Life’s wonders

 I often wonder ?, when will you let light of day invade your bed.

I often wonder ?, when will you let bright hour penetrate your head

 

I often wonder ?, when will you let life take hold of you.

I often wonder ?, when will you let it all go – start some things anew.

 

I often wonder ?, when will you let yourself say “ enough is enough, that will do”.

I often wonder ?, as I often do, what will become, what will you do about you ?

 

I often wonder ?, then realize – comes to hard, comes to little – never a change,

for all that has come to be, will always remain, within the range

 

of all that has been planted – stamped within your brain –

will exist, –to a major degree –forever, in the actions / reactions – will remain,

 

to tell the stories that created the life of a child living in pain,

children who live out their lives, forever shedding tears an everlasting rain

 

These innocent children / women of today, who cannot seem to escape

all the horrors that brought them down – forever, their souls to rape !,

 

as they are knocked to the ground, with every misunderstanding

from those who want – are - the power, and commanding

 

every thought, every action, every minute of their lives, their day.

Escape is hard, difficult, impossible, and so all they do !, is stay

 

within the clutches of their nightmare, never seeing or seeing another way

for them to escape the grasp, of the consternations dragging then into the fray.

 B. J. “A ” 2

September 2nd 2003

When in love

 In love, one sees - with the eyes of the heart – brilliant, rainbow skies.

Hours upon hours of veiled, bright, living light, fill ones blinded eyes.

Lives - all wrapped up by loves sharp talons, clutching at - glow.

A glow one sees, feels, experiences, touches, lives, believe know.

 

Then come days, when one wonders, where will it all go ?,

as love’s life slipped out the back door, leaving nothing to show

– except waning memories, memorabilia, loss of breath and sighs –

as all has moved on, ( changes in one’s glass of beer ) and cries.

 

And so, loves Sweet Street - once a lush garden full of wonder –

now meanders, - wanders upon desert sands – barren and asunder,

into emptiness, into meaningless passages, – of time, of life –

those shadowy, dark spaces of one’s mind, filled with strife.

 

B. J. “A ” 2

September 2^nd 2003

Lost .

Lost, are becoming the possibilities of

– as swords strike vengefully at the soul of

– as knifes, painfully pierce the fragile heart of

– as words of mass destruction blow up all hopes of

– as all the above has added to the putrefying, decaying of

– as they all dissolve ( like acid )away, leaving nothing left of

what might have been acceptable, and in time might

have become rays of hope, curing all, in the, suns light

dissipating the shadows that haunt the darkness of night,

your worlds, from the past, that create all your strife,

leaving so very little left, for expressing, and living life.

 

I realize, that in all your frustration and pain,

the only way to feel strong, stand tall and gain

is to dump on others parades, with a deluge of rain,

that upon them, leaving your mark, will be a stain

for all to see, to believe, and that belief to maintain,

as you sing your dirges to them, to me, to all you refrain.

 

B. J. “A ” 2

August 28^th 2003

Visions of you

 

I see a knight in armour – one of King Arthur’s – ready to do battle

at the drop of a word – for Queen, country, god and ego.

 I see Babe Ruth, knocking balls out of the game,

in order to be the winning team – for god country and soul.

I see Amelia Earhart, taking on the air, the skies, the world

– for ego, spirit, soul, heart and the abused child / woman in her.

I see Muhammad Ali, putting on the gloves in order to knock out

all wood be challengers to her position, control, power, rightness.

I see a chess pro, taking out the pawns, the knights, the bishops,

rooks, the queen – check mating the king – putting him in his place,

- under her thumb, under her queen - winning the game.

I see a friend chocking up in the crunch – makes the wrong choices –

ends up missing, sinking the eight ball that she is now behind.

Never winning the game she so desperately wants to play well.

 

I see a friend who needs so much more than she is,

who needs so much more than she ever gets,

who needs to be a lover and loved,

who needs to be loved as a lover.

  

Visions of you
Part Two

De ja vu - I see a sergeant, major, barking out orders, to all,

as if this world were her own private army.
I see a little Hitler, – mustache and all – trying to rule
her tiny, little universe – make it fit her ideal dream.
I see a Johnnie Cochran, and his dream team ( your demons ),
O J Simpson, the defendant, convincing herself and the world
she is truth, she is right, she is might, and as  Jonnie Cochran,
the lawyer, the mouth piece shooting down - all reason, all logic,
all attempts – by denying, by lying, by deception, by trying
to baffle brains with bull shit, by throwing every irrelevant
- verbal diarrhoeaed – thought and word into the fray,
in order to distract, avoid the issues, the truths, to be right.
I see a Jim Jones, a Joseph Smith, preaching her gospel,
a gospel according to her - designed to have the sheep,
the blind, the week, the lost souls of this planet  
to follow her path without question, and in the end,
sacrifice “ ALL ” for the sake of her fragile soul,
her floundering, lost spirit, her ill ego.
I see a friend, with a heart of gold, if truth be told.
More of a friend to those who have done her wrong.
then to those who truly care, about her welfare.
 

