of that band
which tears across a broad landscape
taking words up to scrape

scrape language from gray dust
and bring glory down to us
for words arranged in bright patterns
focused here with ideas not tattered

yet, when we trust them to lead
us in our journey on feeble steed
we find them lacking in broad skill
to cull out garbage from this mill

where grains get crushed of seeds so bright
instead of planting rows of light
they plant here feces on our page
and let us think we've been enlightened

but, in reality 'tis a charade
where purpose languishes today
our country's words don't mean much
in view of this rotten dust

will they wake up someday
and square away this awful page
of literature deranged
or will we still get muck on our shoes

well, I for one will stand up tall
and say to them "get on the ball"
don't feed me droppings from the horse
give me words that stay the course

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Creative Minds - by Bob Atkinson

Creative Minds
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson[pidLi]=509&tx_commentaire_pi1[from]=841&cHash=98f57917c3

settled here in absolutes
these men of creative minds
all who, in their own way
transcend with bonds of time

we still remember what they did
they knew us by first name not
left us with soft legacy, a gift
of times otherwise forgotten

to build upon another's work's
so much easier than from scratch
for those who did much dirty work
and help us look back to past

past achievements duly made
to bind ourselves to dust
making rocks of sand pebbles
with eagerness of thought

an open secret wandering
through simple calloused hearts
until becomes a memory
so purposed in thought and art

feeds progress of creation
what wasn't there before
becomes our pride evolved with time
teaches us to ask for more

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Critique of Bad Poetry - by Bob Atkinson

we try, in our simple way
to hold back these words unpraising
not our place in universe
to upset some gentle writer's cravings

who never in their wildest dreams
felt providence prevailed
giving them a talent deficit
driven toward a fail

think my friends of lettered words
think when you place your thoughts
upon a clean sheet with ideas
created by nouns, verbs not bought

but borrowed from common speech
or speech of poets old
what had been said regurgitated
not original nor apropos

descriptions cast upon dead waters
on a void of people craving
where nobody would enjoy a thought
of another person's dreamy deviations

purpose stands tall hereon
complexity begins to grow
when all we have written now
sends emotions toward the flow

so keep your “its, thats and thuz”
out of your writings clear
for triteablity rages loud
when spoken to our ears

Monday, November 9, 2015

Elegant Solution - by Bob Atkinson

Elegant Solution
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

some reaches of our universe
contain what we surmise
an articulated benefit
with open, loving eyes

appeal not fully understood
simplicity wished for gain
we, of an unknowing kind
knew not from where we came

I feel, in this moment's pause
as if my brain's on fire
why don't I understand this
why don't I knowledge desire

carry me beyond those trees
beyond those mountains great
to an equality of sound
to an awareness plain

plain for simplicity of mind
plain for knowing well
how we, in clinging to what we know
give chatter to ourselves

chatter only serves to calm
us in our lack of fire
something we try to overcome
with energy of desire

to solve a mystery requires luck
and luck's what we have much
to be here on this oval speck
of gasses and brown dust

took ever so much overcoming
of process duly made
an elegant solution to
an empty, useless phase

so here, we sit and ponder fate
yet fate's what we stand living
we look to each other's help
please be kind and giving

Saturday, November 7, 2015

SheWolf - by Bob Atkinson

(c)2015 Bob Atkinson
there glides a monster so salty
as to find herself adrift
on waters south of islands few
out in a wet abyss

she sees herself so tall of mast
and creaking in her ways
ropes held taut all through a gale
rudder locked firm with firm hands staid

men of a certain twist
hard worn in sailor's lot
these cut throat demons
on land not sane
but here with duty locked

she falls beneath the upper class
yet, high above some tramps
here in an open ocean's winds
sets yards of sail on masts

masts so tall as to embed
themselves in low clouds down
near to deck of uncertainty
meant to earn a crown

where bound this lady of the wind
where from this crew sincere
about their duties ever keen
under captain long of beard

what lies beneath her decks
in holds so dark and damp
why can we not see her cargo
on a ship's good manifest

why can we not ask of men
where goes this wooden ship
why, “sir if I told you that
I'd have to slit your gullet”

so, on we sail toward westerly
winds of time gone by
so some, in future, can surmise
this ship's eventual prize

Friday, November 6, 2015

The Acts of Youth -Poemwriter —John Wieners

The Acts of Youth

-Poemwriter —John Wieners
And with great fear I inhabit
THE middle of THE night
What wrecks of THE mind await me,

what drugs to dull THE senses,
what little I have left,
what more can BE taken away?

