Dried Up

 

Time – Mother Nature – guiding forces of the Grim Reaper,

that guardian Angel, that patient gate keeper.

 

Autumn leaves, clothed in reds, browns, yellows and gold.

I, a man of experiences, of age – this life has grown cold

 

in the warmth of the sun, days that are kept fair

- under blue skies, in my crown of white hair –

 

in time – callous – laying  in dark shadows, to wait,

to watch it all crumble – in hand – my fate,

 

as it is for all, - skeletal remains - as all turns to dust,

as all, in the end, in the final analysis, must

 

in order to set free - for the soul to be –

all, as all reaches out to become a part of eternity.

 

Life’s great, glorious ship, set adrift in that black ?, sea,

is life’s journey, what lays ahead for you and me

 

as we move on into – that question - what will be,

for us, consciously, never to see.

 

B. J. “A ” 2

September 3^rd 2004

Pain

Clad in cloths that will, one day, decay from

- once all is gone – the loss of what housed some

of what the spirit, the soul would not hide

from eyes - willing to see – on the same ride

that will wash all away on times tide.

 

Why then ?, do I know cruel words from her mouth,

instead of warm words from a compassionate south

- where all does not lie at the heart of a matter –

beyond just thoughtless desire for – frustrations that scatter

those poisonous barbs, piercing my sensitive ear

 

with things that should not be, for a father to hear.

Heavy with sadness, is my heart, the one you steal

with harsh, venomous, malicious words that reveal

a lack of love, of consideration, of respect,

of concern – a lack of family ties ?, I suspect.

 

My spirit – once again – has been contaminated

by your hostility – my heart broken by words I’ve hated,

coming out of your mouth – words that destroy my soul,

a soul - by your mother, your sister- crippled, you already know

this, as within my demeanor, upon my face, surely doth show.

 

Yet, you seem not to possess the desire nor strength to let it go

- this ugly means by which you three find it so easy to be mean –

I guess, Dear Daughter, of mine, maybe I deserve it, it’d seem

as I look at the tapestry - threads of family ties that bind – it’s seams

seem fragile, tattered and torn, fraying the edges of my dreams.

 

All that brought the above to life – I have to wonder  ?,

my Dear, what was the real need and who needed

those black clouds you created, and then seeded,

bringing on vicious winds, pounding rain, lightning and thunder

into my life - my heart, my soul and spirit you’ve torn asunder.

 

B. J. “A” 2

August 30^th  2004

 

 

Shakespeare – for fun - Part One

 

To Be – in hell, to be able to understand Elizabethan vocabulary,

Or Not To BE – able to speak in that tongue, to penetrate Hell.

THAT IS THE QUESTION – Can Elizabethan’s Hell, her todays

come in colours ?, by this talking tongue, by hand or by a thoughtful,

dedicated upright man, who stands up, to do the very best he can

to bring your hell, those fires, passions, in every – in all ways

to the heights of delight every Hell would love to know, to tell of

until the day Hell’s fires burn out – all thought of  are to burry

as memories become the ships that will ferry

all these experiences into a black hole abyss

where all will go and those who used to know, no longer miss.

To be - the fire !  

Or Not To BE – the flame ?

THAT IS THE QUESTION - that will remain.

These thoughts of, – thought was a friend,

died long ago – in my thoughts to the end.

 

B. J. “A” 2

August 28^th  2004

Shakespeare – for fun - Part Two

To Be – all that comes into hells gate.

Or Not To BE – trying to re-enter our fate,

THAT IS THE QUESTION – so what can one state ?

Down life’s many roads I have been – this man of age.

Many adventures I’ve seen – these hands turned many a page

yet these lips still want to french kiss the lips of Hell’s door.

Instead, alone in my room – music, books, movies, nothing more.

Cathartic  - black inked words, upon bleached white paper - my fate,

expressed desire, my taste buds to savour, penetrating Hell’s gate,

reaching in , drink that pure nectar, suck sweet moisture from its well.

Life of youth - not youthfulness – gone, are the hopes, dreams and desires

of this aging, old man, daydreaming of days, a time to rekindle the fires.

