My Daughter

My beautiful Daughter, walks life’s paths alone,

She does so, by design – not of hers – on her own.

She travels heavily !, from place to empty space,

from space to vacant place – in what kind of race?

A race towards where ?, towards what I do not know,

for, to me – an  age and place beyond – she does not show

where it is, - where she wants her future  to go

if ?, going anywhere – accomplishing - is a guiding

force in her life, seeking out, chasing after lightening.

There are times, when I hear, in my words

the sounds of need, – empty in their experience –

looking for some of what has been offered.

What has been offered, I see, it is not meant for me.

 

The Need

I keep being dragged back into this nightmare,

a nightmare ?, so I am lead to believe, could it be ?

Within the stories, the tone, I hear, I perceive it to be

but have to wonder ?, is it ?, really but a dream

that can find no reality on this plane , never comes true,

therefore it truly is !, becomes the nightmare.

In the words that tell, I see, I hear, I feel

the sword that plunges deep, with which to defend,

to destroy the foe – the lover – a man not to know

yet not forgotten, not left alone, not let go of.

He - the nightmare – is always there, he doesn’t care,

he is a rotting residue in, a part of life’s moments.

He is your nightmare, in your dreams, in every waking hour!

These sad eyes see, these sensitive ears, in pain, hear the pain,

this old heart feels, but this useless blade, – a knife that hides

within my, closed mouth – seems not able to cut away at the ties

that bind you to life’s strife – to the nightmare.

Could it be unfulfilled desires ?, unrealized dreams ?

 

What has taken forty nine life times to create,

might be attributed to nature, nurturing or fate,

but may not be digested, accepted, understood or dissipated.

Regardless of the words, the meaning, what else can be stated ?

I know that in forty nine hour days, my thoughts my feeling

will never find a way to reach out and touch a solid ceiling

and so, in my many words, in my actions, I pray

that it all can be set aside, and all can be put away.

 

A walk from the dark side, into the darkness.

Little, to nothing could this impotent old man / dad offer

his Child, his oldest Daughter, in so much need.

Nothing could he bestow upon his Child, or his lover,

with her insecurities, doubts, his insatiable greed,

and so, escape not, she walks along with his need

as it has been something he has decreed.

Oh !, how remiss to leave them on their own, to agree

to their coarse, a course that could take them on

to complete the journey they started, then gone.

 

Time, enough !, distance is past

Time to stop !, turn around at last

and face what the outcome will be.

Open eyes, a new beginning to see.

May I leave sun set’s path, face the sun rise

coming through that black velvet screen before me

with it’s spattered, day-glow dots, all aglow

opening inner sanctum doors, allowing me to know.

 

Thoughts for me, alternative for them flash before my mind.

What will they do ?, am I being so unkind ?

Will one, the other or both be bussed back to Ontario ?

As I walk back to the room, I ponder the scenario ?

Will we ( all three ) carry on with our little adventure

into the canyons and gorges, the city of all nights lights

 – the city where angels never sleeps – I cannot be sure ?,

sure if they will end their – for my attention – fights.

Will we see the city ?, where one man built his fantasy,

walk among dreams brought to life, a fun reality

of cartoon characters, animated for the child in us

or in the end, to Ontario on a Greyhound bus ?

Will we see stars ?, stars on a walk, in the city of angels

At this juncture, what will be the story one tells ?

Will the Golden Gate carry us ?, will we ride the hills ?,

on their steel rails, tell tales of all our thrills ?

Will we end these moments in gods country ?,

the city of the British, the salmon run, a hollow tree,

mountains, bays, bears, a Princess, poetess gone to ash,

her rhyme, this forth cousin of mine, they did stash,

hidden from obvious view, in the woods of Stanley park,

where few knew, and for a hundred years, lay in the dark.

Many know not where Native, folk lore doth reside ?

In her books, hand in hand and side by side,

along with as many nationalities as there are nations.

In this place, women brought to life her creations.

 

Before I leave this bleak walk, in the arms of this black night,

My thoughts are, hope that all will come out all right,

when one of those day glow dots, in that black velvet sky,

all a glow, took off, streaked south, caught my eye

as it crossed the heavens, fast as the speed of light,

in the pattern of a Zed, then disappeared from sight.

( Strange !!!, this speck of star light, it’s unusual flight

as it star-ts out from nothing, speeds south on a

horizontal plane, pauses a split second, reverses direction,

drops down vertically, on an angle northward, towards a point

where it started out, again paused for a split second, then,

on a horizontal plan, zipped south before disappearing into star,

in the starry back drop from whence it took life, for a moment. )

 

This story, – twenty five years old – in rhyme, comes to life,

 for a brief moment, from a memories hoard, rife

with so many stories hidden from sight

coming from rhyme - into light.

B. J.“A ” 2

May 30^th 2002

Inflate me if you must

 

You praise me, you inflate me, you build me up to be

the kind of person, the kind of man I do not see.

I feel that somewhere ?, within life’s shadow,

between the shades of no man’s land, hollow

are the places my soul and I seem to know.