The fear of travelling,
of THE future without hope
or buoy.
I must get away from this place
and see
that there IS no fear without me:

that IT IS within
unless IT BE some sudden act
or calamity

to land me in THE hospital,
a total wreck, without
memory again;
or worse still, behind bars.
If I could just get out of THE country.
Some place where one can eat
THE lotus in peace.

For in this country  IT IS terror,
poverty awaits; or
am I a marked man,
my life to BE a lesson
or experience to
those young who would trod
THE same path, without God

unless he BE one of justice,
to wreak vengeance
on THE acts committed while young
under un-due influence or circumstance.
Oh I have
always seen my life as drama, patterned

after those who met with disaster or doom.
IS my mind being taken away me.
I have been over THE abyss before.
What IS that ringing
in my ears that tells me

all IS nigh, IS naught
but THE roaring of THE winter wind.
Woe to those homeless
who ARE out on this night.
Woe to those crimes committed
from which we
can walk away unharmed.

So I turn on THE light
And smoke rings rise in THE air.
Do not think of the future; there IS none.
But THE formula all great art IS made of.

Pain and suffering.
Give me THE strength
to bear IT,
to enter those places
where THE great animals ARE caged.
And we can live
at peace by their side.
A bride to THE burden

that no god imposes
but knows we have THE means
to sustain ITS force
unto the end of our days.

For that IS what we ARE made for;
for that we ARE created.
Until THE dark hours ARE done.

And we rise again in THE dawn.
Infinite particles of THE divine sun, 
now worshipped in THE pitches of THE night.
Have capped all structural mistakes
nobody is going to read what's written poorly
nobody is going to understand meaning
they'll just ignore it
some, who don't understand poetry
will praise it
not a good example of good poetry
fix it or delete it

God in the Hand,

Not in the Heart

(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

he carries scripture in his hand
yet knows not love of man
he bombs and murders many souls
who cannot understand

how someone professing purity
has no purity deep within
why does he take a mantle of
forced leadership of man

when he goes upon his way
he leaves barbarity in his path
stirs humanity with spoon
a devil's sincere conscript

someday, when he awakes from slumber
he'll understand those hearts
who beat only for power's goal
and tear this world apart

they love man not, these demons
only wanting to grasp what's insincere
by forces deep within our thoughts
mind control, an art despised, feared

when all who get caught up in this
understand where they fit into
a deviant progression of
a dishonorable ancient attitude

we'll begin to build together
a place where love reigns supreme
and all within our boundary
have feet washed in a gentle stream

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

The Kitten and The Beast - by Bob Atkinson

The Kitten and The Beast
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

18 Stoic faces told of a night back then
where simple want of usefulness
fell flat as facial bends

there in a setting of
tranquility prearranged
a group of souls tried to pretend
those words had meaning caged

yet, when those darling readers
who had practiced their good art
spoke strange metaphors
this hardly looked the part

no emotional conditions
no meaning universal
no grabbing of my soul
to attach quivers to my thistle

why do I harp on this
well, we need to revamp “us”
to better understand our place
in universal dust

and begin to gather form
to press on toward a future
where division doesn't cause
wars of famine and derision

life lies universal
not divisible in the least
in the end we're all the same
the kitten and the beast

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

Poem of the Month - January 2016 - Ruby - by Mel Tillis

 -poemwriter Mel Tillis

You've painted up your lips
and rolled and curled your tinted hair
Ruby are you contemplating
going out somewhere?

The shadow on the wall tells me
the sun is going down
Oh Ruby, don't take your love to town

It wasn't me that started that old crazy Asian war
But I was proud to go and do my patriotic chore
Yes, it's true that I'm not the man I used to be

Oh Ruby, I still need some company

It's hard to love a man whose legs
are bent and paralyzed
And the wants and the needs of a woman your age, 

Ruby, I realize

But it wont be long, I've heard them say
until I'm not around

Oh Ruby, dont take your love to town

She's leaving now 'cause I just heard
the slamming of the door
The way I know I've heard it slam
a hundred times before

And if I could move,
I'd get my gun and put her in the ground
Oh Ruby, dont take your love to town
Oh Ruby, for Gods sake turn around

