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

-----------------------------------------

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

Shadows

As one sits, contemplates all of life’s shadows.

All their myriad shades of life lived on the edges.

A long and winding road, sometimes treacherous

it has been, as one comes to an end, envisioning.

Does one see their shadows in shades of gray

buried within the corridors of their subconscious.

Do their shadows dissipate with the light of day.

or live on in the darkness of their troubled nights.

Freedom from ones shadows come on the wings of insight

Denial, repression, anger, blame clip the wings, no flight

from the weight, the baggage one carries on their back.

Because of, friends, acquaintances, partners spirits crack,

souls split, the universe shifts and you are hung on a rack.

A funeral pyre will be your fate, ashes placed in a stack

until the winds of time blow them away, your voice silent

for evermore as the daemons nevermore dictate your journey.

B. J. “ A ” 2

February 25^th 2018

Being a parent

You tried to be the best parent you were able.

Given the tools that life’s experience thought.

You attempted, on many occasion, to raise the bar.

Eighteen years, nine as two parents, ten as a Mr. Mom.

Then !!!, to endure the loss, the empty nest syndrome.

Both Daughters spread their wings, left the family home.

Nagging thoughts prevailed, three abortions, two Daughters

after eight years of extremely active, unprotected passion.

A movie, Chaos Theory, and the actions of two Daughters,

after some twenty and twelve years, opened the flood gates

to all these years of doubts, as infidelity was the modus operandi

on the roads, looking for love, beyond, in all the wrong places.

One has to question the actions of your two Daughters.

Is there an awareness of my doubts ??? or do they know ???

For all their years, they are !!!, even if they are not ???

The love, the journeys, the adventures, the good, the bad,

all have created the moments, the memories, the stories

of a Mr. Mom’s efforts to lift them above all that I and we,

their mother and me implanted in their mind, heart and soul.

Has this become answers to the questions ??? I do not know.

I only know, feel  their silence, them I never see

As their Mr. Mom, is this what is left for me ???

B. J. “ A ” 2

January 29^th 2018

                Life ???

 

A Baby cries, this life, takes its first breath.

From that moment, a journey towards death.

 

 Death, but an illusion, it’s all about change.

Energy transforming, molecules to rearrange.

 

 Birth, the death of an innate, untainted knowledge.

A knowledge lost with schooling, on its way to collage.

 

 Except, that is, for the very pure of soul, so very few,

who have retained, what they brought, what they knew.

 

From a dimension beyond our comprehension, from a far.

From a dimension giving life from the essence of some star.

 

All that wisdom lost to our subconscious, who we truly are.

All vanished on the funeral pyre of consciousness, not but char

 

to remind us of what we once were, as we journey through this life.

Hoping, praying that fate, karma or life guides us away from what’s rife.

B. J. “A ” 2

January 20^th 2018

Number One, out of Three

Sadly, badly is the way I handled it.

Things were falling apart, nothing fit.

Leaving it all behind, I hit the road.

Neglecting responsibility and the load.

A hundred thousand miles upon wings,

Soaring all alone, a Thunderbird sings.

Slicing the air, a sphere hangs, a beautiful smile

looking at me, all the while leaving mile after mile

behind, ever distancing the shattered, broken heart.

No plan, this man raced towards the future, a new start.

All the while, with heaver heart, not seeing what is ahead,

((not looking back at the heartache I caused )) instead,

just kept on flying, speeding across this vast land

with nothing but moments, so many memories in hand.

Number One, out of Three, cares, in spite, is there for me.

Hind sight, what a nemesis to carry, then, a time to see

all the  fragments, the wreckage of a life you left behind.

Among the debris rose a flower so rear, so hard to find.

How does one reconcile ?, face that which goes around,

comes around as he traverses the last mile, above ground.

How does one find answers, find a melodic, cohesive sound

that brings Two out of Three, in line with The One, who found

forgiveness was the door through which, would guide her above

all the pain, uncertainty, anger and open up her heart to love.

B. J. “ A ” 2

January 12^th, 2018

Two out of  Three

They have slipped silently from my sight!

What could be their reason for taking flight?

What is their reason for closing the door?

Could this mean ?, seeing them never more?

Special occasions have come, they have slipped by.

Not even a ghostly image, a shadow, caught my eye.

Thoughts of, dejected, only make me want to sigh.

Filling my heart with tears, while all I can do is cry!

Has my Youngest OD ?, has she slipped silently away?

Has my Middle concluded ?, I offended and must pay!,

for some slight imagined or real, that I have committed,

for which no words, no understanding can be submitted.

For my Middle’s deafening silence is what she has remitted.

Detachment, avoidance, muteness are all that I am permitted.

All this is what has been, is all this what is to be ?, left for me

to constantly contemplate ?, to be my fate ?, all I am left to see ?

All that remains of my Two out of Three, but memories.

Letters, cards emails, thousands of photos that tell stories

of all our adventures, of our journeys through time and space.

From all the evidence before me, it would appear I have no place

in the lives of my Two out of Three. This thought breaks my heart,

for time passes quickly and with it so many moments never to become

what makes up family, the ties that bind, any possibility for a new start

to overcome what once made up a fractured whole, to be that total sum.

B. J. “A” 2

January 10^th, 2018