Thursday, December 27, 2012


Time

 Time - the alchemist – turning my heart to stone.
Seldom do you pick up the phone.
Sitting here, without you, all alone.
Throughout the hours, my spirit  prone,
seeing not, what is reality ?,
that state, which is left to me,
residing in, left to be
nothing more, then what I see.
 
Life, colours have departed.
Left the gaggle of roses I started
leaving with you three years ago,
with love and hope, you I’d deeply know
B. J. “A” 2
December 27th, 2012

Wednesday, December 26, 2012



 

In Retrospect

As an appreciated audience, though small,
you are inspirational, the reason to give my all.
To do the best that I am able, telling my tales
of times and entities responsible for what ails –
lost moments, unfulfilled dreams, all that fails –
a broken heart, a fractured spirit, a soul smitten
are the essences of my words, words I have written,
cathartic visions, healing, this is what you have read.

All, has left the building, the confines of this old head
and onto pages of poetry / rhyme that I spread
across the uncertain, uneven grounds of this plane.
Know that all the emotional pain -
heartache, again and again -
I would never, ever refrain
from any of those moments I did live
nor deny, to the one’s, whom I did give.

What has been placed before your eye,
came from all the pain, the tears I cry
for the loss of all that would never be.
These poems / rhymes came from what I see,
blinded by a desire to rise above
and get to know another’s love.

B. J. “A” 2  
 
 
December 25, 2012

Sunday, December 23, 2012


Twice has been enough
 

Twice, I would have loved to dance across the threshold
of reality – first time - with a Polish Princess,
who captivated my mind, captured my heart.
Twice, I would have loved to dance across the threshold
of reality – second time – with a Chinese Lotus Blossom,
an exquisite, exotic Beauty, who stole my heart.
The dances I envisioned would have taken either,
if willing, into the fantastic realms of the surrealistic.
Worlds of the unimaginable, where visions are so clear,
colours, shapes so vivid, so profound, so invigorating
they take one’s breath away as we trip the light fantastic
upon the essence of light, of sound, of sight, of life
beyond our beliefs and what we are forced to endure,
forasmuch as our human limitations – imposed by ?, –
will carry us. Is it the hand of the gods ?, the hand of fate
the essence of our genes, our nature, our nurturing
or are our limitations self imposed ?,
by the hands of our own understanding, our own history.
The dances I dreamed of, with either, are but an illusion
I have deluded myself with, in order to rise above
their lack of love for what and who I am, for me.
Now both are just memories, they’ve become history
and all that is left for me, is to be their friend,
a friend in deed, when in need.
 

B. J. “A” 2

December 23rd, 2012

Saturday, December 1, 2012


Passion play

An old man’s Dream – Journey
 
Luck walks him from the hands of the Grim Reaper,
beyond the pearly gates of St. Peter,
across the desert sands,
into a carnival, the arms of a winged Angel’s, hands.
 
Two freaks on the stage of the world’s side show
Within each, the other did know.
A lost soul, trumpet silenced by very bad choices.
In his head – a con, a schemer – he hears inner voices.
 
Take this Beauty, wing it into survival, into a living.
Only himself, not to others, giving.
Another lost soul, in a glass cage, her wings clipped.
In a carnival side show, freaks, the audience is gipped.
 
He knows the price she will have to pay.
To save him and the game he will have to play.
Captivated be her ethereal beauty, love making evolves into love.
Beyond his greed for life, love’s conscience raises him above
 
the slim of his scheme, to do all he can to protect his dream.
The light of his love, surly – that moment - did beam.
His plan jeopardizes, places her into the hands of hell.
This winged Angel’s love,  in her eyes it doth tell.
 
She accepts her living hell in order to save him.
The old man now tries to save her, prospects grim.
He falls, a plan of the man who owned this winged girl.
The plan failed, the old man’s life did not unfurl
 
His heart opened and did strive, repent the wrongs meant
as his soul looked out and upon, in sacrament.
One more time, he picks up his trumpet.
Sweet sounds  come forth, beauty he let.
 
She glided, walking on by, again he met
his dream, there, before his eyes.
He runs with her, jumps from on high, she flies
Saving him with the strength and courage he gave to her.
 
Upon angelic wings, into heavenly bliss, together.
 
