Reflections

As one’s shadow comes face to face with end days,

reflections, upon the walls of one’s memories hoard

dance across the surfaces of shards, of shattered mirrors,

singing with a voice from within those splinters, projecting.

Images of past lives, yesterday, today, tomorrow,

at the speed of light, across space time continuum,

telling stories of what was, what might have been.

Reflections ???, projections ???, definitions ???

B. J. “A” 2

December 2^nd, 2018

Life sometimes

Has been nothing more than raging streams

cascading over the sharp edges of rocky dreams.

Surging down sculptured mountain sides so steep

where dreams splinter, reflected in troubled sleep.

Remnants of, go beyond recognition, no longer to keep

within the subconscious confines of one’s memory hoard,

yet, once filed, the virtuous, the debauched become stored

forever more, upon one’s synaptic cleft, to become scored.

It seems that much of my stuff is habitually subjective.

Seldom has it been that they are of the stuff that is objective.

My thoughts, my feelings, my words are mostly selective.

They all come from past memories that are reflective.

B. J. “A ” 2

November 27^th 2018

Eagles  and  Stallions

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My Black Bird has long been gone.

Memories of many flights, linger on.

Only a Pony, today, fast and strong,

could bring this olds souls, life along,

I miss that beautiful open cockpit.

It was me and such a perfect fit,

galloping down many of, a long winding road,

creating thousands of stories that could be told,

for this wild, uninhibited old soul,

who, one more time, wants to know

of a man facing the sunset of life, wind in his hair

waving goodbye, and without a thought or a care

the life of a wander, life’s adventures to come,

moments, in all likelihood, to make up life’s sum

for what remains, what is left of life on this plane.

Never more to contemplate all that one felt of pain   

before the bright lights dim, beautiful sun set fades,

no more roller-coaster rides, no more penny arcades.

caused, pain suffered throughout a long and checkered career

that bear back riding  in the heart of a Silver Mustang, dear

My Black Bird has long been gone, wings clipped.

Memories of many flights, linger on, what a trip.

will dissipate from consciousness, but never ones memory hoard.

In the saddle of a wild stallion, unlike on the wings a Bird, bored,

My Black Bird has long been gone, forget I try.

Memories of many flights, linger on, a tear I cry.

never comes to one’s feeble, old mind, as he gallops to the end of time

on the back of  a steed who needs a little TLC, as expressed in this rhyme.

B. J. “A ” 2

October 12^th, 2018

66 Thunder Bird

During my days of old.

Ones stories to be told.

Black Bird, Thundering down many a winding road.

Smokin, at 120, above many black tops, being bold.

My Birds wings, in eighty eight, I did clip.

I could no longer fly her, take another trip,

crisscrossing this vast Continent, from shore to shore,

north to south, east to west, south to north, never more.

Never more to sit in the open cockpit.

My wild personality, so well, it did fit.

Memories, adventures, journeys, so many I had.

All but dust in the winds of times passing, so sad

that the beauty of this sixty six no longer fills my inner eye.

Contemplating the loss, reminiscing of stories untold, I cry.

Just a moment of reflecting, a moment of reminiscing,

many thoughts of times in a life that have gone missing.

One’s life, empty as it is, must, continue moving on

even if it means, leaving behind times long gone.

What will never leave the halls of my memories hoard,

are the visions of my Beautiful Daughter, being stored.

Having left her behind, she hung in this orb, watched me

fly over a hundred thousand miles, every mile she did see

as they went by, in the rear view mirror, from which she hung,

as the 390 GT did hum, my long hair flowing as the wind sung

with evey strand waving goodbye to what was, hello to what will be.

Che sara sara and forty four years later, I wonder if I was truly free.

My Thunder Bird convertible has long been gone, I do not fret.

My Daughters youth, has, long been gone, I missed, I do regret.

At seventy five, my wings, weak, are no longer are able to fly

and so, a big silver bird ( july 7^th ) will take me into the sky

and back into the arms of my history, my Family, my past.

I am impatient for all that awaits me, sad / happy, home at last.

B. J. “A ” 2

June 11, 2018

Dreaming

                                     Dreams, like caterpillars – pupa to butterfly, butterflies in flight.
                                     Dreams, like creation – become the world we chose to inhabit.
                                               
                                     Dreams, one devises – are but the past, the present, the future.
                                     Dreams, one devises – are but yesterdays and today’s events.

                                     Dreams, are files – subconscious, surrealistic glass doors.
                                     Dreams, are psychic – windows into the past, into the future.

                                     Dreams, give hope – for the here and now, for the other side.
                                     Dreams, are but journeys – rehashing many of life’s issues.

                                     Dreams, reoccurring – unresolved experiences, over and over.
                                     Dreams, for some – the need for power, the need to control.

                                     Dreams, for some – the need for peace, happiness and love.
                                     Dreams, for some – the need to give, to share, to be a part of.

                                     Dreams, dissipate – dissolving like multi-faceted snowflakes.
                                     Dreams, decay – become fallen, autumn leaves in transition.

                                     Dreams, awake, shatter – like beautiful, fragile crystal.
                                     Dreams, awake, shatter – ones reality, in the light of day.

                                     Dreams, disintegrate – a dilapidated, rusted out old auto.
                                     Dreams, come to not – for they are dead end, gravel roads.

                                     Dreams, an adventure – take one on so many journeys.
                                     Dreams, a black hole – from which some cannot escape.

                                     Dreams, then again – are like rose petals covered in dew.
                                     Dreams, reflecting – refracting every colour of a rainbow.

B.  J. “ A ” 2

May 17^th, 2018

Friday April 13th 2018

Has become a day for remorse.
Life's journey, on a new course

The Grim Reaper, knocked on his door.
Life, as he once knew it, to be never more.

Hopes dashed upon the jagged edges of life
as this reality fills these hours with rife

thoughts, this life has reached an end.
An adventure around the next bend,

An exploration into a transition. 
A Soul, from this plane, in submission

as it sojourns from all the pain,
body, spirit suffered on this plane.

Is this Friday April 13th, a bad luck day?
or one we look forward to and pray?,

that this loss should not be of sadness,
but reason for celebration and gladness.

For now, he may go back to the essence
of what he once was and in colescence,

become one with himself, without regret
for those that plagued, caused him to fret

as he traversed this, his last road
without the weight of his heavy load.

This coming July, will we come to smile?, 
as we recall and walk with him , his last mile.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Fond memories, carry we must

as we all come together and reminis 
about a Father, an Uncle, a man we will miss!

Well these memories evoke?
Will throats tighten and choke

back a torrent of  tears,
now, to alleviate the fears.

Friday the 13th, 2018, the year
mortality, touched, was so near.

B. J. “A” 2
April 13th, 2018

His days are numbered

A journey, fate is determined to take my Dad.

Old age, ( 94 ), stage four cancer makes me sad.

This came across the wires on Friday’s phone call.

My thoughts, bring to this reality, this may be all.

His last words, three thousand miles away, I hear.

They now become the grit for my greatest fear.

His face, his humour, his spirit will not be around

for my grandsons wedding, when I am in town.

I pray that the coming of this July,

tears do not cloud, make for a blue sky.

Shroud the essence behind my third eye,

filling my hours with tears, as I cry,

for the loss of my Father,

rising to meet his Mother.

B. J. “A ”2

April 9^th, 2018