This old man wants nothing more, than to be as before, erect standing tall.

That is desire, but unfortunately, fate doth require, one to take that fall.

The problem being, times destruction, keeps the desired at bay

and that beauty, once desired, has all but faded away.

B. J. “A” 2

August 30^th  2004

My house is not always a happy home .

 

Journee’s we all take – from time to time -

take me into thoughts travelling on roads to the past,

where I walk with ghosts, that sometimes haunt,

along with spirits that fly – free – into the sublime.

 

Both sojourn with me to places where dreams,

nightmares find refuge, incubate, where they be

- the facts of  life – one carries with them to the end.

For sanity to survive, one must make both friend.

 

Unlike most else in life, they are with us forever,

even if we burry, no longer see them in the light of day.

Like most else that moves on, they will not fade away,

just hide in dark corners of our house until night key

 

comes to unlock the subconscious, set the ghosts free.

That is the nature of the psychological, mind game

that human nature - the gods – have ingrained in you and me

and that is what ties us together as one, in there, we are the same.

B. J. “A” 2

August 22^nd 2004

Perceptions

What will the story be ?

 

Into the mysteries of the observing mind

one has to ponder, wonder just what kind

of tales, stories, beliefs will we see unfold

as the projections, the perceptions are told.

 

Will they be of nights, Knights on great white steeds ?

- of selfless acts, acts of compassion, understanding, of good deeds ?,

or will we see that they are black, cold, indifferent and cruel –

or just a man, - dressed as a mule – an aged, age old fool.

 

Will these Knightly images come at you in fierce

black storm clouds – thunder, the ears doth pierce.

Will your visions be of that great orb ?, and Helios’ steeds

bringing fire, passion, light – healing , filling your needs.

 

What will come across the impassioned – sky lit night ?,

that just might impress that third eye with insight.

Could all this be but an old, foolish man’s thought ?,

that in the final analysis, in the end, will come to not

 

for no one ?, will remember nor will they care,

nor will they be concerned about what is fare.

Down these rocky roads, some of us will go,

what we learn, will it be what we really know ?

 

Is the light – coming from within ? – to show

us, down life’s rough roads, alone we must go ?

Will a black hole become our future ?

Will shadows creep in from the past ?,

 

give us glimpses of - in refractive light - the present.

Will losses, changes, renewals be our guides towards the end ?

Will all this be guided by the hands of fate ?, will karma send

us on journeys, adventures ? education of the soul to mend ?

 

B. J. “A” 2

August 19^th 2004

No Title

In my hubris, youth – I knew then

as much as I think I  know now.

Only then I did not know when,

or where, or why, or how

 

it would all come together

nor would I know whether

I had what it would take

my world, my life to make

 

of what I think I know

or what shape or form it’d show ?

Does this mystic shadow of wisdom ?,

from long lost, past lives, come ?

 

There is this black, angry, cloud.

Upon eth my head, it doth shroud.

Could it be cosmic karma ?,

born of my delinquent ma, ma,

 

that biological creature, that female being

- birthing, wanting, never, me – incapable of seeing.

A speck of dust riding on the wind.

To her – I have known – I have sinned.

 

Has she been the distorted mold ?,

for every girl, every woman I hold

in the depths of my memories hoard

who have walked out my door, left me floored,

 

never to be an intimate part any more.

Should that make me angry, make me sore ?,

as I sit, lie, absorb in my room

just as I once did in the womb.

 

An innocent, confined and naked,

today, it is how I try and make it.

As then – all wrapped up, yet all alone

are my days and nights – on my own .

B. J. “A ” 2

August 15^th 2004

Losses

 

My hungers, thwarted – starved.

Justice, love, friendships, dreams.

My appetites, suppressed – denied.

Intelligence, passion, sex – dead.

 

For now, they only live in my head.

Regrets – many – living passed, I have cried

as all I have let slip away, it seems

leaves my spirit, my soul dry as stone – carved.

 

These, the thoughts of an old man

who thought, believes – does the best he can

with oh so little in his bag - he has at hand.

Family, friends – ghosts at the other end of this land.

 

B. J. “A” 2

August 11^th 2004