 

I have travelled in the fast lane.

I have flew, with a few of the elite.

I have walked in sun, in clouds and in pain.

I have given nothing, accomplished no feat.

Like so many of us nowhere men can tell you,

- it’s in our dreams - and our nightmares too.

It’s behind the veiled, distorted, mystic wisdom,

from whence all true light must come.

 Impotency

Oh !, to be the life in a good morning son rise,

to carry on through, with passion, until noon on high.

Oh !, to know the glory of a sunset clim.

To reach the dreams of one who tried to achieve

the satisfaction of, but was not to be .

 

Melanie. Lee. Atfield.

I see you – many times – slither up into your dungeon,

wearing it, like it was a suite of armor protecting you from life,

from the outside world, from the reality you are living.

You hide from the world outside – so you think –

your pain, your fears, you hide them behind shields,

you hide them behind elaborate masks.

Linda. Blair.

I watch you build me up to be

the kind of man I could never see.

I feel, somewhere within the shadows,

in between the shades of no man’s land

is the place I and my soul can find to stand.

I have travelled, with some, in the fast lane,

flew with a few who thought they be elite.

I have walked with men, / women who are plain.

With either, I have accomplished no great feat,

as so many, lost, nowhere  man can tell you

by his dreams of , and in his nightmares,

veiled wisdom lost to the conscious mind.

 B. J. “A” 2

May 10^th 2002

The Game Over ???

The universe speaks to me of termination.

I have to wonder ?, is it my imagination !

Has our brief marriage run its course ?

The question becomes, has it ended in divorce ?

 

Thank you Malgosia, for the brief but intriguing interest

in this old man, who seems ?, no longer to be your quest.

It seems to me, the Lady has laid her fascination to rest

As she comes to realize, this old man has failed her test.

 

Have you relegated me back to the universe, from whence I came ?

Do you feel that I am no longer worthy to participate in the game ?

Has what we so briefly shared in - the game - come to its logical end

and I no longer am to be considered a worthy participant, a friend ?

 

B. J. “A ” 2

January 6^th 2014

Tis the Season ???

It seems, – at times – for some, life is lived in vain!
As they reflect, look back upon all the pain,
tear drops fall profusely, a torrential rain,
drowning all the efforts, nothing to gain.

Then comes change – New Years
is at the door, winds of change dry the tears,
dissipating the essence of all those fears.
As the helmsman, you guide, the crew hears.

The dark waters, the stormy seas,
left behind, the winds of change frees
and the soul flies upon a worm breeze.
Like that of song birds, they land in trees.

 Trees - wise, strong, ancient - stand tall,

never letting their charges live the fall.

The souls stand firm, until the call

Then fly off, leaving behind, it all

B. J. “A” 2

January 1st 2014

Time – a prison

I see my Daughter’s life, spent in a time capsule,
locked in this prison, a prisoner of her own devices,
waiting for the phone to ring, to bring her to life,
to open the cage door, behind which she keeps herself,
hidden, setting her free for a moment, to run,
with living time, instead of locked up in it,
letting it be her guide, carrying her along.
The moment of life passes, time once again stands still,
as she reincarcerates herself, relegated to that void,
that pain filled space of motionless, lifeless time,
dead time created by, imprisoned by her belief
- in this conman, a man steeped in bullshit, in lies,
this imbecilic child in a man’s shell -
that it’s love coming from this controlling child / man
fated by, fuelled by the emotions of a child, my Child.

Oh !!!, to turn back the clock, if but I could,
teach my Daughters, they need not, should
not follow, blindly, the footsteps of us who would
send them on a journey towards self-destruction,
we, who guided them along without instruction,
we who failed them miserably!!!
That we, be their mother and me.

B. J. “A ” 2
May 5^th  2002

Ideas, thoughts, feelings
inhabit space and time,
they come to mind .

Baggage one carries throughout life is but an evil spirit,
it kills, slowly, the soul, is the enemy that keeps one
from being free, is the bondage – like Bob Marley’s chain -
that is dragged across one’s subconscious memories,
upon life’s experiences, weighing down one’s brain
like millstones, from long ago, wrapped around the throat,
forced to carry around the neck until drowned
- for those not strong enough – in the waters of living.

These pieces of a past – be it yesterday, today, tomorrow
or from yesteryear – drive down the spirit, the soul of women,
of men into the depths of an abyss, a hell, and into the rivers
of a life best left in the gloomy darkness of the past
from whence they came, after being brought to life,
into the light, into sight, to be touched,
to be acknowledged and understood,
to release the heart from being wood.

They, these shadowy pieces, should be given wing,
set free after having spoken their piece, letting the heart sing
of their passing, as they pass into the darkness, into the either,
from whence they creped, like a snake, so that neither
the experiencer nor experienced need handle that baggage,
- live out their troubled lives in a gage, full of rage -
nor carry that baggage, but once, to some waiting train
 or given wings, leaving the shattered soul and this plane.

Give that baggage a well-deserved vacation!
Walk away – forever – never again set foot in that station!

B. J. “A ” 2
May 3^rd 2002