Monday, October 26, 2015

Poet - by Bob Atkinson

(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

who is this masked man pontificating
about this silly world of ours
he seems so pompous, overbearing
in his pushing of strange causes

why does he feel he knows truth
when billions know more than him
why does he laugh at those souls
who with so many sardines swim

why does he try to change this world
in ways only he can see
why does his heart cry out in pain
when people aren't freed

well, taking something from a past
where all stood a lonely vigil
to create our world in its entirety
working fingers bony, brittle

gives meaning to some lonely souls
who only wish for good
and cry at gruesome outcomes
engaged by dopey fools

one feels so intensely pained
when cornered for an answer
something wished for in a dream
as if a subject mastered

we feel more in control
when we put our thoughts in print
makes one think before the act
of jabbing keys for sentiment

so now in my lonely room
will write these words of mine
even though nobody else
will find them good in time

to be so useful to a world
where ideas sit on the top of heads
and generate such movements
as to advance a theme ahead

words must form ideas in clear air
where everybody can relate
to themes with passion openly
brought forth to soothe the hate

hate brought on by selfishness
a simple thing so cruel
something given by nature
returned as an unused tool

we don't need this thing no more
don't need to hate each other
we're only saddened by the need
to scold our wildest brothers

peace through form of action
be our mantra from now on
no time for callous persons
no acceptance for badness of cause

Sunday, October 25, 2015

Tender Buttons [Suppose An Eyes] Gertrude Stein

Tender Buttons [Suppose An Eyes]

Gertrude Stein, 1874 - 1946

Suppose IT IS within a gate
which open IS
open at THE hour of closing summer
THAT IS to say IT IS so.

All THE seats ARE needing blackening.
A white dress IS in sign.
A soldier a real soldier has a worn lace
a worn lace of different sizes

THAT IS to say if he can read,
if he can read
he IS a size to show
shutting up twenty-four.

Go red go red, laugh white.
Suppose a collapse in rubbed purr,
in rubbed purr get.
Little sales ladies little sales
ladies little saddles of mutton.

Little sales of leather
and such beautiful beautiful, beautiful beautiful.
beyond poor form
this “poem” feeds little more than ego of the writer
has no universal purpose evident
is purely off the cuff
sends not the reader toward
research for more knowledge
to call it a “poem”
is to stretch the imagination
Bob Atkinson

Saturday, October 24, 2015

Mnemonics, or Memoria Technica

(C)2015 Bob Atkinson
images meant to help our mind
find relevance for which to find
an assist in facing ingestion of
our world contained on this blue ball

sometimes we're fed a simple fact
which may or may not lack
relevance in our mind's arrangement
something's needed to make this permanent

spatial orientation assists
a memory to fall back quick
upon those undulating sounds
which bring us information profound

therein lies a use for this field
poetry as a walking stick
for our mental calculations
memory assisted thought vibrations

affiliations help us remember
open facts or past experiences
something to compare this news
to another worldly view

rhythm, rhyme and patterned
simplistic thought organization
follows through with promise of
greater capacity to absorb it all

all experience offered toward
our lives, our loves our secrets
sometimes allowing us to feel
we understand what's really real

Thursday, October 22, 2015

Avidance - by Bob Atkinson

(c)2015 Bob Atkinson
"The avoidance of logic or reason entering into one's life.  
Working solely on reflex learned by life's ancestors, not by logic or reason.
A person engaged in Avidance has no understanding or concern
for right or wrong, merely what one can get away with"
Bob Atkinson

always, in my memory
have pained me to appraise
those who travel without purpose
on this our living stage

they never see a single thing
on which to hang their hat
no facts to anchor meaning
upon their this and that

I have a name for this event
which seems to fit this notch
a working title for which we can
place observations on their lot

avidance” with some reflection
becomes a perfect name for not
thinking through our actions
when dealing with our problems

removing most of reasoned senses
back to those wilder days
training ourselves in insincerity
no gentleness for sake

for sake of taking us toward goal
as human's with good purpose
a step above that character
which only serves the surface

yes, I know you don't believe
we need to label lame
attitudes of our children
in this lifeless game

but some will find life foolish
without reason in the mix
I choose to observe these friends
choose to ponder senselessness

senselessness which ties us to
a past of wild jungle life
that reflex touting attitude
which continues mortal strife