Destructors of Souls

Killers of the Spirit

 

Why is it ?, that man, the author, the painter, the sculptor,

the architect of women’s days, create her troubled nights.

 

Creates a world that strangles every innocent, true, emotion.

Creates emotions so twisted, so closed, that no one can get in.

 

Why does he write such horror into the story, for her life ?

Why are his paintings ?, demented images, in shade of gray ?

 

Why does he hammer away at her natural, naïve beauty ?,

creating an inhibited creature with his mallet and chisel !!!

 

Why does he draft plans, sketch images of dark buildings,

wherein she will hide, walk blindly for thirty years or more

 

carrying the weight of - she does not know, but it is wrong

and so she goes through life wondering why she is like ?

 

Why does the animal in man take precedence ?, come to the for

and obliterate the true nature, nurturing what kills from within.

 

Tear drops crystallize - in the corners of her eyes –

after the pressure of  many, many years. of fears,

 

metamorphosed into a million diamonds, that reflect

the memories of - refracting experiences into a thousand shards,

 

of a mirror, that tapestry, of the lost innocence of a child

who lives in the shadows, always walking that last mile.

 

B. J. “A” 2

July 18^th 2014

Edward ( Bud ) Atfield

Brother / Uncle

 

There is little to inspire this,

a day of reflection, but loads of hope.

 

There is a brother / uncle I will miss,

who has reached the end of life’s rope.

 

At the end of the Grim Reapers noose

his spirit, his soul to be free – let loose.

 

Time passed – eighty three years- age and cancer

have now taken their toll, he now knows the answer.

 

The time has come, to leave for changes

as his life’s flow, ebbs and rearranges

 

it’s atoms, it’s energy, it’s essence, it’s meaning,

to find all, in the new, that he will be feeling.

 

I am, oh so sorry that I will not be there

to say goodbye, offer best wishes as you fly

off to places far beyond the sight of these blind eyes

as we stare off into the blackness of, we know not where ?

 

I see where you once stood, standing before us, in our

memories hoard, now and forever more, during this hour.

 

I fondly remember your mentorship,

emulating, to be a mechanic, my apprenticeship.

 

I fondly remember the hours we drank, did talk.

In – but not all – your footsteps I tried to walk.

 

Love Bill .

B. J. “A ” 2

April 7^th 2004

Karma ?, Fate ?, Design ?,

Linda B. 2 .

 

A sixteen by twenty eight inch sheet of cotton

neatly folded – waiting – laying at the foot of my head,

in anticipation of passions delight, on what once was my bed.

Not to be – no good reason – as plans, passion turn rotten.

 

Rotting with doubt, as you drive on by, choose to carry on.

Not a call, not a word, then upon me it doth dawn,

that ever time – except for once – preparations made in advance

come down to – as you slip on past - I will not have a chance.

 

A chance to feel, to give, to write upon my crimson, satin cloud

the essence of what I once was, that now lay buried within a shroud.

Can it be chance ?, is it fate ?, or is it the guiding forces of design ?,

that are telling me to let it be, you are gone, leave it alone.

 

Que sara sara – what will be will be – I’ll just wait and see.

I guess there is little left ?, I should just resign,

myself to the fact that I will always be on my own,

and it is best, that I let you go, set you free.

 

B. J. “A” 2

April 4^th 2004

 

Time

 

Tomorrow is but a short, twenty fours from today.

Yet tomorrow never comes, it becomes history,

as soon as the moment passes, it lived and died,

all it could become, gone in the blink of an eye.

We stand on the razors edge and wonder ?,

what ?, laid in the sliver of light of that moment.

Souls coming souls going ?, de-ja-vu ?, psychic sight ?,

precognition ?, clairvoyance ?, meeting oneself in a mirror ?.

 

B. J. “A” 2

April 8^th 2004

My Gorgeous Lotus Blossom !!!

 

There is not a day - glorious or gloomy - that goes by

where visions bloom, of your beauty, fill my eye.

 

After these empty, four years, my heart still burns.

After these empty, four years, my soul still yearns.

 

After these empty, four years, my spirit still turns

over and over and over, yet nothing it learns.

 

Beautiful Lady, why is it that I still love you so ?

If you had a love for me, where did it go ?

 

I see you from time to time, we do many things

and to my heart, my spirit, joy it always brings.

 

I realize, for you, I will be nothing more  than a friend.

I am perplexed, why did my last great love come to an end ?

 

I know, while in your youth, you had to live, move on,

and without any malice, you had to let it die, be gone.