B. J. “A ” 2

July 29^th, 2003

 

Moving on ???

 

I have come to wonder – as time passes – why ?,

the lady brings tears to my heart – makes me cry.

This lady who took in hand, in holy of holies, in mouth,

resurrecting a dyeing old soul, then went south.

 

This lady who, with a little time, could raise,

the dead, and in that time, did vigorously praise

as she took a weeping willow, turned it into a mighty oak.

That was then, now, never comes back, not a word has she spoke.

 

I think of times, when beaver lips, kissing, did stroke

a fading son into becoming a mighty oak, at midnights son rise.

I do feel – maybe too much sometimes – that I have lost the prize.

Oh !, why ?, does she choose to ignore, to  leave behind

 

this old man’s limp, impotent, troubled mind,

a mind that feels, that senses, that is trying to find

out why it is that he seems so unimportant,

why ?, it is that this is all he can rant.

 

B. J. “A ” 2

July 26^th 2003

 

Part Two

I wonder ?, - with your distance –

if we, at these moments,

are not closer than time will tell.

I wonder ?, - if you, as do I –

feel the losses in never knowing

a mornings glory, of never hearing,

knowing, telling a positive story.

I wonder ?, if our time has reached

out and touched an end.

I wonder ?, if you no longer look for,

need, no longer want me as a friend.

 

The naked winds of actions, reactions flow past these eyes.

They do not deceive, hide their meanings, nor do they tell lies.

What lies lie behind the eyes of the beholder, is in the telling,

is in their perception of the world, it is what their mind is spelling

 

out for them, and does not have a thing to do with cold

receptions, distances, avoidances or harsh words told

as moist air drifts across the bridge and it begins to rain

and with one’s nose, know what brings on the pain.

 

B. J. “ A ” 2

July 28^th 2003

Part Three

A war of the roses, by any other name, was no sweeter !,

as pre and post-midnight hours dragged on in battles waged,

from both sides, where I experienced a clever, cunning, crafty,

master manipulator, a shrewd, screwed, master of mass destruction

that used words as weapons, breaking, crushing the head of the enemy.  

 

I have to wonder if I am the enemy proper ?, or that of a cracked mirror ?,

reflecting the many facets of your life’s experiences ?, and because of this roll

– a docile, inanimate entity – it is easy to throw sticks and stones, darts, knifes

and other keen, explosive, destructive projectiles that seem to flow with such ease.

Could this all be ?, because I have no value, no meaning, no relevance, no importance.

 

Are these the reasons for the twisted perversions of reality, of my phrasings ?,

of my statements ?, my beliefs ?, my thoughts, thoughts that have come back at me

in a barrage of hostility, at such a driving force, it could knock ones world of its axis’s.

I wonder ?, just how much of this comes from a lifelong habit, of defending against ghosts.

I wonder ?, just how much of this is your reality and how much of this is imaginary / fantasy.

 

I wonder ?, just how much of this might be – attempted one up man ship.

I wonder ?, just how much of this might be – pure, unadulterated, game playing.

I wonder ?, just how much of this scenario might be an offensive / defensive mechanism.

I wonder ?, just how much of this might be the walls, the moats, the chasms that might hide

whatever the reasons for you choosing / taking an opposing position – for taking the opposite side.

 

The choices made are the choices I have to live with – acceptable or not.

There is no possibility for me to be in control ?, especially if I am being controlled.

Being in control seems to be the essence, the heart, soul, spirit, the name of your game.

Being right, seems to be an aspect of your game, no matter if the evidence proves otherwise.

You are not the only one. I see many of these troubling traits in other areas of life on this plane.

 

I see it in other people, friends, relatives, acquaintances and professionals.

So too, with me, and so I must not place to much stock in how I seem affected

by these behavioral traits, I have observe in human nature / nurture, for I am a big boy

and walk this earth, this plane, with both eyes wide open, even if they have been blackened

many times, swollen shut, along with my bruised soul, battered spirit and beaten, grounded ego.

 

But then, what ?, is a good friend if he cannot stand some abuse

still hang in there and remain a good friend that can be counted on.

Thoughts – few of the many – left in the wake of another battle, waged,

in the war of the roses, that will never be able to release their sweet fragrance,

with total abandon, freedom or true understanding and acceptance of what they are.

Without prejudice – Without judgment

B. J. “A ” 2

July 29^th 2003

Satin Sheets

A grave yard for a million dreams

Light of day, exposes what darkness of night, hides

upon platinum, satin skies, above an emerald green sea,

where- upon the waves of passion – you and I take rides,

leaving behind – in a cloud – dream children from you and me.

Children who – upon the light of dawn- dream no more, just die

as they leave behind their essence, upon a satin platinum sky,

as we drift in and out – splash about – side by side lie,

before all comes to an end, you ready, my friend, say goodbye.

I wonder what could have been ?, where their essence will go ?

These unborn children, without dreams, dreams I will never know.

As the dreams in my head begin to fade from view,

I get out of bed, and lost, is all I thought I knew.

B. J. “A” 2

July 17^th 2003