Monday, January 29, 2018

Being a parent

You tried to be the best parent you were able.
Given the tools that life’s experience thought.

You attempted, on many occasion, to raise the bar.
Eighteen years, nine as two parents, ten as a Mr. Mom.

Then !!!, to endure the loss, the empty nest syndrome.
Both Daughters spread their wings, left the family home.

Nagging thoughts prevailed, three abortions, two Daughters
after eight years of extremely active, unprotected passion.

A movie, Chaos Theory, and the actions of two Daughters,
after some twenty and twelve years, opened the flood gates

to all these years of doubts, as infidelity was the modus operandi
on the roads, looking for love, beyond, in all the wrong places.

One has to question the actions of your two Daughters.
Is there an awareness of my doubts ??? or do they know ???

For all their years, they are !!!, even if they are not ???
The love, the journeys, the adventures, the good, the bad,

all have created the moments, the memories, the stories
of a Mr. Mom’s efforts to lift them above all that I and we,

their mother and me implanted in their mind, heart and soul.
Has this become answers to the questions ??? I do not know.

I only know, feel  their silence, them I never see
As their Mr. Mom, is this what is left for me ???

B. J. “ A ” 2
January 29th 2018

Saturday, January 20, 2018

                Life ???
A Baby cries, this life, takes its first breath.
From that moment, a journey towards death.
 Death, but an illusion, it’s all about change.
Energy transforming, molecules to rearrange.
 Birth, the death of an innate, untainted knowledge.
A knowledge lost with schooling, on its way to collage.
 Except, that is, for the very pure of soul, so very few,
who have retained, what they brought, what they knew.
From a dimension beyond our comprehension, from a far.
From a dimension giving life from the essence of some star.
All that wisdom lost to our subconscious, who we truly are.
All vanished on the funeral pyre of consciousness, not but char
to remind us of what we once were, as we journey through this life.
Hoping, praying that fate, karma or life guides us away from what’s rife.
B. J. “A ” 2
January 20th 2018

Friday, January 12, 2018

Number One, out of Three

Sadly, badly is the way I handled it.
Things were falling apart, nothing fit.

Leaving it all behind, I hit the road.
Neglecting responsibility and the load.

A hundred thousand miles upon wings,
Soaring all alone, a Thunderbird sings.

Slicing the air, a sphere hangs, a beautiful smile
looking at me, all the while leaving mile after mile

behind, ever distancing the shattered, broken heart.
No plan, this man raced towards the future, a new start.

All the while, with heaver heart, not seeing what is ahead,
((not looking back at the heartache I caused )) instead,

just kept on flying, speeding across this vase land
with nothing but moments, so many memories in hand.

Number One, out of Three, cares, in spite, is there for me.
Hind sight, what a nemesis to carry, then, a time to see

all the  fragments, the wreckage of a life you left behind.
Among the debris rose a flower so rear, so hard to find.

How does one reconcile ?, face that which goes around,
comes around as he traverses the last mile, above ground.

How does one find answers, find a melodic, cohesive sound
that brings Two out of Three, in line with The One, who found

forgiveness was the door through which, would guide her above
all the pain, uncertainty, anger and open up her heart to love.
B. J. “ A ” 2
January 12th, 2018

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

Two out of  Three

They have slipped silently from my sight!
What could be their reason for taking flight?
What is their reason for closing the door?
Could this mean ?, seeing them never more?

Special occasions have come, they have slipped by.
Not even a ghostly image, a shadow, caught my eye.
Thoughts of, dejected, only make me want to sigh.
Filling my heart with tears, while all I can do is cry!

Has my Youngest OD ?, has she slipped silently away?
Has my Middle concluded ?, I offended and must pay!,
for some slight imagined or real, that I have committed,
for which no words, no understanding can be submitted.

For my Middle’s deafening silence is what she has remitted.
Detachment, avoidance, muteness are all that I am permitted.
All this is what has been, is all this what is to be ?, left for me
to constantly contemplate ?, to be my fate ?, all I am left to see ?