B. J. “A” 2
December 1st 2012

Monday, November 26, 2012


The Fall

In a letter to Joyce, 21 pages

 A big hole has opened up before my eyes – I can now see the skies
as Summer, sheds her clock of thick greens – now torn and tattered –
faded into shades of gold, red, brown and yellow.
The threads of Summers passing, – in it’s colours of brown, yellow,
red and gold – for two weeks have been coming down like kites
in the hands of children at play, carried on winds of fall,
like butterflies on the wing, pining for the loss of spring as they
flutter about winter’s decay, like snow flakes falling on a cold, gray, day,
like whirlwinds- invisible – caught by the discerning eye, like kamikaze pilots
diving straight to the ground, exploding into colours of brown, all around.
That once green and vibrant forest – that filled my spirit, my eyes all summer –
Now stands tall before me, naked and barren, creating a window
through which I can now see blue, gray, black cloud days
or wet skies, even a sunset or two as I now see shapes of people who walk,
jog, ride, talk along the banks of a creek they call a river –
Coquitlam river – who’s song I can now hear, as it sing it’s song,
as it moves along, on it’s way to that Pacific who awaits her fill,
as she rages on in winter months.
The skies, as I, have been crying – weeping, grieving – for the loss of
warm, blue, dry days of this past, most beautiful summer of all
I have known in the thirty plus years I have been here.
 
B. J. “A” 2
November 17th 2006

ACCEPTANCE
 
These eyes of mine are slowly closing on the dreams,
I have woven – dreams of hope and a happiness it seems
are coming to an end, just like summers elations.
I feel there is nothing more – no reason for expectations
as I feel you slipping back-to what once was-into the shadows.
I will cherish summer’s joy, pleasure- lost to where?-who knows?
 
    I feel - for you I hold no intrigue, no fascination, no passion, no attraction,     no inspiration - so many restrictions, so many contradictions flow across the waters of one I know not.
   I do still - even though I believe I know - want to give to you evenings filled with the most beautiful sunsets this old world has come to know. I would love for you to experience – in the twilight, in the darkest, in the midnight, in the early morning hours – al the colours one can bring to your life, to your sight, to your heart, soul and to your spirit .
                                           Love
                                                                                 Bill .

Missing Out ?

For some, parts of life they restrain.
From passion, love, compassion they refrain.
Living out life in this fashion, what will they gain ?
 
Freedom from a life of pain ?
Missing the essence of each moment, missing freedom’s train ?

 Fears that lay heavy upon one’s heart, create much strain !
One has to wonder ?, what of that  life, will remain ?,
to carry them through and on to the next plane.

 One has to wonder ?, who’s hands reign.
One has to wonder ?, who’s eyes shed the rain,
who has the power to pull, the rein ?

B. J. “A” 2
November 26th, 2012

Saturday, November 17, 2012


Ghostly Images
 
Why is it ?, that we must forget
what it is we have not lived, yet.
From birth, life blinds, yet we have met
that forgotten life, in moments of de’ ja vu.
Could this be our life ?, we occasionally get to view.
 
For most, that life remains mute.
For some, it becomes quite astute.
 
Upon invisible wings, the wind carries a soul
into a void, where no one will know.
Within, the confines of a silent voice, a spirit,
a spirit without the eloquence of enlightened speech.
Therefore, nary an ear to hear, an eye to see, a mind to reach.
Yet that inner voice continues to search for the dance
that will lead a wayward soul across the rainbows to romance.
A love affair with all of the beauty life has to offer,
not to let it rot behind steel doors of the mind’s coffer.

It is, in all that one believes, that creates the fear,
that in the end, will leave them with nothing that is dear.
Therefore, misty, translucent shadows will become all.
Love of life, love of self will surly fall.
These be the images of what lie far below,
a reality hidden among the shadows that lay low
all that could bring one to great heights,
bring one into the beauty of full light.
 
B. J. “A” 2
November 17th 2012

Sunday, November 11, 2012


Refractions of a Soul.
Reflections of that spirit.

 Wondering what ?, at the hands of man, did we create.
Wondering what ?, throughout one’s life, came from the hands of fate.
Wondering what ?, in the end, will one’s life truly state.
Wondering what ?, approaching the end, will be our destiny.
Wondering what ?, when reaching that end, will it be  for you and me.
We are unable to live in the moments of yesterday.
We may only live in the hours of today.
Questions seldom provide answers, only more
that let us know we may never know what is behind that door,
or what will greet us, be our forevermore.
 
