Poetry

As I sit here, at my table, pen in hand,

contemplate – there is nothing I understand

about that which flows – I write

not knowing how or why ?, the sight

 

before these eyes – one calls poetry.

Blinded to technique – what I see,

I do not understand – it just comes.

Thoughts, feelings, experiences – it runs

 

like blood - flowing from a deep wound

that will not stop – will soon be crooned,

in melancholy voice – stained pieces of paper

that never reach the inner eye of the maker.

 

Be it he or be it she ?,

this they will never see !,

for they understand – not me !,

be apart ?, - never will be.

 

Is it possible ???

 

In just how many a way ?,

is it possible for me to say,

Mandy, I love you, I love you.

Despise, hate me, you seem to do.

 

What is it ?, I might do, I might be

to bring you around, allow you to see,

that, – for me – not many a day

 is left !, to try and change the way

 

our lives, our paths have been headed.

Changes to see, before it all has ended.

How might we reach a state of peace ?

The pain, the heartache, anger to release.

Mandy

 

I feel no love, no thought exists, I have no contact.

This leaves me wondering ?, why is it ?, you act

in the manner you do – I feel indifference,

the essence of your thoughts, feelings, it’s the reference

 

for me, as to whom - I think - you  seem to be

and why you do the things you do, do not reach out to me.

Is this why ?, indifference is all I get to see

from you, in response to my attempts at contact,

 

to get through to you, to get us back on track.

In our little world, getting through to you, I have failed.

Every time I try to open the doors a little, you have railed

against me, you have made tracks, a runaway train,

 

leaving me behind, in a cloud, me to remain

among the shadows, the shallow darkest places

of your troubled, young mind, where our faces

are lost to ?, where the evaporate into shadows,

 

invisible to the mind’s eyes – those windows

through which we look into that troubled, lost soul.

This middle Daughter, I seem not to know,

with whom, family tie should certainly grow,

 

yet, instead, cuts with a single, swift blow

from her dark, harsh, keen sword.

Slicing into little pieces – silently - not a word.

I wonder ?, just what was it I heard

 

in the battle that ensued

- over the phone – that call you’d

have me believe, was all about,

other than leaving me out.

 

Another opportunity, an occasion – not to be – lost

to me and my Grandson – at what cost ???

I am truly troubled Mandy,

by just how cruel you can be

 

and what you feel about how it effects you and me.

I cannot see Girl, that you really give a shit

and realize, into your life, I will never fit

as you move on, leave me and everyone behind

 

having no place for them or me in your mind.

I truly wish, life in these words did not have to be

Mandy, but that life is all you have left for me to see.

It is the scenario that represents, the you, with me.

 

Truth be known Mandy, I am no Oak tree.

I just wish - whatever it is – you would set it free,

open the doors – wide – once again let me touch thee,

the Daughter, I miss, the Daughter, I love.

 

May you find  a stairway to climb , rise far above.

May you fly with that white bird of peace, soar with the Dove.

Leaving for below all that inhabits,

all that inhibits.

 

Love Dad

B. J. “A ” 2

June 9^th 2004