 

I do, so miss, your beauty, your Asian charm !!!

I do, so miss, your Oriental essence upon my arm !!!

 

Knowing what I do, I wonder why I still hang onto you

with such passion, with such delight, what am I to do ?

 

Tell me Xiao Ling, why do I still fight against the obvious ?

For I do know, in my mind, there will never again, be an us !

 

In my dreams, in my heart, in my soul, I cannot give up.

For you are my life’s blood, continually filling my cup.

 

Since we parted, I have been living a life of such futility,

and I have to wonder ?, just how much of it is insanity.

 

Loving someone like you, for me, what a great force !!!

Losing that love, for some, for me, a matter of life’s course.

 

An uneducated, indigent, disabled senior, thirty one year’s difference,

I feel, I believe, the core reason why you chose to end our romance.

 

For me my Dear, I never want to end such a beautiful dance !!!

Every time I hear your sweet voice, I want another chance !!!

 

Life doth slap this old fool in the face, with your reality.

I have to accept, with grace, with me, never again will you be !

I do still love you so !!!

This, you, very well know.

 

You permeate ever synapse in my mind.

Everywhere I go, everything I do, you I find,

 

like a beautiful ghost haunting every moment,

moments were I find, I am content.

 

B. J. “A” 2

July 9^th 2014

The Heavens

 

The believers believe Heaven is the place for our soul

and religions tell them so, but do they really know ?,

that the heavens, mans mirrored image of the Milky Way

religious leaders want us to believe - as they say-

that this barren, rocky shore, is where our souls will go,

for all eternity, in cold, distant space, Milky Way to glow.

 

Apparitions, ghosts, spirits, angels, pure energy, all seem to be,

not in the heavens, but here, all around us, if but we could see.

There are some , who can, – they have the power of third eye sight -

and are able to see, but not you and me, our minds, unable to know, flight.

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Sowing Seeds

A soul, searching the sea,

reaches into me, down, deep

to the depth of my life.

 

What will it find ?, what will it see ?

To the surface, what will creep ?

Will it cut like a keen knife ?

 

Will my souls begin to bleed ?

Will I find out, my true need ?

Will I plant a positive  seed ?

 

B. J. “A” 2

April 3^rd 2004

Fathers

A son desires – requires a little of the fires –

that some fathers places upon funeral pyres.

 

Lost to ghostly shadows prowling the hallways of ones mind.

Catching glimpses of, drifting past the corners of, one will find

 

little in them, of substance to tell one just what kind

of man – this man called dad – was / is and no sign

 

that a day will come, when his light, his essence will define

for ones aging soul, the empty places left in the passing of time.

 

I wonder about my Daughters, will they dig deep into the past ?,

for the gold, find fools gold ?, find stories untold, having passed

 

into history and into their presence, as part of the whole ?

Will I become fodder for a funeral pyre ?, or buried in a hole ?

 

B. J. “A” 2

April 1^st 2004

Tomorrow

 

What will tomorrows light hold ?

What will be the stories told ?,

 

about us – the creators of tomorrows Dreams,

the life we have created - a new means,

 

that carries into tomorrow – what we will not see

of all they, from us, could ever be.

 

Can all that is caught by dream catchers, intricate, webs

be set free, fly, high above all tomorrow’s flows and ebbs ?

 

Will it be ?, only rainbows that fill tomorrows skies

or storm clouds – thunder and lightening – that fill the eyes

 

of mankind’s world, in tomorrows that never come,

or will time, like quicksilver, slip through life’s sum

 

moments, through the fingers of mankind’s future ?

Will the future never know a positive structure ?,

 

or will the future only be seen in shades of grays,

shade that make up man’s view of tomorrows days ?

 

The hours for mankind are getting late

and one has to wonder ?, what time ate

 

that tomorrow it will certainly regurgitate,

and shower him with his created fate !

 

B. J. “A” 2

April 2^nd 2004

Colours

A passionate Red Man, in this cold, cruel, blue world,

stands, – one eighth blood in his veins, that doth swirl –

on his own, watching black prejudice all around, unfurl,

permeating every fiber, every grain of his marrow

that lay within the heart of the bones - the soul of this Red Man -

from the time the Europeans, the white man stole his land.

They coned, they pillaged, they raped, they stole with deaths hand.

The world they knew, gone, horror left, nothing but black !

Nothing the white man can do will ever bring it back !

The spirt , the soul, the heart and dignity,

all lost – for most in the raging sea,

of the white mans greed

to satisfy his need.

 B. J. “A” 2

March 27^th 2004