B. J. “A” 2
November 11th 2012

Saturday, November 10, 2012


WAR – the creator
( of destruction and death )

From the beginning of mans time on this earth,
he has been a killing machine
- killing for food to survive,
- killing for a plot of land,
- killing because of prejudice,
- killing because of differences,
- killing by some quirk of fate,
– killing by some unforeseen accident.
Man killed with his sticks and stones,
breaking many of his fellow man’s bones.
As man evolved, progressed ?,
over millions of years.
From
Pliopithecus, 22–12 million year old "ancestor of the gibbon line" to,
Proconsul, 21–9 million year old primate which may or may not have qualified as an ape to,
Dryopithecus, 15–8 million year old fossil ape, the first such found (1856) and probable ancestor of modern apes to,
Oreopithecus, 15–8 million years old to,
Ramapithecus, 13–8 million year old ape and possible ancestor of modern orangutans (now classified as Sivapithecus) to,
Australopithecus, 2–3 million years old; then considered the earliest “certain hominid”
Paranthropus, 1.8–0.8 million years old to.
Advanced Australopithecus, 1.8–0.7 million year old to,
Homo erectus, 700,000–400,000 years old, then the earliest known member of the Homo genus to,
Early Homo sapiens, 300,000–200,000 years old;
from Swanscombe, Steinheim and Montmaurin, then considered probably the earliest H. sapiens to,
Solo Man, 100,000–50,000 years old; described as an extinct Asian "race" of H. sapiens (now considered a sub-species of H. erectus) to,
Rhodesian Man, 50,000–30,000 years old; described as an extinct African "race" of H. sapiens
(now considered either H. rhodesiensis or H. heidelbergensis and dated much earlier) to,
Then the gods became involved in the genetic evolution of man.
Neanderthal Man, 100,000–40,000 years old to,
Cro-Magnon Man, 40,000–5,000 years old ,
And then we have Adam and Eve,
Modern Man, 40,000 years to present .
We
As children of the gods, emulate our creators,
and they where violent, warring gods.
History, the old testament, the dead sea scrolls,
the Mesopotamian tablets,
the East Indian Sanskrit,
and many, many more sources tell us so.
War is in our genes, in our blood.
After thousands of years of wars The Great War,
World War One sprung to life and death,
then came World War Two.
Today, November 11th , we take a moment
to member the men and women,
solders and civilians alike,
that gave their lives to insure
we could live out our lives
in some semblance of freedom.
 
B. J. “A” 2

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

 
Solitary

( confinement )

Sitting alone, fifty two in hand.
Fate dealt what ?, to this man.

A gift of four beauty Queens,
before these eyes stand,
what is it ?, that life means
for the man in his house of cards,
a man who attempts to play the game of bards.

A realization that life, sometimes, is not fare
especially for a man that plays games of solitaire,
who knows, in the end, will never get him there .


B. J. “A” 2

November 7th, 2012
 
 

Saturday, November 3, 2012


For this old man / all of humanity
---------------------------------------------------
A good day is full – with the light from a sincere embrace,
a deep look into sparkling eyes, from a beautiful face,
the electricity from a sweet, passionate kiss,
the essence from moments, never to miss.

These are but a few things that make, upon this earth,
One’s joy and a soul filled with merriment and mirth.
A good day is one, One, can give from the heart.
A good day is one, if this is where we’d start !
For some, they have made it an art,
a beautiful painting to hang on everyone’s wall.
From those who can give their all.

B. J. “A” 2
November 3rd 2012

Wednesday, October 31, 2012


Memories

Memories of, come on the wings of shadowy, rainbow coloured experiences we hang on,
to the hands of Father Time, as he carries on, while all else – history – is long gone.
Memory ticks off each moment, sends them on their way into the darkness,
for some, into everlasting perpetuation of shear starkness .

 The face of  Father Time winks, he blinks and reflects with every turn
all that we once knew, or went through – maybe ?, still yearn
for, yet we ocassionally realize that the face of Old, Father Time,
is but a mirror, reflecting what – for some – was once so sublime.

 Memories guide some into what was surly a crime.
Memories for others, take them into the poetry of rhyme.
Memories for some, lock them up, will not let them be.
Memories for the rest, have always kept them free.
Memories, sometimes are willing to let you see
that one’s life has been a great sea
of many coloured experiences to cherish,
each moment of them to relish.
 
B. J. “A” 2
October 31st, 2012


LOVE SOMETIMES

The world of love can be blind, unkind and cruel.
The world of love, desire, heart on fire, not for an old fool.
The world of love,  flames of a funeral pyre.
The world of love, love duth it expire.

The world of love, insatiably hungry for connection.
The world of love, an unquenchable thirst for affection.
The world of love, a universe, the rhythms it doth know.
The world of love, for us, the beat – we must go with the flow.
The world of love, in the end, what do we truly know ?
 
B. J. “A” 2
October 31st, 2012