Monday, February 8, 2016

Poet's Handle - by Bob Atkinson

Poet's Handle
(c)2016 Bob Atkinson

The Club (dining club)

 

always in my memory
felt something's amiss here
where those who write words openly
themselves with a "poet's" label smear

as if they'd gotten prizes
by those who judge words well
well, haven't seen appropriate
judgments on shelf's tell

here lie two divergent idees
one about what selfish does
and another aimed at institutions
which profess strength but stay real dumb

such as Nobel and Academy
institutions trusted but not great
lacking sincere judgment
eying bios not written pages

a language tool diffuse in nature
brings brightness to our halls
when character becomes the norm
and ideas grow high as walls

so, here in my mindless ways
will try to set things straight
we'll find out soon enough
who's a poet out our gate

a "poet" has good impact
universal themes
something to relate a scheme
or simply make us dream

nothing here in a circle
which doesn't stay invoked
when years pass to generations
who us cannot ever know

but feel our hearts in good words
describing emotions we carry with
toward some unknown future
there to minds we'll mix

mix dreams of evolution
with those evolved thus far
and carry with them forward
our thoughts in their head jars

so these we'll label "poets"
not good, nor bad, nor bland
just a label appropriate
for wondered good of man

then there in life's garden
poemwriters scribble notes
not talent of good poets
but trying to invoke

some ideal onto paper
where someone can find good cheer
or ego driven scarcity
while downing a warm beer

then, on bottom of this list
lies those whose pretense shines
and see themselves as universal
writers for our times

these misbegotten sons of Mars
who wouldn't know what's true
deal in form not substance
not in emotional moods

will label these wannabees
"tripewriters" for my card
so can find them in wastebaskets
or burning with fire of logs

my only problem with this plan
seems fraught with problems clear
will all writings made today
quickly disappear?

disappear in fog of smoke
as we burn what doesn't show
evolution of a word
written for a sense of flow

here will show faith in our future
by believing we must succeed
by culling out bad produce
to strengthen remaining seeds

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