Play with the Bull !

Get the Horn !

 

Dominate males, old Bulls, – lose it, banished.

Majour years of existance - now finished.

 

Left to wander alone, in the shadows of their memories,

as time, experience and space are what tell the stories

 

as they are trying to find new and different ways

to live, to survive, to fill their end days.

 

Heads held high !, life’s meaning never diminished.

Majour years of existance – not quite finished.

 

Even if, no glory, as the body acts in it’s final play

and that is all these old Bulls, take on their way.

 

B. J. “A” 2
May 15^th 2004

Springs heat- not but a dying ember

 
Shades of green fill the air. and all around.
In bright blue skies, seen, shadows crawl the ground.
Spring fever no longer seems to melt
away winters chill- all that is felt.
 
Buds do open and they do flower.
Aged, never seems to find the hour.
 
Seasons have passed us by.
Little is left, but for us to try.
Wipe the moisture from our eye.
No longer sit back and cry
 
Ah !, if only the goddess Aphrodite,
could spread her mystic reality ?
 
If only she’d sprinkle her sensual, passionate powers
upon the souls of us Ancient One’s, remaining hours.
Upon occasion, arise, know no finality
as life, upon us showers inevitability.
 
Love, passion aplenty, by the ton.
To know – once again – all that fun.
 
All that passion, that youthful beauty.
Oh, to know - in depth – a little cutety.
Oh, to know once again that our seeds
– buried deep – could germinate, fill needs.
 
Crawl out of the ground, reach out, touch,
permeate those heavenly bodies, feel so much.

About what fertilized our flowering
as we stood tall, towering
over life that made us a whole lot richer then,
during those blossoming years - younger men.
 
No longer, yet, no more empty then before
even as time begins to close the door.
 
So my Beauties, thank you all, for the all
you gave to make this garden grow – before the fall -,
before experience, life, fate, age made the call
that brings life to that last walk down the hall.
 
That hall of mirrors reflecting life – glorious –
in its all as we look into it – wondrous.
 
B. J. “A” 2
May 15^th 2004

Fractured hearts

 

The hearts that have – many times – bled.

For years, many tears have they shed.

 

Those hearts, who have known many tears

find themselves living out their lives with fears.

 

Afraid they will be seen, with all their scar tissue

exposed, being the essence, the heart of their issue

 

that brings on – within social intercourse – strife

that makes it difficult for them to live out a loving life.

 

In quiet desperation, they supress their rage

and live out their lives in a cold, gray, steel cage.

 

Missing out on all those precious moments waiting,

afraid to suck the life out of each – aloneness creating

 

as time slips by, while they wait.

lose of time will be their fate.

 

Life for them will be over

in their fear of rolling over.

 

B. J. “A ” 2

December 6^th 2014

Nowhere Man

 

Star dust, the stuff of a fool’s dreams.

Oh !!!, to travel upon star dust streams

- that glorious, never ending journey -

into the realms, the space of many.

 

This old spirit, seems, not to fit into any

mold nor on any rung of the social latter,

that I think, should not, ever  matter.

And so I have to wonder ?,

as upon this planet, I wander.

Is there any place for me ?,

where I might fit in – one day to see ?

In my youth, some perceived me to be

Sall Minnio, even the King,

- Elvis Presley, - this idea girls would bring

with them, in their pursuit of me.

 

As an adult, I came to be seen

 – an Italian, a Greek, a Mexican –

a First Nations is what I’ve been

as folks do the best they can.

As people guessed at my race,

looking and looking into my face,

the essence, the spirit, the soul of this man.

 

Yet nowhere do I fit - I belong to no place.

Nowhere do I find a fitting space

for this German, French, British, Native,

gene pool, my heritage doth give.

Plus the few – long forgotten – more

that came through the genetic door

– open for viewing the heart of this old soul –

where there is reflection and getting to know.

 

There have been some who would pass

this face of many – this face of looking glass

refraction – to see truth – a Redman’s blood in the veins

of this First Nation soul – the spirit which remains

for this old soul, the essence of my spirit,

even in times when many would not tolerate it.

And so, it is not a wonder

why this soul seems to flounder,

cannot find anything sounder,

 

between the jagged, ragged edges

of created, keen, sharp - wedges

between who and what I am, and

where it is I could possibly stand.

There is not – it seems to me – a place

where I fit in, can stand, turn and face,

see a possible niche – a place to belong,

before, my life is almost gone,

as I look back upon all the roads,

- the stories, the tales, the heavy loads –

 

I have travelled, yet know not what will be told

of what rung, on the social ladder I hold,

what plateau to find shelter in ?,

what plane to fly above, be comfortable in ?,

what place to rest my spirit, my soul within ?,

what space can I find to forget all the sin ?

I have walked with the sane and insane.

I have talked with the educated and uneducated.

I have been in the company of intelligence and unintelligent.

I have laid with the secure and the insecure.

I have laid with passion’s fire and frigid’s cold.

 

I have known the moral and the immoral.