All that remains of my Two out of Three, but memories.
Letters, cards emails, thousands of photos that tell stories
of all our adventures, of our journeys through time and space.
From all the evidence before me, it would appear I have no place

in the lives of my Two out of Three. This thought breaks my heart,
for time passes quickly and with it so many moments never to become
what makes up family, the ties that bind, any possibility for a new start
to overcome what once made up a fractured whole, to be that total sum.

B. J. “A” 2
January 10th, 2018

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Those mysterious black Eyes

I came to know, it seems so long ago
when I peered into your deep dark eyes
with such a passion, with such a curiosity.

Those mysterious black orbs, hiding something,
something I could not define caught my interest.
They captured me, drew me in like some black hole.

They drew me into the heart of your mysterious space
That space where I hung so tightly onto its smooth edges
fearing that I would lose, what I thought, was my firm grip.

I was always praying that I might touch the beat of your soul.
Have it captivate the rhythm of my heart beat and move as one.
You danced gaily upon my heart, to the beat of a different drummer.

Though we danced beautifully upon the waves of many a moment,
The experiences of those moments of ecstasy became far too few.
Yet those moments became the nourishment that fueled my dreams.

Dreams, as time {{ seven years }} has slipped by, without wings to fly
falter upon the synaptic clefts of my brain and wither upon my desire
to once again explore, to touch the depths of your mysterious black orbs.

Behind which, to find the ingress that will lead me through the fortified walls
and into the deepest recesses of your beautiful, your generous, your elusive heart.
Oh,!!!, to only unravel the mystery that has frayed the strings of  my broken heart.

Oh !!!, to find the music within your heart, to be able to strum the strings of your harp.
If I could only feel the vibrations, hear the tones resonate, beating softly upon my ear drums.
I realize that we, you and me dance to a different drummers beat these days, bringing tears

to this dreamer of dreams that have been slowly waning in the sunset of our relationship.
I know that my dreams, you, and all we shared has to come to an end, I have to let go
of the moments of joy, of pleasure, the adventures, the journeys we experienced.

This I must do, for me and for you, in order to find life in the realms of reality.
My dreams of you have lingered on much longer than they should have.
Reality my Dear, has always been, letting you go is my greatest fear.

When the dreams dissolves and I awake, I will never dream again.
That being said, my Oriental Beauty, accepting my fate
finally, is the only road left for this dreamer to take.
B. J. “ A ” 2
December 11th, 2017

Monday, December 11, 2017

They tried to silence the music

The Spanish, the Portuguese, the French, the British.
They all tried to mute, to squelch the songs, using genocide.
They all tried to eradicate the golden voices of warrior Eagles.
They all tried to erase the echoing beat from the drums of this land.

Tyranny, genocide was the raging noise, drowning out the music.
Yet, in over four hundred years, they all, could not kill their songs
of life, of love, of respect for all that Mother Earth has provided man.
Be he of the original colour, or caucasian,  yellow,  dark brown, or black.

They all have failed to exterminate, to terminate the First Nation’s voice.
A voice, who’s sole, soars on high, above them all, on the winds of eternal time.
All the First Nation’s, Heroes, their Profits, have stated, our voices will be heard.
We will once again become the music, the beat, the songs, the voices of pure reason.
B. J. “ A ” 2
December 11th, 2017

Friday, November 17, 2017

An adventure

Down those subconscious, mysterious corridors,
into one’s memories hoard , behind closed doors.
Into a surrealistic world of undecipherable dreams,
were one’s life is portrayed in reflections, it seems.

We move within this world of moments, to recall
moments, we pray, with pride, we did stand tall.
Moments, I have to say, where we also, did fall
Moments, I must say, we also lived behind a pall.

One looks from within the precincts of the cranium
to see, to find where one’s spirit, one’s soul did come.
The subconscious ?, a puppeteer ?, pulling the strings.
Creating a dance, to glide us across the floors of our past.

A voice that whispers in our ears, a voice that fervently sings
of all the adventures, all the experiences, with shadows doth cast
moments of uncertainty, moments filled with ghosts that haunt
one with memories that linger on and on, memories that taunt

one with passions lost, much like that of a fading, beautiful sun set.
At what cost doth one face impotence ? For how long must one fret ?,
over memories transported from our past, incorporated into our living days.
Memories of times which will never again see the light of day, only in dreams.

B. J. “ A ” 2
October 21st, 2017