I have known those of faith and the faithless

I have known the killed and the killer

I have known those who have taken their own lives

I have known the givers and the takers

I have known the movers and the shakers

I have known the honest and the dishonest

I have known the psychic and the blind.

I have known the truth sayers and the bullshitters,

The fast lane, the slow lane, the middle lane I’ve moved in.

The sober, the drunkard – I’ve been and been with.

The strong, the weak – I’ve been and been with.

 

The used, the abused  – I’ve been and been with.

The users and the abusers -- I’ve known and know me.

The wealthy, the poor – I’ve known and know me.

Financial wealth and Spirituality -- I’ve known and know me.

The saver of a life -- I’ve known and was me.

The living and the dead -- I’ve known and know me.

Having a brush with artists has been my fate.

Having acted up with entertainers has been my fate.

Having had words with writers has been my fate.

Having become a rhymer, like my forth cousin, has been my fate.

I have played with players – strummed a note or two.

I have laid with singers-- sung a note or two.

I have laid with dancers – danced a step or two.

 

I have struck an arc alongside a welder – a time or two.

I have sprayed painted cars alongside a painter – a time or two.

Hammering out metal with body men – I have done.

Twisting wrenches with mechanics – I have done.

Busining along side business men – I have done.

Being a lover, I always thought, was my forte.

Being a husband, I thought I knew how to play.

Being a father, I thought I knew I would stay.

Being a friend, I thought was always my way.

To be a son – a child’s dream.

To be a brother – not to be it seems

 as all the above drifts downstream,

leaving one to wonder, what life really means ?

Life’s journey can be a wondrous mystery !,

 

when one leafs through the pages of his history.

One’s life can also be a disastrous story ?,

one of little hope, dim light and no glory.

So what is left for this old fool ?,

but to carry on breaking the old rule,

rules that make it possible to call oneself a poet,

something I never call myself, a poet, and I know it !

I do the best I can

That is who I am !

Being a carny – traveling with The World’s Finest show.

For a couple of seasons – that is all I did know.

Being a dishwasher, a server, a busboy, a waiter, a manager

of a restaurant, many dimensions of life. I was egger 

to come into contact with, to try and understand.

As fate would have it, understanding never came to this hand.

 

Today, a bum – forty eight years ago – father said

“ the best dressed bum in town ” would be my stead.

What goes around – at some point in time – comes around.

There is some truth to this, that I have certainly found.

Even though I have touched the edges of many a life.

Many places, pieces of each and everyone, not one has been

a place for me, a place I felt I belonged, the places I’ve seen

do not leave pillows for my spirit,  beds to rest my soul, rife

with uncertainty, is my state, almost every day

I can find no place, no space for me to play.

Looking into this distorted collage

I wonder if it is but a mirage ?

My flaws lie in the heart of my feeling !, it is my sin !,

this belief that there is no place, no space where I fit in.

 

B. J. “A” 2

May 1^st 2004

Rare Flowers

 A woman I know – always there.

A helping hand for all – works for Share.

A heart of gold – this soul doth care

for the needs of lives – nothing fair,

for them it seems – lost dreams, she is rare.

 

This rare flower – I see – gives voice

to what is missing – her name is Joyce,

Joyce, is ideal, is positive – is a great choice

for a world in dire - desperate need

of her to manage - homeless to feed

in this world - dominated by greed.

This rose germinates great seed,

even if one’s dreams – turned to weed –

never to see the light of day – ever again –

yet her and they, will forever remain.

 

B. J. “A” 2
April 22^nd 2004

Shoot Em Down

 

Going off half cocked !!!

My spirit, you rocked !!!

 

Thought processes a mess ion.

Dangerous as a Smith & Wesson.

 

Tongue – explosive 45 caliber ammunition

tearing, ripping through to submission.

 

The flesh, the spirit of this old soul,

you cannot see, do not see, may not know

 

how much you have torn this spirit apart.

How it is experienced in this aged one’s heart.

 

Time’s passing has made it possible, not to be shocked

at the spirit, the soul, the heart  you have socked

 

with all that has become, you should never start.

I am blind, not to bright, but now is time to part.

 

And so my dear, I wonder ?, how will it end ???

In days to come, will I still be considered a friend ?

 

Or will I be considered your foe ?

Is this what I will come to know ?

 

B. J. “A” 2

April 16^th 2004

Deep  seated  Blues

This ugly colour, long lived – sung, can be cathartic.

Setting free destructive moods – escaping the harsh Artic

waste lands, as one births her voice – begins to sing

of all – their essence, their understanding - aloud, will bring

to this, sad, – lost in the history of your time -

wasted emotions traversing the pathways of this rhyme.

A song of cathartic notes, brings joy, a peaceful way

in which to begin life anew, start a brand new day.

 

To this world, coloured in blue, let us pray

that all the pain – created – will fade away,

making room for rays of sun light to shine,

to light up a path, a wealth of experience to mine,

– for gold, the brass ring – the freedom to find

the meaning this ode, this voice, that has told

to the sight of the listener, so she may unfold

and choose to take a much smother road.

B. J. “A” 2

April 9^th 2004